Sunday 31 May 2009
Dream: after the success of going to football and seeing Millwall at Wembley, Dad and I now find ourselves back at Ipswich Town watching them play. Obviously things are now very different compared to back when we were season ticket holders there back in the late eighties. And the change does not necessarily appear for the better. The stand now seems to resemble something of an overgrown corporate box. It’s more comfortable but soulless and lifeless with it. To my left there is a stall selling current release records situated underneath a television that is not turned on. There is the new Empire Of The Sun seven inch and I want it, which distracts me from the game. To my right Dad is far more into this game than he was the play off final last Sunday. In the first half Ipswich score a goal against identified opponents and the we get an amazing view of the goal so I am able to vividly recall them countering on the break through the middle of the pitch/field and as a player storms up the right wing/flank the striker passes it off, beating the offside train and the winger storms inside the box and fire the ball into the roof of centre of the goal. It is an amazing goal. At halftime the score is 1-0 and Dad begins talking to a couple of young ladies sat in front of us. He then begins/proceeds to tell them facts about me that he has got from Facebook (ie how I used to work with a lesbian). It is embarrassing and I try to get him to stop as he is obviously trying to set me up with one of them. As I shrink back in my seat (and hopefully the distance) suddenly it becomes apparent that the ladies are biting on these facts and I have a chance.
Sadly at this point I awaken.
The time is 6.45 although it feels as if I have been asleep forever. Last night was another early night for a Saturday night.
The day opens as I unwrap the Lynch documentary that I got from Caiman the other day and after a few repeated attempts at getting my DVD player to work eventually I am into watching a documentary about David Lynch making Inland Empire. It is a tough film to watch, not well executed, linear or particularly coherent. And sadly not in the cool and cooky Lynch manner. It’s pedestrian and expects a lot from the viewer to sit through the entire thing.
Partway through as my mind wanders I find myself checking out where the world is at with Facebook. It would appear my verging on racist comment about Britain’s Got Talent briefly upset someone I worked with two years ago, which kind of makes it irrelevant/redundant now that she is no longer a character/participant in my life. And this is before that pointless hooray for everything PC dance troupe called Diversity beat the hapless Susan Boyle. Jesus, people pleasing dance troupes are such a sarcastic Simpsons joke. It would appear my seal approval comment/status about Planes, Trains And Automobiles proved a much more popular piece of commentary.
It is with morbid interest that I end up looking at my American friend’s photos from her family’s visit last week (or something). Looking at these pictures depresses me no end. Yet again I can’t help but wonder what was the basis of my rejection by my American friend. As ever it borders on obsession and then disgust as the gormless boyfriend and gormless boss pop up in the photos as being introduced to the parents. Why them and not me? What do they possess that I don’t? I guess it is some kind of cuddly lobotomised state that means my American friend can mold and mould them like plasticine into something she can present to her family in order to raise her own currency/value and exhibit to her family (and the world) just how well adjusted and what a success her life is without revealing how it is built on sand. Maybe. No thumbsucking crybaby from Catford though, I guess he and I have more in common than I had realised.
I return to the Lynch documentary and force myself to sail it out but it is high on quirkiness and low on actual content/information. David Lynch however does come over as a really fine gent.
Breakfast this morning is sausages. Little ones covered in honey and mustard dressing and then wrapped in roasted red pepper deli tortilla wraps. It feels tasty and excessive.
The day has not even reached 9AM yet. The time is 8.50 and I am still stuck in the 8AM wonder hour. Outside the sun is blazing and it is going to be another beautiful day. I have not checked my face yet but late last night it was very red and close to sunburnt. If it is the same today I will be feeling self-conscious. Now I remember why I stay out of the sun.
In front of me is a cup of tea in a green Goofy Disney cup/mug. Mum gave these to me when I moved into my flat (Bohemian Grove) here in 2001. It is just one of a million loving gestures my parents have foisted upon me over the years. Inside the mug was a green tea bag and a peppermint tea bag. I’m not sure if the combination works but hopefully the flavour of the peppermint will serve to compliment the apparent healing powers of the green tea. Against the grain I have also added milk. When I do this at work people think I am so weird but it really gives the brew some kind of cushion, makes it go down easy. It helps both ways.
My old friend Glenn now living in Australia attempted to hit me on Facebook chat earlier. The last time we spoke he told me how his mum was dying of cancer and how she was about the lose her second leg and realistically how her time is numbered. She is here in Essex and yet he remains in Australia. I’m not sure of the actual logistics but that does not sound good. He has three boys and was struggling to get them over to the UK to see his mum before the inevitable as, in his words, “she wants to see them more than me.” This morning I avoid his chat, you can understand why.
With the world my oyster and the day still young I watch the third episode of The Century Of The Self by Adam Curtis.
As the morning wastes away god bless the schedulers on Film4 for showing Small Time Crooks at 11AM. In many ways there is no better way to spend a summer day than watching a Woody Allen movie:
“Did you get your end of the money?”
“The money for what? Oh yeah, I got the money I sold some stuff.”
“What did you sell?
