Tuesday, 14 April 2009

Tuesday 14 April 2009

Dream: I’m on Baker Street in the office looking over the street at the people below. Two of my friends are down there dressed in black sporting replica machine guns. Around them some kind of demo is occurring but the police are choosing to ignore my friends and deal with the more obvious/blatant troublemakers. They are however being watched by men in black wearing sunglasses with wires coming out of their ears. Moving on I wake up the next morning and my car door is open. At first I think this is from my carelessness and upon initial inspection all is fine. Looking closer suddenly the door handle has been replaced by string such as used to be in the those crappy minis when I was young. I check my car to see if anything missing and on the face of it there is nothing changed in the car. I then notice a bag of groceries with some change tied to a small bag at the top. My unfortunate reaction is “free food” and I grab the bag and take it upstairs into my apartment. As I head up I notice some of the secret service meaning roaming around my apartment complex. I do not feel phased by this more angry that they didn’t not prevent an apparent robbery on my car. From atop of my landing I shout down at them to come and investigate the robbery. For some reason it doesn’t occur to me that they may have been responsible for it.

So is that Easter over already?

This morning is misty and still very quiet outside.

When I get on the train this morning there is a stupid kids pushchair and luggage in the way, which is born from early tourists returning from Colchester as opposed to commuters branching out. By providing such an obstruction they deserve to pay peak rates. Later when people are giving the mother funny looks it would appear that it is due to her breast-feeding the baby. The family is African, maybe they are making delivery of a baby to Madonna.

Also today the floor of the train is sticky – what the fuck happened this weekend on the train? An extended weekend and everything appears to have gone to pot.

Reading The Metro this morning it would seem the wrong Stewart Lee episode was indeed broadcast last night as the paper proceeds to review the religion episode that wasn’t broadcast.

My left arm still really hurts. I have been avoiding sleeping on it but that hasn’t done any good. I can pinpoint exactly the time it started aching last week, when I was doing the bank processing and reconciliation. I worry that this is RSI and that old age is now kicking and settling in. How on earth can be being a desk jockey cause so much pain? Feeble.

Booji Boy is back on the train this morning but after the incident with the breast-feeding lady and the general pain induced by my arm I cannot build up any degree of panic or hilarity in his direction. Perhaps still I can muster up some disgust towards him for his inability to get a decent haircut despite being an adult.

The person that eventually sits next to (and annoys) me is a Chinese dude (well, oriental) that is seemingly incapable of sitting on a seat properly. I guess they just sit on the floor in his motherland. As the journey continues he falls deeper and deeper asleep proceeding to lean on me more and more causing great discomfort for me (and him when I eventually shove him with spite). Against stereotype though he is very tall.

Elsewhere on the train a man has a plaster strategically placed on his balding head. Just what kind of injury is that supposed to be dealing with and curing? This is the NHS Direct equivalent of papering up the cracks no doubt. Incompetent and futile.

The train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.04 – late. As I get up to get off the train I find myself sticking to the floor once more.

Everyone has really bad hair on the tube this morning, seemingly bedheads by design. Really I am not qualified to comment as my own do leaves something to be desire at this time but I like judging my fellow man too much.

At Kings Cross the transvestite from last Monday again gets on the tube. The guy is even less convincing this week with the bricklayer hands now eclipsed by the crap wig. He must be very dedicated to this cause to make an exhibition such as this. Just like last week though he/she sinks into the carriage window reading a copy of The Metro closely hiding in it to blank out the reflection.

There is too much luggage on the train today. What if there is a rush or an accident, we will all trip up over it and perish. I have always thought that the nuisance that luggage causes on the train means that people should be charged to take it on the train in the first place. Now is this fair or is this a bit too Nazi?

As I arrive into work I am listening to an old episode of Hancock’s Half Hour on my iPod and it genuinely makes me laugh and puts a smile on my face. It is truly unbelievable and impressive at how well this stuff holds up.

A very hectic week begins slowly with closing off the February accounts (preparing the management pack) taking a lot longer than intended/expected and as lunchtime arrives/hits I still have not put it all to bed.

It is with a rude awakening that we all return to work today, nobody in our office possesses any energy.

At lunchtime the chef begins going on about Albanian sausage in regards to the office girl and her favourite foods. It’s only a little less subtle than just slapping his cock into a bap and going “have a bite.” In response I just nod “yeah, hot beef injection” in the hope of changing the subject to something fishy.

I feel like a mess today. My hair needs cutting, I haven’t shaved and my face looks tubby. Some might say I always look this way.

In the afternoon the office girl attempts to convince/fool me into believing that there is a new day between Sunday and Monday called “Nonday.” What a fucking idiot. Apparently she once worked with a simple guy at a bar that she managed to persuade into believing this. He probably wanted to fuck her. So now her trying the same trick on me, what the hell does that suggest is her perception of me? Does she see me as simple also? Better not you shit beast. From here she then launches into some sort of collection of science facts which only serves to make her sound like Karl Pilkington, a man himself long past his sell by date, try telling that to the Pilkipedia nation though. In a gesture to shut her up I begin telling her that Tree Man (Dede Koswara) is coming to town with view to getting her excited (she being his biggest fan, him and the Pregnant Man (Thomas Beatie)).

Eventually I get onto the March accounts, now with only two and a half days to get the first draft done. This is going to be a job and a half. By the time the afternoon is done I have to face a few more setbacks which slow me down further.

At one point this afternoon we find the whole office in debate over the number of trips to the toilet I make during the day. Apparently it is now unhealthy to have a poo on a regular basis. Fucking women, always finding wrong in everything/anything.

The office girl than decides to criticise me about my knowledge of film after I poo poo her science facts which on the whole do tend to originate from Channel Five documentaries. Film though, it is art and it serves to make knowledge and information more accessible. Surely.

I end up working a little late, which is never something that enthuses me. When I eventually hop a train home while watching Henry Fool on my iPhone a call comes in that says “blocked caller.” I haven’t blocked any numbers on this phone (yet). Weird phones these things.

Back in Colchester I head to the olds to watch Chelsea v Liverpool. This game will go down in history as an absolute classic although the score is ultimately flattering to both sides missing star players and capitalising on silly mistakes it is littered with. People will say it was a classic but actually the match was a farce. Another day it could have been the greatest game in history but the 4-4 scoreline flatters a little too much. For a while there it looked like Liverpool might do the job with fortune on their side but as soon as Chelsea score early in the second half the game is over. Personally I feel I could have scored the first two Liverpool goals and against this sloppy defending Millwall would stand a chance against Chelsea on this showing. As the match pushes on I find myself cheering on Chelsea goals going in, something I never ever expected I would ever find myself doing. In the end the 4-4 scoreline represents something of a false economy but I do take great amusement in the end of Liverpool’s European campaign. Bye bye Victimpool.

Afterwards I head home for the Tuesday night routine of 606 followed by passing out watching Family Guy. I need a girlfriend.

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