Tuesday 17 March 2009
It’s St Patrick’s Day I believe but being neither Irish, a Guinness drinker or a Leprechaun, it really does not fuss me. This is the kind of occasion my previous co-workers would/must love to celebrate, a pointless excuse to become part of the mooing mob in a politically correct charged occasion, a now rendered almost pointless Hallmark holiday especially when indulged outside of its home and country of origin. This is the Irish Christmas and, much like Eid, that is where it should stay. If you disagree with me you are probably a green clown hat seller with an additional agenda all of your own. I really hope they do not celebrate with fireworks in this current resurgent climate.
This morning I come out of my slumber without having experienced any weird dreams! I think….. Unfortunately later in the day I do recall a dream where I make one of my current co-workers cry. Sounds like me.
I actually manage to leave my crib one minute early this morning, which means the walk to the station, is almost leisurely and relaxed. As I get to the station on time it feels like an eternity waiting on the platform for the train to arrive to chariot me to London.
An otherwise boring train journey into town this morning would have been the usual boring hotchpotch occasion were it not for the funny looking woman sat opposite going fucking mental just as the train pulls out of Chelmsford. As she jumps and swings her head/hair like she has rabies it knocks me out of a quick forty winks and suddenly I begin to fear for my own safety, especially as the marks (birth) on her neck suggest disease and her weird style does not look by design. Fortunately she is with her other half sat to her left (they are in almost matching attire) and he grabs something up in a tissue from off her seat and saves the day the fanny. When we get off at Liverpool Street it turns out her little fit had been brought on by a fright from a spider. She is absolutely mental.
Shock fucking horror, this morning the 7.30 train actually arrives into Liverpool Street for the first time this year as the clock shows 8.00 upon arrival. Surely this is the best of signs for an optimistic day. Even the fat fucker with crap facial hair that cuts in front of me at the barrier cannot upset my mood as I kick him in the heels in acknowledgment. Today is not going to be his day.
About ten minutes later as I stand on the tube I find myself facing a young Frank Bruno lookalike in a suit. It’s a look.
As I arrive at St Johns Wood and turn the corner onto Loudoun Road and as with every morning the yummy mummies are doing the morning school run. Today I see the absolutely perfect arse, perfect in shape, perfect in size. For the longest time I can’t help but gawp at it’s peachy beauty until I realise that I am in fact gawping in the direction of a school and bordering on looking like a nonce. Being a Yummy Mummy though, that is the life: drop the kids off at school, pop to the gym and then for the rest of the day do FUCK!!!! ALL!!!!!
It is a busy morning and once I get going I work solid non-stop but still do not really manage to accomplish anything. These can be frustrating times. Beyond lunch the afternoon turns out to be more of the same.
Riding home the train is a normal and as we pass through Shenfield the pace/momentum of the train makes me suspicious. Eventually unsurprisingly the fucking thing stops moving altogether not long afterwards, sitting just outside Chelmsford. With each passing day it is fast becoming evident to me that I could drive the train much better than these clowns.
Today the new Apprentice contestants are announced in the free evening newspapers – not a looker amongst them.
On the journey home I am listening to the Tank Riot podcast about Devo and slowly I feel myself become VERY exciting about seeing them twice in May.
Gradually as the train pulls into Colchester North Station (late, obviously) a kid in/with an Afro steps right on my new shoes. I highlight this to him and he pats me on the back as if to say “its all right boss.” Sensibly I should have patted him back on the fucking skull.
On the way home I stop by ‘rents feeling hungry and exhausted. The dog is acting strange. After our initial mess around he begins to keep going quiet. It later turns out that this is down to him having boners.
Today I am officially invited to my cousin’s wedding this summer. It is now panic time as the reality of having to find a date for the date kicks in. I do not want to attend the occasion off the back of being part of my parents’ invite; I want my own plus one. Also neither do I want to be there as the “weird single cousin now into thirties” desperate for somebody to dance with. Also unlike Justin and Helen’s wedding, I don’t want to be put on the kids table at dinner during the reception – I’m a grown up in my own right! When I spoke to my cousin about the wedding last summer, shortly after he had made the proposal, I did have somebody in mind but things have now long since gone tits up in that area which is a real shame because my wrinkles aside, should the weather hold out, the occasion will be absolutely beautiful. I now have worry.
In addition to this my parents now ask me about my suits. The sad truth is it is now over four years since I was wearing suits for work and those that I own have now probably since shrunk (or me got bigger – you decide). In reality the best and easiest plan (and probably the eventual) will be for me to buy a new suit for the occasion but part of me thinks it is probably better to try and trim down and fit back into my old suits before I have to begin shopping at some Tall And Fat shop despite being something of a short arse. Pressure.
Eventually I head/get home and manage to scrape a little writing out around an episode of Californication.
This evening Millwall wins 1-0 at Milton Keynes Dons, a team that by rights should not exist. This is a true top of the table clash and after the 1-0 loss to Leicester on Saturday it is unexpected and worth its weight in gold
At 10PM I watch the red button TV feed of 606 with Danny Baker who is wearing a great Millwall retro shirt – I want one of those now. Early into the show while some caller harps on he looks direct into the camera and kisses the Millwall badge letting off the biggest of taunting smiles, it is classic. For one split second the entire football supporter world gets put in its place. The best end to the day possible.