“A rented car.”
The skies of New York in his movies are always sunny and with a ragtime jazz soundtrack who could/would want anything different?
“You know you are working with a genius, right? We’re all smart but he wears glasses.”
For some reason it doesn’t feel like there is any work tomorrow, it feels like I am on school holiday and there is nothing lingering/hovering of me in the future.
Today writing is finally flowing although unfortunately this tends to result in a lot of stuff being started but little getting completed.
When I get to the olds for Sunday lunch at 3PM ITV2 (or whatever) is again showing Holiday On The Buses. With this we indulge in our immature comedic tastebuds and laugh at Blakey and Olive while celebrating Stan and Jack’s conquests. This particular movie in this series is also notable for Wilfrid Brambell’s turn at playing a randy Irish man chasing Stan’s mum. That must have been a truly painful role for him now knowing what made the real Wilfrid Brambell tick off the back of that amazing drama The Curse Of Steptoe.
The last time I saw this movie I believe was just before Christmas at the end of the day Christmas shopping in Greenwich with Mindy. Who could have foretold that that would be the last time I see her (her choice). Sadness accrues.
Once the movie is gone and the parents take the dog out for a walk I settle down to read the Luke Haines book “Bad Vibes”. It is all things and more. Haines truly has a great turn with words and his sharp, bitchy wit combined with keen self-depreciation strikes the perfect balance in order to make him come over as a likeable person despite his snide flaws. It reminds me a bit of that John Niven book “Kill Yr Friends” that I read on the play journeys to and from Berlin last summer after seeing his truly startling good reading at Latitude. All in all I struggle to put “Bad Vibes” down as it addresses what blinkered hindsight glasses now deem my “good days”, those times I appear to spend my days attempting to rediscover these days, albeit most definitely not through the music of The Auteurs or Britpop acts because those were the enemy (despite the fact that briefly a few years ago I became the accountant for a number of mentioned has-beens in this book, people also trying to rediscover and recapture those days these days). With each expertly executed snipe I find myself becoming more and more nostalgic for the nineties and music in general, even Gringo Records manages to strike a chord with some examples of music industry hijinks detailed in this book.
I remain at the parents for the Simpsons but eventually I head home to a depressing Sunday evening home alone.
Tonight Sunday evening TV is represented by Night At The Museum (again!) and Coach Carter. I need a girlfriend.
Sunday 31 May 2009
Saturday 30 May 2009
Saturday 30 May 2009
I wake up feeling optimistic and energetic this morning, as if some kind of weight/load has been lifted from my shoulders. For the first time in weeks it’s I don’t have worry.
After catching the news of the day (nothing has or is happening) my Saturday begins by watching the second episode of The Century Of The Self by Adam Curtis.
As I check my email I see that my friend in Holland Park has finally got back to me, too little to late. Needless to say the content of the email is not what I was hoping/wanting to hear. Regardless I am sure we will be hooking up soon.
There is a distinct glisten to my apartment today. The trees that usually get in the way and obstruct the sun are failing in their efforts today and coming through the window is some kind of subconscious youthful exuberance.
Just after 9AM I perform the predictable Asda run, planning on not getting as much as usual (cutting down) but ultimately I buy about the usual spaffing £24 in the process. As usual I pick up this weeks copy of the NME and on the cover is Kasabian. Has there ever been a worse band in music? This poor generation being spoon fed the worst most manufactured attempt at rebellion in modern history. Annoyingly this is coupled with the music from my iPod suddenly falling to shit – what has broken, the headphones or the ancient iPod Shuffle? Is this the power of Kasabian, have they installed computer chips into anything that they or their image touches that burns out good music? Conspiracy-a-go-go.
Inside Asda I see The Crab flicking through cheap CDs. As ever I avoid him like the plague but not before flicking through the latest cheap DVDs. When the fuck is Father’s Day? The shop is already putting gift ideas out. I find a cheap and nasty three documentary Muhammad Ali DVD for £3 and snag it.
I settle into my usual Saturday routine of listening to the radio, flicking through the newspapers and staring blankly at a computer screen trying to burst into writing action while just over the computer monitor’s shoulder facing me is a bright sunny blue sky and day awaiting something real to happen.
Also as per routine after the early start to the day around 11AM I begin to flag and think about returning to bed. If ever I succumb and fall to this I know my day is wasted and I have been beaten and that this weekend will go to waste.
The post arrives and STILL no sign of my Vice Magazine subscription. Have they gone under? Have they lost their franking machine? Can they not buy stamps? Did the printing machine chew off somebody’s fingers before the fucks got around to doing my copy of the latest issue? Please Vice Magazine, please tell what gives.
Today is cup final day and in it are Chelsea and Everton which hardly inspires a person to overcome in excitement. Playing will be Tim Cahill who was playing for Millwall in the cup final five seasons ago. It is unbelievable to think that it is now five years since Millwall were playing Manchester United in the FA Cup final – where has the time gone? It really does not feel like five years ago.
As I hit the green tea mixed with peppermint tea a healthy bout of energy hits me and proves the day to be surprisingly productive.
