Wednesday, 11 March 2009

Wednesday 11 March 2009

This morning I woke up around 3AM to discover my TV still on. I flipped to BBC7 to discover John Shuttleworth on the radio station and his soothing tones had me back to sleep within ten minutes.

When the alarm clock eventually awakes me three hours later it is to the brightest morning yet so far this year. In theory this should be a positive indication for/to the day ahead. Surprisingly when I head out, my car is unexpectedly frozen which only serves to make me late in leaving to catch my train.

My foot is insane. Last night I pretty much made a conscious decision that I would not be doing kickboxing this week but even if I had wanted to I don’t think it would be physically possible. I am now getting as bored of writing about my foot as probably anyone is reading about it. A sensible person would go to the doctors. I am not a sensible person.

In spite of this I just about/barely get to the station in/on time. On the train I find myself sitting opposite an Ashley Cole lookalike while wishing I were sitting opposite a Cheryl Cole lookalike, staring at her tits. Happily with the day in full drive morale goes slightly up on yesterday for no reason whatsoever.

I am the first person in the restaurant, which is always a peaceful and lush pleasure; this is when the place is at its nicest. To confirm today is a good day Nora brings in donuts and croissants.

I get off to a flying start completing the majority of my list leftover from yesterday by 9.30. Despite this I find myself being accused by The Girl in the office of having a short attention span.

Mid morning while tending to my foot, showing it off the office, the MD asks me what I am doing. Rather than explain the fact that I am working through the pain barrier like a soldier I instead just point at my foot like an idiot going “it hurts, it hurts.” When I tell him “I thought it was getting better but then it started growing a head” I think it frightens him away. The others just reckon it is a verruca instead of a blister.

From here I ride out the remainder of the day arguing the merits with the restaurant manager of Liverpool FC versus Millwall FC. Isn’t it obvious? Like a dog with a bone the premier league status of Liverpool and glorified past appear to take importance over personality, passion and excitement.

Tonight I have been invited to the theatre, in a way. As there aren’t too many gigs of our ilk occurring in Colchester at the moment Staff attempts to rally together the troops for a Wednesday night hang out at the Arts Centre. As people drop out, I hold steady, up for something to do in view of so few social opportunities so far this year.

Typically the train fucks up on the rare occasion that I am racing the clock to get back to Colchester to meet a time. The 6.20 London to Norwich train fails to leave for 22 minutes while a) a carriage door refuses to shut and then b) a passenger on said carriage refuses to get off said carriage when they attempt to uncouple it. As a result of all this and top of the delay the fast Norwich train proceeds to get stuck behind the slower all stations trains in the line queue defeating all purpose of having a fast train.

On a brighter note while I check my Love Film account online I notice that my rented copy of Thriller In Manilla has been mysteriously returned by a ghost despite it being sat at home in my flat.

During the journey I get into my routine of watching In Treatment on my iPhone and episode 27 becomes my favourite one yet.

Despite my panic I get back to North Station around 7.35 just in time to rush to the Arts Centre and make the beginning of the show. Cripplingly I storm to Arts Centre causing my left foot great (not so great) agony in the process. When I eventually arrive it is with barely five minutes to spare and soon I am in conversation with Staff about the aches of dealing with allusive booking agents.

The show is called “The Pilots” and is performed by a two man partnership called Reckless Sleepers. It lasts an hour and for the first fifteen minutes you are confused as to whether the “play” has actually started or not. The performance is sublime and purposely ramshackle which is coupled with moments of switch trickery that raise the game/stakes and give the craft real punch and humour (and at times a sincere sense of aggression). What was expected to be a slapstick show/performance of two loons pretending to be two loons attempting to fly a plane while thinking they were Wham! ultimately turns out to be something of a psychotic battle of minds, a sheet metal attack of nerves. On the way it encapsulates great moments of bending Bowie with a very funny take on the strange countdown of “Space Oddity” and an insane interpretation of bustin’ moves to “John, I’m On Dancing” (the John of the tale becoming in the process a terrifying and uncomfortable re-enactment of a Dear John). Eventually after much soul searching (and a little blood spread), the duo eventually find themselves dressed like pilots (as was their apparent initial intention) and in a position to reach their goal. At this point the video for Club Tropicana takes centre stage in the gross climax and laughable disgust at the stark indulgence and utter ridiculousness of the era and its message. Between the donkey shots and Pepsi and Shirlie acting like utter slags, for a split second our heroes of Reckless Sleepers suddenly appear in the video to debunk its subliminals. The show ends with everybody laughing and a genuine appreciation from those performing to those watching and vice versa.

Afterwards with the night still young Staff and I head over to the Hospital Arms for a swift pint or two. I hit the Bitburgers and soon we are hitting the conversation that goes/tells how shoddy 2009 is turning out. It would appear that the pair of us are in very similar situations as conversation scarily echoes the one I had with Mark on a week or so ago about there no longer being many people left in Colchester of our era/generation which is equating to a distinct feeling of not having many friends left. In the meantime there are a few success stories occurring within our social circle to which we act jokingly resentful.

Staff mentions to me the situation that he calls “couples club”, a term that nails on the head the horrible social thing that occurs when all your friends get girlfriends and begin doing couple things with other couples thus by default excluding all the singletons. These people are such are bores too but it feels like a necessary evil as friend lists dwindle on their way to getting married, having kids and feeling like committing suicide as they compromise their dreams and although their brains to turn to mush in exchange for regular sex and fucking (and “cuddles in bed”). Cynically I find the pair of us turning into grumpy old men.

A second Bitburger comes my way and it knocks my head off as conversation moves onto the subject of gambling addiction and gradually my day begins to catch up on me as I wilt with tiredness and the pint goes to my head making me strangely tipsy off the back of only two drinks. This is the pathetic reality of being a lightweight.

Close to closing time (stick to 11PM in these parts, whatever happened to 24 hour drinking?) we head off home in our respective directions. After driving home it doesn’t take me long to pass out when back in my crib.

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