Wednesday 15 April 2009
This morning I wake up with a thump. As I leave I collect together my kickboxing stuff with the best of intention and a return to action.
Today is the 20th anniversary of the Hillsborough Stadium disaster. I still remember the day pretty vividly and that it was a truly horrible day. Sadly it started so well, I remember the day in April being sunny and gorgeous as my family headed to the latest wedding of one of my aunts. I think I managed to avoid the ceremony but guess it was probably a registry office job. The husband (new uncle) was so nondescript I can’t even recall just who he was – was he the guy with the ginger Afro?
I joined proceedings at the reception stage held in a backroom of a pub. It was a small and cheap affair, which is a mean but fair description. The pub was in Great Bromley actually only minutes from the guy who I would be running Gringo Records with seven or eight years later. The pub turned out to be a distinct “local pub for local people” with a real rube mentality. While the horrid developments were occurring in Sheffield I found myself (at the age of twelve) having abuse hurled at me by the regular patrons because I was fat. Wow talk about a real display of personality. Jesus this was the kind of thing that has stuck with and saddled me over the years.
I feel really uncomfortable today. My health feels at an all time low and I do not feel afforded the time to work on it. A bout of unemployment would probably serve me well and do the world of good. The sad reality is that my little vacation in 2004/2005 between Beaumont Seymour and Sarm rejuvenated my body and my batteries in ways I have rarely felt before or since.
Again at Chelmsford station this morning the boring couple are the first to board the train – do they fight every morning for that privilege and honour?
Eventually as we get to London and Liverpool Street for the nth day running the train just sits outside the station for several minutes frustratingly.
Today is another busy day at work, I have a lot to do in a little time. I have to be efficient and productive and when left alone to do so I genuinely am, which is to my credit and something that thankfully is being noticed and acknowledged for the first time in my career.
The girl mentions Obama’s new dog. She says it is a “water dog” in reference to it being a “Portuguese Water Dog”. I proceed to spend a lot of the remainder of the day attempting to convince her that they have named the dog “Watergate.” For once this persuasion fails.
At lunchtime we watch footage of the hot topic of the day, it being the slapping of the female G20 protestor last week. Looking at the video on the BBC website it is very tough to have any sympathy for the woman Nicola Fisher and her now Max Clifford representation. During the footage she is plainly aggravating the situation by playing with fire but it turns out that the police officer was/is black which I guess is what makes it bad in the eyes of the media and the population. I guess.
At 3.06 parts of the country are said to be observing a two minutes silence for the Hillsborough victims and the restaurant manager (a Liverpool supporter) has said he will do so also. This I take it will be done inbetween his latest jokes about Jade Goody. Will I observe it? Will I fuck.
After a solid day of pretty much non-stop data processing by afternoon my left arm is in agony. Unfortunately despite this I do not get what I had planned today completely finished and I wind up working a little late as a result, not a common occurrence for me.
In the end today I ditch kickboxing in preference to watching Manchester United on TV.
On the tube home I feel trailed by a couple of “innit” kids. After they are done hanging off the bars like the monkeys that they are when we get to Baker Street it turns out that they want to know how to get to Kings Cross.
As I board the tube at Baker Street I find myself confronted with a truly Lynch-esqe vision with two strange looking old people sitting around a yellow suitcase. The couple are also wearing yellow clothes and are sporting strange bemused expressions as if they are up to no good and cannot help it. Perhaps they are on happy drugs. I am however fearful at thinking what may lie within the suitcase. As more passengers board the train at additional stops they begin to shake off their trance to accommodate the new commuters but the yellow case still remains central in their adventure.
This evening once more I catch the 6.30 train to Norwich. It is a slightly more quiet train compared to the 6.20 but just before leaving a Scouse family decides to sit around me. Shouldn’t they be back in Liverpool at Anfield at some kind of ceremony or something?
Back in Colchester I watch Manchester United beat Porto 1-0 in a relatively dull encounter in which they appear to do everything in their power to throw the game away. The real highlight sadly is Porto having a player named “Hulk”.
When I finally get home it is to the news that the ginger bird (ugly version of Grace from Will And Grace) has been fired. I fall asleep watching the You’re Fired post mortem show meaning that I also miss this weeks Newswipe in the process.