At 11.30 Mark texts to see what I am up to. Swiftly I suggest that we meet up for lunch as that had been playing on my mind and quickly arrangements are made to meet up for 12.30.
After weighing up the lunch options soon we are heading to the Minories Art Gallery if, for nothing else, the option to sit outside and eat. There we tear into each other’s weeks and the sad reality of how we have both just been too busy with work to hang out.
The Minories was a good choice. This is truly a hidden gem of Colchester, pretty central but peaceful and very green. This is where the middle class and biddies come for their tea. I guess it helps that it is no longer in the shadows of the huge multi-storeyed car park that used to tower over the grotty old bus station that my mother used to drag me to when I was younger.
Mark shows me the Luke Haines book that he has just read and says I can borrow it. I have heard really good things about this book and by his description it sounds a fantastic read.
This afternoon we really put the world to right. It appears that I am the only person of the two of us acknowledging that it is cup final day but as conversation leans towards substance the momentum shouldn’t be disrupted.
Neither of us are overly happy and it would appear that post 30 angst is alive and well in both our existences. Adulthood is now hitting us both hard and the responsibilities that can with are now nagging with too much volume in our respective minds.
The Minories is the dwelling of strange people. We watch two lads drinking milkshakes and acknowledge that life appears to be eating them alive. One of them is geeky and covered in zits in a manner that is hardly going to get him shagged while the other has pink hair and a bowler hat appearing to be desperate to become a future contestant on Big Brother. His personality is not all invented.
As I watch an arty upper middle class family run around the garden with their baby I cannot help but look at the woman’s arse and I wonder if that is the kind of life that I should be currently striving/aiming for. She is less yummy mummy and more tummy mummy but no less attractive for it. The guy (the dad) looks a total pussy but I bet he sure takes home a pretty penny. When they leave the woman clocks me gawping at her, with her content that she never need know me.
The next person to stand out in the garden is a long haired guy in a sleeveless Bad Religion shirt who then proceeds to begin smoking while sitting in his seat rebelliously. Surely this is a total contradiction to the Bad Religion lifestyle and what they stand for. Who wears bands shirts anyway in this day and age? Up grow! Slowly Bad Religion’s friends turn up and Mark correctly points out that it looks like the Anvil reunion.
After earlier finishing their milkshakes and pissing off, when Pink Hair and the Zit return they begin talking louder than before as they now find themselves sat on a table closer than earlier. At this point Mark and I make our exit.
As we go through the Saturday afternoon Colchester town centre it is with the sad reality that I am now royally missing the cup final.
Wanting to stay out we hit the 24th Colchester Real Ale And Cider Festival at the Arts Centre. This is an event that scares me in some ways, its really not for me and not where I want to wind up.
As we get our weird flavoured pints of beer with our tokens we head outside into the sound and sit in the graveyard of the Arts Centre with the rest of the patrons. Who are these people? Students? Former students? I swear/think I recognise someone from Swapna’s play last year but she is smoking roll up fags and as a result she truly disgusts me.
Elsewhere I watch as a guy drags out what is plainly his mail order bride. Yes I obviously fancy her.
Sitting out in the sun is a rarity for me. In my youth one of our neighbours in Little Clacton once asked if I was nocturnal, which in a way does pretty much sum up how I feel about the sun. Maybe I am slightly vampire.
Looking around I come to the conclusion that we are at a bad teeth festival. Conversation with Mark is good but still the visuals are disheartening. How on earth can a person’s weekend entertain be based on being an adult and sitting in a graveyard getting drunk?
By now the FA Cup final has long finished and it turns out that Chelsea beat Everton comfortably. With this in mind when I see a one armed man in a Chelsea shirt it freaks me out as I begin to wonder if I have drunk too much. I ask Mark for confirmation of this character and he responds in the affirmative.
As we move from sitting on the grass to now sitting on a grave tombstone the next person of note we clock is a guy that looks exactly like Ron Asheton, not a little a shit load. Perhaps this is his ghost. Regardless its not a good look for 2009.
With the sun still out in full strength we begin to make moves just before 8PM. I can already feel my face has slightly burned in the sun and now I am very hungry with it, especially after eating too many vegetables at lunch which now appear to be killing me from inside as my internals begin to feel like they are collapsing.
Walking home we bump into the Webb sisters who are now heading to the beer festival. This is a bummer because we could have done with extra heads to enthuse our conversation at times. Mark has had two more pints than me and as a result is happier.
Popping into Balkerne Heights on the way home tonight is the big final of Britain’s Got Talent. I hate myself for admitting it but I am genuinely curious as to who will win and how they will win. Of course it is Susan Boyle’s to lose but after reports of her cracking up suddenly it is becoming very interesting from a voyeuristic perspective.
Snappily I comment on Facebook that Britain’s Got Talent appears to bring out the racist in me as an act called Diversity shoves in the viewer’s face the extent of their ethnicity. I’m sorry these slimes are just playing the race card first and the talent card second; they may as well have named themselves “Minority.” My comment however almost gets me in trouble when the black bible basher from the studio back in the day calls me up on my comment which I attempt to laugh off as grumpiness.
