Friday, 17 April 2009

Friday 17 April 2009

Dream: I reunite with the American in Clacton. It is strange, upon reunion she acts as if nothing has happened between us and while I initially act pissed off at this lack of recognition it is then followed by the realisation that I had put her on an unwarranted and undeserved plateau and that she is actually quite boring and annoying and that I have missed out on nothing but stupid comments for the past few months. Together we end up eating in some department store’s “restaurant” (after nixing the ideas/suggestions of decent places to eat) and we wind up eating sausage, beans and mash. Later upon returning to my flat suddenly there are lots of suspicious boxes just dumped on my apartment block landing. I ask my neighbours if they are theirs and no one takes up ownership. Even Clark Kent and his girlfriend (now wife?) return and deny any knowledge. Then in the dream I find myself at work doing the photocopying that I was supposed to do yesterday. This is a sudden thump and head back to reality.

This morning I wake up with something of a dulling headache (a minor hangover). Despite this I pull myself together briskly and quickly and manage to actually leave early. Annoyingly the car with the tow bar is still parked in my spot. As I leave my car park I let off a token beep of my horn in the hope of annoying and waking my prick neighbours up.

Somehow today I manage to arrive at the train station at 6.52 – a new world record for me. As a result of this I board the 6.59 excited about the prospect of getting into work even earlier and getting a head start on another very busy day ahead of me. When did I become such a careerist?

Obviously boarding an earlier train than usual will always ensure the fucker will get delayed meaning I get into work even later than if I had caught it as usual. Today we grind to a halt just outside Shenfield.

Sat opposite me on the train is some lad/guy in a chimney sweepers hat but worn as a fashion item probably making him think that he looks like Samuel L. Jackson when really he resemblance is a lot closer to Norman Wisdom. He reminds me of my boss the producer’s son in Notting Hill that used to wear a similar kind of hat before growing a Jewfro. The guy on the train also has a tattoo on his hand that I can’t read – what the fuck is the point of having a word burned into your flesh if the font is unintelligible?

At Shenfield what appears to be Josef Fritzl boards our train. Then an entire train of people gets dumped off their train and onto ours while we are still sat at Shenfield. Suddenly the train becomes cramped in the process as I begin to sit at eye level with some woman’s cameltoe.

Eventually the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.24 – so much for leaving and arriving early. This is yet more confirmation that God hates me.

Despite the delay I still get into the restaurant just after 9AM, barely late although against the grain I am the final person to get into the office (when did the girl start arriving on time?).

Immediately I get collared into work conversation as one of the directors nabs me as he consults with our accounts consultant already in also. This is the beginning of yet another non-stop day of working.

At lunchtime I call up the TOFFS place that sells the replica retro football kits. I ordered a Millwall shirt from these guys a month ago now and despite the fact that they took the money (£35 plus P&P) immediately I have not heard a thing from them. In this current climate I begin to get worried that the place may be going under like so many other businesses right now. When I call them the woman knows about my shirt but her excuses are unconvincing (“waiting for the fabric to arrive so they can cut the shirts”) giving off the impression that the place is just some kind of glorified sweatshop. She says however that I will have the shirt by the end of the next week. I will believe that when I see/wear it.

The remainder of the afternoon plays out like a usual Friday and eventually I head out at 5.10. From here I head straight to Bond Street. This evening it is raining slightly and against the recent hot weather we have been enduring it is refreshing and somewhat invigorating. I walk along Oxford Street happy, buzzing from an exciting and busy week at work.

At HMV once more I buy a stack of seven inch singles that end up costing £22 that are by bands/acts that aren’t really up to much.

On the way to Fopp I have a look in at Game for Wii games. There really isn’t much to choose from.

When I get to the cinema on Shaftsbury Avenue after Fopp it is 6.30 and suddenly I notice that I have fucked the times up royally thinking the movie started at ten to seven rather than ten past six the actual time. Panicked I run into the foyer to see if the movie has started yet. I make it with about one minute to spare. As I enter the screen in a blanket of darkness it is rammed, almost full but miraculously I find a spare seat on the aisle with a coat sat on it. I storm the old lady in the next to it to see if it is free and I think I scare her in the process. Huffing and puffing as I sit down suddenly I realise that I have snagged one of the proper comfy super chairs. Nice.

In The Loop turns out to be hilarious. The obscenities flying out of the mouth of Malcolm Tucker, and the way/manner in which they are delivered, is pure poetry, several more times creative and aggressive than I could ever get. As a result of this he is now a hero for the ages, someone our generation can look up to. When he has his eventual face off with James Gandolfini it is bordering on breathtaking.

I have to concede that at a pivotal point of this movie the story went over my head exposing my lack of political knowledge making me feel stupid. That said a scrap and political tug of war could only ever be bogged down by so many facts in comparison to sharp insults and considered/measured gestures of influence.

At the close of the movie I exit the cinema feeling exhilarated. The language, the mannerisms and the sheer fight and determination of the participants in the movie is the kind of stuff people should be striving to attain (albeit with a question of personal ethics).

It is 8.40 when I get back to Liverpool Street and my only option for a train back to Colchester is the 9PM Lowestoft train.

Hungry and feeling optimistic I head to Burger King where I order one of those Texican Whopper bastards of burger. I order a large meal and it costs £7.19. I remember when you could get a real meal in a real restaurant for that price. I go as large as possible and as a result it takes several minutes to arrive/prepare. I should be ashamed of/with myself but thanks to Malcolm Tucker today I feel distinctly defiant.

Eventually I board the backwards train to Lowestoft with the tinted windows and low passenger IQ. As I unwrap the burger I am truly ashamed and embarrassed by the sheer size and bulk of it – I have never eaten something so enormous. Upon closer inspection it is two whoppers cupped by a bun with a bean burger inside the normal bun setup. It is lucky I have a large mouth because otherwise I do not think it would fit inside a mere mortal sized gob. The guilt goes away as the taste explosion is fantastic. This burger might give me a heart attack eventually but its gonna orgasm first. I sitting scoffing and hoping that nobody will sit next to me. At this point my wrinkle suspects the odour is pungent and paranoid I feel that the remainder of the passengers on the (backwards) carriage now hate me but with sheer indulgence and hedonism who can care. About halfway into the burger some guy sits in the seat next to me, asking my permission which I give, almost with a warning. Since starting the burger I feel that I am already taking up more room on the seat that at the beginning. Feeling ashamed I almost offer him the fries but only almost. With the burger out of the way I shove those down my throat with quick execution in the hope that my ticker doesn’t stop working before I get home.

I have to admit that when I get back to Colchester the walk from the station to my car is a tough one. When I get to the underground car park I bump into mum who is equally surprised to see me. She asks me why I am so late this evening and I tell her I went to the movies before launching into a rabid rave of the burger I just swallowed.

When I finally get home Nacho Libre is on TV. Channel Four appears to have given up on its Friday night programming and now instead just shows comedy movies at 10PM, which I think really works. Not that I manage to stay awake for the remainder of the movie, soon nodding off to dream about more Texican burgers. It is a strange irony that my evening ends eating an American burger with a Mexican gimmick then watching an American movie with a Mexican gimmick. God bless Jack Black and all that sail in him, a man that certain ladies appear to love which is surely a demographic I can gate crash if/when I take the personality pills. Maybe.

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