Sunday 19 April 2009
Awake at 6.05 again this morning. It is Sunday and I am up at this time and it is absurd and ridiculous. Today I am sad about something but I don’t really know what it is. There are the usual suspects but generally I thought I have moved on and passed over them as issues that bring me down.
I have a sore throat again which only points towards ANOTHER cold on its way.
I wake up feeling blue.
The first thing I do this morning is watch the Joe Strummer documentary “The Future Is Unwritten”. It’s OK, not great. I wonder how many times now that the history of punk and its participants drift into obscurity can be rewritten and documented. This is what Julien Temple and Don Letts appear to live on.
Today is the Sunday of the month that The Observer produces its Observer Music Monthly magazine and it is always a treat and a genuine disappointment when I miss out on it. It is not that the publication is overly good it is just great to have something of its ilk to read on a Sunday.
Upon returning to the flat I down a can of Relentless with view to getting a kick into action on the writing front which I thankfully accomplish getting a solid session in.
Around 2PM I head to the olds’ empty apartment to snag some dinner and some Sky TV action.
After sweating about not buying/snapping it up yesterday I find myself sweating in the fear of missing out on the John Waters boxset that I saw in the HMV sales box yesterday. No worries I get it.
On the way to the store I almost experience a strange confrontation with an old person (a ghost) from my past. It was only a couple of months ago that the sister of one of my best friends at primary school added me as a friend on Facebook. Again these are people I really don’t want to have anything to do with in this light of day and now seeing her brother proves somewhat uncomfortable and awkward even though I cannot decide whether it is actually him at first.
I guess this guy represented something of a jock at school and as to why we became best friends should be something of a mystery. Considering my best friends over the years, in the early years I would seem I would always be lumbered in as some kind of Milhouse character to compliment the confident winners that they were.
Today I sense some kind of victory as looking at him there now feels something of a more level playing field (even though these are thoughts he has probably long grown out of having/considering and ones that are pretty unhealthy to still be lingering in my mind). With time the pair of us now appear bloated and in the clothing choice stakes he is the one that looks the goof, the faux Gap hoodie that is never going to appear impressive regardless of pot belly or not.
So where did it go wrong for this guy and right for me? I doubt the situation is so black and white or clearcut. Perhaps I have abstained from temptation a bit better over the years. The last I heard about him was that he now works in insurance in a small village next to the home village we grew up in. This from a person who used to boast about his origins in London? At least I have made it up to Colchester away from poxy Little Clacton. I have even made it up to London myself to wind up working harder than the majority of people I know, earning more in a role that quite frankly does not take an expert to do. This is the result of persistence and hard work, a role in society that requires a lot of patience and will.
This is something my grammar school friends in Gringo Records could never quite tap into. With their passing of the eleven plus suddenly they had strange ideas thrust upon moving them towards ideas of delusion of grandeur at a too young age. To be told immediately you were the top of the tree was probably far too counter productive for their developing minds to take. In the long run I think history has proved this was not the case and there was never a huge gulf between them and the people they left behind at primary school on their way to serving a sentence and being bullied in a comp. This kids had promotion from small towns to Colchester handed them on a plate at ground zero, the rest of us bumpkins had to work at it and earn it.
Back to Mr Ex-Best Friend though. I hate how his existence now causes my mind to take it as proof that I have always been right, the way I actually had humility at school and the manner in which I never sold out or compromised by buying into beliefs I could not agree with. This guy where he is at now is not a million miles away from where I am. Sure I believe he is married with which by default comes a larger house and nicer things but in the earnings stakes I doubt there is much between us, in fact I probably do earn more now. This guy had everything at school – his grades shat on mine but then he decided he didn’t want to stay on to do A-Levels. Talk about lack of ambition. No more talking/thinking about him.
When I get back to the parents place I discover Last Holiday on Filmfour. I really have a big crush on Queen Latifah and as a result love this film; it is a true guilty pleasure. I guess it is testament to the movie that I watch this ahead of the FA cup semi final between Manchester United and Everton, which ultimately turns out to be something of a snore draw in itself. Eventually it ends up a penalty shoot out and when Tim Cahill sends his kick flying over the bar it reminds of when Millwall beat West Ham 4-1 and still managed to miss two penalties. Despite this Everton beat Manchester United lining up something of a dull cup final in Chelsea vs Everton this year. Yawn.
In the gap between this and The Simpsons I endeavor to find riches in the new Guitar Hero and once more I am left with the feeling that it is somewhat lacking. Thankfully the Simpsons rules being a brand new episode in which Moe has a date with a short lady. I dunno, I tried the midget route last year – that ain’t all its cracked up to be.
Tonight is the latest Louis Theroux documentary covering a paedophile prison/mental facility in California. It is both boring and disturbing and before the end I find myself having fallen asleep. When I awake it is to the sight of Gazza being a pundit on Match Of The Day 2 and he is slurring and sound incoherent, someone is really doing him a favour putting him on this show because blatantly he is not up to it. He looks so unwell.
After my bath the night ends with Dogma on Channel Four. I love this movie; any film that begins with Bud Cort followed by the opening words coming from George Carlin has to be a good one. This was actually the first movie I ever saw in a cinema twice. With hindsight Kevin Smith (and his movies) was such an important part of our lives just under ten years ago. In watching this movie I become worryingly nostalgic pining for a period too many years ago long gone now. Luckily I fall asleep before I get too emotional. I need a girlfriend.