After the performances I head home to find Planes, Trains And Automobiles on Film4. I watch the first hour of this movie and it never fails to warm my black heart and make me smile. This is truly one of the greatest comedy movies ever made and it doesn’t appear to have dated in the least despite being over twenty years old now. John Candy was a truly great performer and a huge loss to comedy when he died around the same time as Bill Hicks and Kurt Cobain back in 1994.
I then find out that Diversity have won Britain’s Got Talent over the super favourite Susan Boyle. That was a genuine shock. And I shouldn’t care or even be acknowledging it. I have now become one of the mooing masses, one of the idiots.
After watching a repeat of Have I Got News For You eventually I fall asleep (pass out) watching The Funny Side Of The News which is actually very funny to be honest.
Tomorrow I shall be sunburnt.
I wake up feeling optimistic and energetic this morning, as if some kind of weight/load has been lifted from my shoulders. For the first time in weeks it’s I don’t have worry.
After catching the news of the day (nothing has or is happening) my Saturday begins by watching the second episode of The Century Of The Self by Adam Curtis.
As I check my email I see that my friend in Holland Park has finally got back to me, too little to late. Needless to say the content of the email is not what I was hoping/wanting to hear. Regardless I am sure we will be hooking up soon.
There is a distinct glisten to my apartment today. The trees that usually get in the way and obstruct the sun are failing in their efforts today and coming through the window is some kind of subconscious youthful exuberance.
Just after 9AM I perform the predictable Asda run, planning on not getting as much as usual (cutting down) but ultimately I buy about the usual spaffing £24 in the process. As usual I pick up this weeks copy of the NME and on the cover is Kasabian. Has there ever been a worse band in music? This poor generation being spoon fed the worst most manufactured attempt at rebellion in modern history. Annoyingly this is coupled with the music from my iPod suddenly falling to shit – what has broken, the headphones or the ancient iPod Shuffle? Is this the power of Kasabian, have they installed computer chips into anything that they or their image touches that burns out good music? Conspiracy-a-go-go.
Inside Asda I see The Crab flicking through cheap CDs. As ever I avoid him like the plague but not before flicking through the latest cheap DVDs. When the fuck is Father’s Day? The shop is already putting gift ideas out. I find a cheap and nasty three documentary Muhammad Ali DVD for £3 and snag it.
I settle into my usual Saturday routine of listening to the radio, flicking through the newspapers and staring blankly at a computer screen trying to burst into writing action while just over the computer monitor’s shoulder facing me is a bright sunny blue sky and day awaiting something real to happen.
Also as per routine after the early start to the day around 11AM I begin to flag and think about returning to bed. If ever I succumb and fall to this I know my day is wasted and I have been beaten and that this weekend will go to waste.
The post arrives and STILL no sign of my Vice Magazine subscription. Have they gone under? Have they lost their franking machine? Can they not buy stamps? Did the printing machine chew off somebody’s fingers before the fucks got around to doing my copy of the latest issue? Please Vice Magazine, please tell what gives.
Today is cup final day and in it are Chelsea and Everton which hardly inspires a person to overcome in excitement. Playing will be Tim Cahill who was playing for Millwall in the cup final five seasons ago. It is unbelievable to think that it is now five years since Millwall were playing Manchester United in the FA Cup final – where has the time gone? It really does not feel like five years ago.
As I hit the green tea mixed with peppermint tea a healthy bout of energy hits me and proves the day to be surprisingly productive.
At 11.30 Mark texts to see what I am up to. Swiftly I suggest that we meet up for lunch as that had been playing on my mind and quickly arrangements are made to meet up for 12.30.
After weighing up the lunch options soon we are heading to the Minories Art Gallery if, for nothing else, the option to sit outside and eat. There we tear into each other’s weeks and the sad reality of how we have both just been too busy with work to hang out.
The Minories was a good choice. This is truly a hidden gem of Colchester, pretty central but peaceful and very green. This is where the middle class and biddies come for their tea. I guess it helps that it is no longer in the shadows of the huge multi-storeyed car park that used to tower over the grotty old bus station that my mother used to drag me to when I was younger.
Mark shows me the Luke Haines book that he has just read and says I can borrow it. I have heard really good things about this book and by his description it sounds a fantastic read.
This afternoon we really put the world to right. It appears that I am the only person of the two of us acknowledging that it is cup final day but as conversation leans towards substance the momentum shouldn’t be disrupted.
Neither of us are overly happy and it would appear that post 30 angst is alive and well in both our existences. Adulthood is now hitting us both hard and the responsibilities that can with are now nagging with too much volume in our respective minds.
The Minories is the dwelling of strange people. We watch two lads drinking milkshakes and acknowledge that life appears to be eating them alive. One of them is geeky and covered in zits in a manner that is hardly going to get him shagged while the other has pink hair and a bowler hat appearing to be desperate to become a future contestant on Big Brother. His personality is not all invented.
