Friday 6 March 2009

This morning I awaken from another great dream, one where I think up a great new comedy character called “Archie Graham” (ironically I have an uncle in Australia called Archie but on mum’s side). The character I dream up comes complete with great spastic motions and immediate catchphrases. As I dream up scenarios, episodes come into place and it feels like I am onto a genuine winner, I even feel myself laughing in my sleep. When I awaken chuckling I immediately forget everything (including sadly the catchphrases) and once more I loss another shot at my deserved millions.

I find myself on the drag this morning as I mess around sorting out computer files for the IT guy at work. Dude gave me two nights to transfer over 100GB of movies onto an external drive and when I awaken not even half of that has transferred, the weird half of John Waters, Hal Hartley and Woody Allen movies along with season 1 and 3 of the Sarah Silverman Programme. Yeah, he’ll fucking love that stuff.

As I walk to the station my foot still canes. It was never this bad before but now every step feels as if I am walking on glass while someone attempts to set it on fire with a lighter. My left foot – somebody should make a movie about that.

Due to the fact I left home late and I am the walking wounded, I give up on all hope of catching my usual 7.03 but yet again this morning it is late leaving so I manage to catch it, hoping aboard it panting and sweating.

The journey is so so but then at Chelmsford the prematurely receding twat from the Dull Couple From Chelmsford sits next to me again. No, he doesn’t give the seat to his partner, instead he just takes up space between me and some blonde bird playing her music too loudly through her iPod.

I troll into work, stepping in front of a BMW on purpose at a crossing because he doesn’t bother to indicate. As I pass in front of him I give him some weak indicator sign with my right forefinger. He must just think “what a wanker” right back at me and were I him I would have put my foot down and tested to see just how committed I am/was to this petty protest.

As I step into the restaurant shock of shocks The Girl is already in making drinks. Knowing that this will keep my boss happy/sweet makes me happy. Likewise when Nora returns it gives the day a positive spin and atmosphere.

This is short lived as external email falls and everyone begins to stress out as a consequence. I remain stoic and blasé.

Around lunchtime Ricky Gervais appears on Radio One. Where once I would have been very excited about his appearance these days it just represents that latest example of acting like a common prostitute (today pushing the Ghost Town and impending Red Nose Day hypocrisy). Whereas this once represented one of my biggest heroes the bubble has now burst upon witnessing too much tedium related to the guy and his two cohorts. Ricky Gervais now suffers from a similar fate to Morrissey – he is plagued by an embarrassing following. Of the time I have spent getting to know fans of his work, for people who purport to me fans of comedy they are some of the most humourless and dull bastards I have ever met, people choosing to over analyse and squeeze out all possible fun from his (their) older (and better) body of work. To say this tarnishes the work is to say the least. As performers they’ve now jumped the shark so perhaps it is time to jump ship.

We get to leave at 4.30 which is fantastic and much welcomed after something of a tough week. It also means we get to leave in sunlight, an early indication the summer will soon be here.

As I leave the restaurant a couple of schoolgirls pass me and one of them turns round to what I would suspect/think is to check me out. That or double take to see if it is James Corden leaving the place.

When I reach the Hammersmith platform at Baker Street it is to the sight and sound of a foreign bloke screaming down/into his mobile. I feel like telling him “in English mate.” He is very annoying, what is it about a foreign language that makes it sound arrogant? Perhaps it is the threat that is posed by a person being bilingual.

At Liverpool Street out of the ordinary/usual I board the 5.38 train to Clacton and immediately I find myself missing the comforts of the Norwich intercity train I otherwise get every day. When some jerk decides to sit next to me (perish the thought) he crowds me and causes me to hate him. Annoyingly a family seemingly on a daytrip had already decided to sit opposite me but now this cunt fails to clock that I am a larger person and I take up more than my fair share of space on a train.

It is with a degree of fortune that he gets off at Chelmsford and once more I find myself able to breath again. By this point I am well engrossed in watching Trainspotting on my iPhone and making outwards sniggers that are potentially bugging the tourist family sat opposite (complete with brat kid playing DS and his mother playing another DS – what family has two DSes?).

By the time the train reaches Colchester I am so happy. Against my usual train this one barely appears to have saved me any time despite the fact it left Liverpool Street over 40 minutes before my usual train.

As per my routine of course I call around my parents’ place on the way home where my dog is as always overjoyed to see me and we fall asleep together on their sofa before I realise I really should be at home.

What happened to my Friday nights? Not too long ago I would be meeting up with people and going out. OK, that hasn’t happened for about three years now but when I think back to the binging years with Chris, Tom etc those Friday nights feel heroic in comparison, like living a fulfilled existence albeit one with being sick in the gutter and the joy of feeling like death on the Saturday and writing off my weekend in exchange for a sense of existence and pocket full of anecdotes.

Tonight, I fall asleep during QI hosted by Stephen Fry (and it is not the first time I have ever done that).