Sunday 8 March 2009
Despite the day being a beautiful sunny one outside there is something distinct about it that just makes me want to stay in bed this morning. Perhaps this is down to having nowhere to go to enjoy the sun.
Instead of getting up I settle into watching Fellini’s 8 ½ with view to improving myself and making me smarter. Unfortunately this version turns out to be a VERY bad transfer to DVD mainly down to the lack of care taken in adding the subtitles. Have you ever noticed just how much white there is in this movie? Well, the people that did/added the subtitles didn’t either and as a result it renders them unreadable and about half an hour in after struggling I give up on the movie.
When I flip the TV back to normal programming it has BBC1 in the middle of The Big Questions hosted by professional dickhead Nicky Campbell. This is the lowest of the low – imagine a multicultural, multi faith Jeremy Kyle done softly softly. The participants in this programme appear drastically removed from reality as the hard subjects of the day appear to be the problems with social networking websites and the legacy of the commonwealth. Are these really subjects that require a well spoken mullah to sit looking funny centre stage? Also to the kid smugly displaying how well adjusted he is without having had a father figure in his life – do you really think the kids at school will think you cool for being such an annoying little prick on television? All in all I just feel like punching the screen, coming away from the show with the overriding opinion that people are idiots. Of course I then realise that these are extras in life, people that don’t really exist in any capacity other than on television fluff shows.
By the time I crawl out of bed it is almost midday. What on earth am I playing at? With the clock now on, it is a race against time to do something productive before I make my weekly pilgrimage to my parents for dinner.
Fortunately I eventually get my shit together and get into some writing but as ever I start much and finish little. I do however manage to complete another chapter on Gestures, albeit not satisfactorily, so now that is twenty one down and seven to go.
While writing I avoid the distraction of television with music today, most of it is new stuff and generally leans towards the end of being awful. Partly I fear I have now listened to all the music that I will ever feel passionate about everything that now follows it just a pale imitation begging for some kind of acknowledgment and kudos (and revenue). One of the few exceptions in today’s listening is “Be Not Afraid” by The Slow Life (on Trace Recordings) which sounds at times like Karate and on one particular song they truly nail it, what it is like to write, perform and record a perfect song.
As the Sunday witching (feeding) hour of 3PM approaches I gather up my shit and head over to my parents for the Sunday roast ritual. When I arrive however there is no roast, all I can smell is baked potato and cold meat. What is going on here I wonder? It seems the carb heavy alternative is the precursor to a delayed reaction Pancake Day – oh yes!
Pancakes are the most fattening food to man. Or so I have been led to believe over the years. And there are so many variations! Some pancakes cross over to being American waffles (as opposed to proper waffles that are made out of potato, like all great foods) while the Chinese version causes confusion in idiots, baffling their taste buds and senses when faced with the difficult reality of having to put duck and hoi sin sauce inside instead of some sickly sugar based thick sauce that is sometimes taken as beverage by fat Americans.
With this in mind today I only temper the seas of obesity with two damn fine waffles. Mother outdoes herself with these burnt crispy fuckers and as I add honey AND lemon this truly is a fine time away from credit crunch doom and gloom. When I cease at two fit to burst mother appears disappointed that she is unable to induce some kind of minor heart attack in me.
As I waddle over to the TV it is in knowledge that Setanta has stolen the football this Sunday and I have full control in deciding what we watch. As the dog follows me onto the sofa and proceeds to chew my hand and bingo wings like a juicy bone, somehow I find something half worth watching on TV: The Secret Of My Success starring Michael J. Fox.
The eighties, they look as if they were fine time. A spring midget on his way to a crippling wiggling disease was able to fight his way out of the post room up to the board room and woo the girl that played Supergirl in the process. Like fuck do they know what they are talking about when the shit hits the fan during the climax but in these times of financial stability it is nice to watch people making such a success of their lives playing the markets, buying and selling stocks and shares with reckless abandon and confidence as performed by a character with barely two GCSEs. Wait, did I say financial stability?
With the sun booming outside comes the terror twilight and the end of the evening. As I begin to make moves to head home I come across the movie Benchwarmers on TV and as dad laughs at the initial jokes I figure what better an opportunity to bond with the old man.
Now he is not really schooled in modern comedy and he may recognise the faces of David Spade and Jon Lovitz, he will not actually realise how this is part of their downward curve. Likewise the transition of Rob Schneider to forerunner which doesn’t quite rub true. And Napoleon Dynamite – my old man does not have a clue.
Together we laugh and when during a montage Devo (“That’s Good”) plays in the background I find myself enjoying the movie at a much higher level to my beloved old man. By the end of the movie though we laugh together as the fact that we are watching a film where three men are playing kids at baseball has completely passed us by. At the close of proceedings dad goes “that was typical American bullshit” – perhaps he clocked it correctly after all.
Finally I get to go home and prepare mentally for a mental week ahead. I pass out swiftly.