As I watch an arty upper middle class family run around the garden with their baby I cannot help but look at the woman’s arse and I wonder if that is the kind of life that I should be currently striving/aiming for. She is less yummy mummy and more tummy mummy but no less attractive for it. The guy (the dad) looks a total pussy but I bet he sure takes home a pretty penny. When they leave the woman clocks me gawping at her, with her content that she never need know me.
The next person to stand out in the garden is a long haired guy in a sleeveless Bad Religion shirt who then proceeds to begin smoking while sitting in his seat rebelliously. Surely this is a total contradiction to the Bad Religion lifestyle and what they stand for. Who wears bands shirts anyway in this day and age? Up grow! Slowly Bad Religion’s friends turn up and Mark correctly points out that it looks like the Anvil reunion.
After earlier finishing their milkshakes and pissing off, when Pink Hair and the Zit return they begin talking louder than before as they now find themselves sat on a table closer than earlier. At this point Mark and I make our exit.
As we go through the Saturday afternoon Colchester town centre it is with the sad reality that I am now royally missing the cup final.
Wanting to stay out we hit the 24th Colchester Real Ale And Cider Festival at the Arts Centre. This is an event that scares me in some ways, its really not for me and not where I want to wind up.
As we get our weird flavoured pints of beer with our tokens we head outside into the sound and sit in the graveyard of the Arts Centre with the rest of the patrons. Who are these people? Students? Former students? I swear/think I recognise someone from Swapna’s play last year but she is smoking roll up fags and as a result she truly disgusts me.
Elsewhere I watch as a guy drags out what is plainly his mail order bride. Yes I obviously fancy her.
Sitting out in the sun is a rarity for me. In my youth one of our neighbours in Little Clacton once asked if I was nocturnal, which in a way does pretty much sum up how I feel about the sun. Maybe I am slightly vampire.
Looking around I come to the conclusion that we are at a bad teeth festival. Conversation with Mark is good but still the visuals are disheartening. How on earth can a person’s weekend entertain be based on being an adult and sitting in a graveyard getting drunk?
By now the FA Cup final has long finished and it turns out that Chelsea beat Everton comfortably. With this in mind when I see a one armed man in a Chelsea shirt it freaks me out as I begin to wonder if I have drunk too much. I ask Mark for confirmation of this character and he responds in the affirmative.
As we move from sitting on the grass to now sitting on a grave tombstone the next person of note we clock is a guy that looks exactly like Ron Asheton, not a little a shit load. Perhaps this is his ghost. Regardless its not a good look for 2009.
With the sun still out in full strength we begin to make moves just before 8PM. I can already feel my face has slightly burned in the sun and now I am very hungry with it, especially after eating too many vegetables at lunch which now appear to be killing me from inside as my internals begin to feel like they are collapsing.
Walking home we bump into the Webb sisters who are now heading to the beer festival. This is a bummer because we could have done with extra heads to enthuse our conversation at times. Mark has had two more pints than me and as a result is happier.
Popping into Balkerne Heights on the way home tonight is the big final of Britain’s Got Talent. I hate myself for admitting it but I am genuinely curious as to who will win and how they will win. Of course it is Susan Boyle’s to lose but after reports of her cracking up suddenly it is becoming very interesting from a voyeuristic perspective.
Snappily I comment on Facebook that Britain’s Got Talent appears to bring out the racist in me as an act called Diversity shoves in the viewer’s face the extent of their ethnicity. I’m sorry these slimes are just playing the race card first and the talent card second; they may as well have named themselves “Minority.” My comment however almost gets me in trouble when the black bible basher from the studio back in the day calls me up on my comment which I attempt to laugh off as grumpiness.
After the performances I head home to find Planes, Trains And Automobiles on Film4. I watch the first hour of this movie and it never fails to warm my black heart and make me smile. This is truly one of the greatest comedy movies ever made and it doesn’t appear to have dated in the least despite being over twenty years old now. John Candy was a truly great performer and a huge loss to comedy when he died around the same time as Bill Hicks and Kurt Cobain back in 1994.
I then find out that Diversity have won Britain’s Got Talent over the super favourite Susan Boyle. That was a genuine shock. And I shouldn’t care or even be acknowledging it. I have now become one of the mooing masses, one of the idiots.
After watching a repeat of Have I Got News For You eventually I fall asleep (pass out) watching The Funny Side Of The News which is actually very funny to be honest.
Tomorrow I shall be sunburnt.
Friday 29 May 2009
Friday 29 May 2009
Dream: I am eating hot French fries.
Annoyingly whenever I have food eating dreams I always wake up in the morning feeling bloated and fatter. Even worse are the dreams where I imagine I am eating a giant marshmallow and I awaken to find my pillow has disappeared or been stolen.
It is a warm morning today, beautiful in every way. With the light blue sky mornings of the moment obviously I wake up around 5AM. This will take its toll by the end of the day.
As I choose the songs to add to my iPod I am overcome with an urge to hear “Kentucky Fried Flow” as it sticks in my head producing a stupid mood in me. The song sounds fantastic, like it has never been away.
