Saturday, 14 March 2009

Saturday 14 March 2009

This morning I get rudely awakened at 8AM (on the dot) by somebody ringing my intercom buzzer. As I never have any visitors to my flat I suspect it is either a person pressing the wrong number, a neighbour locked out or somebody fucking about. At this time I was wide asleep in super slumber experiencing the kind of dream you only live once in a lifetime and never get to relive. I am quite literally cursed when it comes to having a lie in at the weekends, if it is not my fucked up body clock it is some fucked up individual ringing my bell both physically and mentally.

As I pick up my intercom phone ready to shout there is a knock at my door. It makes me jump, not least due to the fact I have jumped out of bed butt naked devoid of morning glory. While I scrap around trying to find something to wear the sound of a nuisance waiting outside is booming. When I finally grab my dirty Tony Soprano dressing gown and wrap it around my rude bits I open the door to the sight and sound of a postman saying “Mr Graham?” shoving an unexpected box in my face. I am barely able to open my eyes and thank him before quickly closing the door. I thought my time had come.

The box is terrifying. Its not from a business, it is personal. Is it my birthday? You know and I know that it isn’t. Did I win something of such size on Ebay recently? Nope. Hesitantly I open the box and once in after tearing through the streams of cellotape, the box is full of newspaper – evidently such a sized box was not required.

It is with a gulp that I plough through the newspaper half fearing that any second a swarm of bugs may come flying through the refuse or a body part may suddenly expose itself, removed and severed from its owner’s body.

As I reach the bottom of the box it turns out to be the bootleg Nirvana seven-inch “The Triple Platinum EP” I won on Ebay two weeks ago. Why on earth didn’t the seller just put it in a seven-inch mailer? Plonker. The single looks fantastic though, complete with nonsensical track listing on the reverse. This is a fetish item, a music rarity it is very possible to feel orgasmic about/over.

With my now wide open from the rude awakening I switch on the TV in an attempt to snag the morning’s news. Nothing has occurred overnight.

Just before 9AM I head out to do my weekly shop at Asda. By coincidence as I drive down Balkerne Hill I see dad walking Bobby (or vice versa) and it is a beautiful sight.

I do Asda with no fanfare or occurrence – it just turns out expensive! This is where the credit crunch is, its not on the high streets, those empty high streets, it is in the inflated prices of the supermarkets.

Inside Asda I see the guy Jess that Bella used to like and he once blew her out on going to see Incubus. He still works there, what a life to lead.

It is before 10AM when I return home and I listen to a bit of Adam And Joe on Radio 6 before generically flipping/switching to Jonathan Ross on Radio 2. This has now become my Saturday routine and a habit I hate to break. Regardless the morning is time well spent as I write a lot of stuff I am actually happy with.

Around midday Chris hits me on Facebook with a message about being a reference for him regarding a housing association thing or something. My understanding is that this house is with his current housemates including the guy I used to do Gringo Records with so naturally my gut instinct is not to want to help out but I will, I’m a good guy even if it is shooting myself in the foot instead of cutting off my nose.

I head over to my parents house where the Sky telly is for the Manchester United vs Liverpool game and by the time I arrive it is already 1-1. However I manage to miss most of the game as the old man bugs me about a letter he wants to send to Ryanair regarding the accidental three pairs of tickets he ordered. Unlike me dad didn’t do an NVQ (wahey!) in Business Administration so I end up re-writing most of the letter for both style and content. By the end of it, I am fucking proud. Unfortunately when it comes to printing the letter off the reality of HP printer drivers hits me and I end up spending almost an hour trying to get his printer working. When I finally do there are about six minutes of the game remaining and Liverpool are on their way to somehow trouncing Manchester United 4-1. I feel the score line flatters them but I wasn’t really watching.

After the game I head into town to bank some money. On the way to the bank I am almost accosted by a street mugger from Amnesty. The smug cunt with a clipboard has the balls to say to me “you look like a friendly person” to which I respond by profusely shacking my head at the cheeky fucker – wasn’t the scowl message enough already? The guy wouldn’t speak to me a normal run of life in a social situation so why should we now?

From here I feel the need to exercise retail therapy and this sees me winding up in Game looking for the Guitar Hero games. Noticing Rock Band Solus on promotion I snap it up but unfortunately upon returning home and putting it in the Wii it does not work with a Guitar Hero guitar, which I swore I read on the Internet was otherwise. Epic fail.

So instead of this I find myself watching The Slog Movie in order to avoid the Millwall v Leicester score. When mother comes into the room with her knitting suddenly the rebellion of the hardcore punk on show in the movie begins to feel impotent.

In the end Millwall lose 1-0 to Leicester reversing the score from earlier in the year. A victory wasn’t expected, only hoped for.

When I finally return home to Bohemian Grove it is to the sight of Sara trying to contact me on MSN. Oddly I had just been thinking about her and back in the day while working on Gestures earlier in the day. While I wrestle with (and loss) against my Freeview box to watch the finale of the new Minder, Sara begins snapping at me, seemingly fishing for an argument. This evening though morale is high and I’m not looking to argue back, I am actually really happy to hear from her.

Our exchange is strange. As ever she belittles the UK while expounding on the virtues of Dubai but honestly I wouldn’t want to live under the thumb of the restrictions of an Islamic regime that resembles a building site as it quickly tackily begins to resemble Las Vegas. Then I get the whole spiel about how great love is and how get it is with her other half. With this her typing is shit and out of character, I suspect she is tipsy/drunk.

Eventually I call her up on things “is there something up you want to talk about?” and she lets slip that she is fine but her parents are not and her dad is “suicidal”. She then stops short, saying she can’t tell me anything. She asks if she can call me and I give her what I think is my landline “I think”. The “I think” part appears to offend her as she disappears in an apparent strop. Pathetically the truth is that it has been so long since anyone has called me on my landline, I seriously have forgotten it. With that though, that is it and I do not hear from her again. I send a message of concern via Facebook but with it being the early hours now in the Middle East, she is gone.

My Saturday night revolves around the Eastern Bloc documentary on BBC2. In other words my social life remains somewhat wanting still. Unfortunately the documentary is VERY dry and I soon fall asleep during it.

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