On the walk to the station I appear to be part of a group of four walking en mass. Obviously I am fourth, trailing in a broken commuter convey staggering its way to work.
Again this morning there are less people on the platform for whatever reason, which is a relief.
As I flick through The Metro this morning it suddenly occurs to me that I spend more time on the TV listings page than I do the rest of the paper combined. Is this a sign of my ignorance or the lack of quality in the newspaper?
This morning I once more find myself sitting next to a attractive hardfaced lady whose double chin for some reason I find attractive as she sleeps her way through the journey. I wonder if she is nice.
The train rolls into Liverpool Street at 8.06 this morning – pathetic.
Almost daily now I see the Baker Street wife on the train and almost daily it serves to depress me with memories of that awful place.
At Moorgate I see a young lady waiting for a tube in the opposite direction. She is carrying/holding a little dog. What’s the deal with that? Do dogs have their own tickets yet? Does it have an Oyster card? Does the owner have to pay twice for it? She should be made to.
As I walk into work today it feels as if I am walking into a royal shitstorm. It would appear that my bosses staged a 7AM emergency meeting and now off the back of an email received this morning from the accounts consultant the April accounts have been knocked straight back into my court when the draft set were sent to him yesterday pretty much finished.
Regardless of this I power through and perform various adjustments that only make the accounts show a bigger loss with each change. Perhaps they should have been left as they were. Also this is couple with my finding every time I look closer at the figures and the WTRs (weekly trading reports) there have been mispostings everywhere – it looks like the IT Guy has really dropped the ball here.
Mid morning I speak to the accounts consultant who picks me up on some whacko balance in the prepayments that pretty much wholly originate from his adjustments months ago, adjustments he appears to have since long forgotten about. I immediately fire back a comprehensive listing of his adjustments which is hardly likely to make me popular but does come some way to abstain me from responsibility.
For lunch I have a lamb burger with wok fried vegetables. Thankfully when I head down to collect the food my Mexican/Brazilian friend is nowhere to be seen.
I had been hoping to meet up with my friend in Holland Park today but as the day goes on all I get is radio silence and usually if she is going to get in touch/respond it tends to be immediate. Additionally I do not hear from Vice Magazine about my missing subscription either all in all equating to something of a failing day of feeling unloved by the populous.
We finish at 4.45 and I end up having drinks with the boss but I’m not interested tonight I just want to head home. Regardless of this he still leaves ahead of me at just before 6.30 as the restaurant starts looking like it is going to be pretty busy this evening.
Now exiting St Johns Wood I head towards Oxford Street with the view of buying records (as if I don’t have enough already).
Tonight is the most gorgeous, blazing summer evening and with this comes poodling tourists in the hundreds and the subtle act of shoving/pushing them out of the way. I only do this because I envy them their existence of having a place to go and somewhere to be with people that do not concern them.
I perform an HMV run spending £20.91 on seven inches most of which are probably likely to be awful and then I head home with nowhere better to be and nothing to do. Just where did all my friends go?
I feel blue this evening, a dark blue opposite to the tone of the brilliant sky above. As the evening arrives at 8PM the brightness makes it still look like midday. This is the kind of evening that makes you feel lonely the most.
Once back in Essex after a nondescript train journey home I briefly stop by the parents at Balkerne Heights before heading back to my flat and straight to bed with nothing better to do. I need a girlfriend.
Dream: I am eating hot French fries.
Annoyingly whenever I have food eating dreams I always wake up in the morning feeling bloated and fatter. Even worse are the dreams where I imagine I am eating a giant marshmallow and I awaken to find my pillow has disappeared or been stolen.
It is a warm morning today, beautiful in every way. With the light blue sky mornings of the moment obviously I wake up around 5AM. This will take its toll by the end of the day.
As I choose the songs to add to my iPod I am overcome with an urge to hear “Kentucky Fried Flow” as it sticks in my head producing a stupid mood in me. The song sounds fantastic, like it has never been away.
On the walk to the station I appear to be part of a group of four walking en mass. Obviously I am fourth, trailing in a broken commuter convey staggering its way to work.
Again this morning there are less people on the platform for whatever reason, which is a relief.
As I flick through The Metro this morning it suddenly occurs to me that I spend more time on the TV listings page than I do the rest of the paper combined. Is this a sign of my ignorance or the lack of quality in the newspaper?
This morning I once more find myself sitting next to a attractive hardfaced lady whose double chin for some reason I find attractive as she sleeps her way through the journey. I wonder if she is nice.
The train rolls into Liverpool Street at 8.06 this morning – pathetic.
Almost daily now I see the Baker Street wife on the train and almost daily it serves to depress me with memories of that awful place.
At Moorgate I see a young lady waiting for a tube in the opposite direction. She is carrying/holding a little dog. What’s the deal with that? Do dogs have their own tickets yet? Does it have an Oyster card? Does the owner have to pay twice for it? She should be made to.
As I walk into work today it feels as if I am walking into a royal shitstorm. It would appear that my bosses staged a 7AM emergency meeting and now off the back of an email received this morning from the accounts consultant the April accounts have been knocked straight back into my court when the draft set were sent to him yesterday pretty much finished.
Regardless of this I power through and perform various adjustments that only make the accounts show a bigger loss with each change. Perhaps they should have been left as they were. Also this is couple with my finding every time I look closer at the figures and the WTRs (weekly trading reports) there have been mispostings everywhere – it looks like the IT Guy has really dropped the ball here.
Mid morning I speak to the accounts consultant who picks me up on some whacko balance in the prepayments that pretty much wholly originate from his adjustments months ago, adjustments he appears to have since long forgotten about. I immediately fire back a comprehensive listing of his adjustments which is hardly likely to make me popular but does come some way to abstain me from responsibility.
For lunch I have a lamb burger with wok fried vegetables. Thankfully when I head down to collect the food my Mexican/Brazilian friend is nowhere to be seen.
I had been hoping to meet up with my friend in Holland Park today but as the day goes on all I get is radio silence and usually if she is going to get in touch/respond it tends to be immediate. Additionally I do not hear from Vice Magazine about my missing subscription either all in all equating to something of a failing day of feeling unloved by the populous.
We finish at 4.45 and I end up having drinks with the boss but I’m not interested tonight I just want to head home. Regardless of this he still leaves ahead of me at just before 6.30 as the restaurant starts looking like it is going to be pretty busy this evening.
Now exiting St Johns Wood I head towards Oxford Street with the view of buying records (as if I don’t have enough already).
Tonight is the most gorgeous, blazing summer evening and with this comes poodling tourists in the hundreds and the subtle act of shoving/pushing them out of the way. I only do this because I envy them their existence of having a place to go and somewhere to be with people that do not concern them.
I perform an HMV run spending £20.91 on seven inches most of which are probably likely to be awful and then I head home with nowhere better to be and nothing to do. Just where did all my friends go?
I feel blue this evening, a dark blue opposite to the tone of the brilliant sky above. As the evening arrives at 8PM the brightness makes it still look like midday. This is the kind of evening that makes you feel lonely the most.
Once back in Essex after a nondescript train journey home I briefly stop by the parents at Balkerne Heights before heading back to my flat and straight to bed with nothing better to do. I need a girlfriend.
Thursday 28 May 2009
Thursday 28 May 2009
Dream: annoyingly I forget what the dream was this morning but I do remember it was pretty explicit in a topical manner/fashion. Dare I say this means it contained elements that relate to work past and present as it dominates me life so much these days.
I feel exhausted this morning. To be honest there is no real reason why fatigue should be any worse than usual but it is a pulsing tiredness this morning reserved for only the best occasions I guess.
On a brighter note the train is roomy this morning despite some weird girl taking “my” seat. As the train trawls through the various stations from Colchester to Liverpool Street happily I do not find myself being squished by my fellow commuters.
This morning I find myself thinking about Song Of The South and Uncle Remus. The train of thought here comes from thinking about Disney movies originating from thinking about their version of Treasure Island from thinking about pirates and the Tank Riot episode I listened to last night.
Song Of The South is one of those fabled “banned” movies that now in the digital age everyone has seen. The Uncle Remus character is legendary, everybody knows the “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” song but most people don’t actually know where it comes from. It is strange to think that in this day and age there is still such a movie in existence and I have to concede when I watched it early last year in a depressed state it did remove and take me back to some kind of childish mind state and the racial connotations were completely lost on me, Uncle Remus the stereotype just appears as some kind of bubbly old black grandfather figure as opposed to some kind of Uncle Tom. It is strange what people find offensive.
Today the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8AM in a rare gesture of being on time. Hopefully this is the sign of good things laid ahead.
As I board the tube it is with a Marina Sirtis lookalike, which reminds me that I haven’t finished watching Green Street 2 yet. This is probably for the better.
Elsewhere on the tube as I look up from writing note on my iPhone I see a man with a mechanical hand reading a newspaper and it genuinely freaks me out. Fortunately I stop short of screaming, as my impulses tell me to do. It begs the question: what happened?
Looking at the poor bastard’s arm this reaction reminds me of the time at work that we convinced The Girl that Stephen Hawking was actually a Doctor Who baddie and her reaction to a picture of him on Google was “ugh, that’s sick” said without a shred of irony. I swear this girl should be transplanted to America, those would be her people.
At work it is another very busy day. I would like to think that one day we will have all duties done but for now it feels like we are all in it for the long haul. Maybe I’ll be able to book a holiday and some time off when the dust settles and I cease being so fucking important (as if).
It of course does not help when it would seem/appear that my bosses do not distinguish between a set of P&Ls and a full set of accounts. Doing a set of month accounts in three days I cannot do a full complete set of balance sheet reconciliations also. Give me a break.
Despite this the work only continues to mount up as more eyes are cast over what is an incomplete set of figures. I am used to this way of working by now but when a couple of people suddenly decide to interrogate the wages treatment after six months of using this method perhaps a time in which we are not so under the cosh with the bank would be better. Perhaps this is not really the time to suddenly become/get picky.
As a result of the work being as ever rushed I cannot say that I am 100% happy or confident with the figures. Oh well, at least the powers that be are not breaking my balls over them (at the moment).
For lunch I have king prawns and cous cous – this is at least slightly healthy right?
The Girl is paranoid that the IT Guy has put a program on our computers that records our web visits and for a few minutes she manages to make me paranoid about this also. This dose of fear comes from the reality that internet usage is now being monitor at various sites but realistically any IT department is always going to be able to record which sites people go to. The Girl is just worried that her Sims-esqe garden she runs on Facebook Tamagotchi style might be discovered (as if we don’t know about it already).
Tonight I work a little late and end up leaving at 5.50, which isn’t fun. Despite this it still looks like I am going to catch a decent train home. That is until the tube stalls between Barbican and Moorgate. Are these the powers of Szesze beckoning me?
In the end I catch the 6.30 Norwich train and sit next to a man rocking two mobile phones. Never ever trust a man with two mobile phones. The first person I ever met with two mobile phones was some kind of prostitute. One for business, one for pleasure, all for shagging. Then one of his phones rings and it has a Benny Hill ringtone. Fucking idiot.
As I look to my right I notice a guy watching something on his iPhone featuring Hesh from The Sopranos along with Denis Leary and it genuinely/really annoys me that I don’t know what it is. A Google search later and it turns out that it is Rescue Me, the TV show in which Leary is haunted by the ghost of Bill Hicks I believe. With this knowledge I feel less annoyed.
When I get home it is in anticipation of the latest tourettes syndrome documentary on BBC1 featuring John Davidson of John’s Not Mad. Of course watching these documentaries comes with a high degree of being mean spirited and as things get emotion on the programme they also become quite boring. You can’t help feel for John Davidson though, he was the pioneer but now it seems everybody is getting in on this tourettes syndrome documentary lark. They are the Bush to his Nirvana.
Its always tickled me slightly that the guy is from Galashiels as that is/was where Roger and Dawn Of The Replicants were from. Damn I miss that guy.
After scraping out a bit of writing while distracted away from the documentary I head to bed bored. I need a girlfriend.
Dream: annoyingly I forget what the dream was this morning but I do remember it was pretty explicit in a topical manner/fashion. Dare I say this means it contained elements that relate to work past and present as it dominates me life so much these days.
I feel exhausted this morning. To be honest there is no real reason why fatigue should be any worse than usual but it is a pulsing tiredness this morning reserved for only the best occasions I guess.
On a brighter note the train is roomy this morning despite some weird girl taking “my” seat. As the train trawls through the various stations from Colchester to Liverpool Street happily I do not find myself being squished by my fellow commuters.
This morning I find myself thinking about Song Of The South and Uncle Remus. The train of thought here comes from thinking about Disney movies originating from thinking about their version of Treasure Island from thinking about pirates and the Tank Riot episode I listened to last night.
Song Of The South is one of those fabled “banned” movies that now in the digital age everyone has seen. The Uncle Remus character is legendary, everybody knows the “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” song but most people don’t actually know where it comes from. It is strange to think that in this day and age there is still such a movie in existence and I have to concede when I watched it early last year in a depressed state it did remove and take me back to some kind of childish mind state and the racial connotations were completely lost on me, Uncle Remus the stereotype just appears as some kind of bubbly old black grandfather figure as opposed to some kind of Uncle Tom. It is strange what people find offensive.
Today the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8AM in a rare gesture of being on time. Hopefully this is the sign of good things laid ahead.
As I board the tube it is with a Marina Sirtis lookalike, which reminds me that I haven’t finished watching Green Street 2 yet. This is probably for the better.
Elsewhere on the tube as I look up from writing note on my iPhone I see a man with a mechanical hand reading a newspaper and it genuinely freaks me out. Fortunately I stop short of screaming, as my impulses tell me to do. It begs the question: what happened?
Looking at the poor bastard’s arm this reaction reminds me of the time at work that we convinced The Girl that Stephen Hawking was actually a Doctor Who baddie and her reaction to a picture of him on Google was “ugh, that’s sick” said without a shred of irony. I swear this girl should be transplanted to America, those would be her people.
At work it is another very busy day. I would like to think that one day we will have all duties done but for now it feels like we are all in it for the long haul. Maybe I’ll be able to book a holiday and some time off when the dust settles and I cease being so fucking important (as if).
It of course does not help when it would seem/appear that my bosses do not distinguish between a set of P&Ls and a full set of accounts. Doing a set of month accounts in three days I cannot do a full complete set of balance sheet reconciliations also. Give me a break.
Despite this the work only continues to mount up as more eyes are cast over what is an incomplete set of figures. I am used to this way of working by now but when a couple of people suddenly decide to interrogate the wages treatment after six months of using this method perhaps a time in which we are not so under the cosh with the bank would be better. Perhaps this is not really the time to suddenly become/get picky.
As a result of the work being as ever rushed I cannot say that I am 100% happy or confident with the figures. Oh well, at least the powers that be are not breaking my balls over them (at the moment).
For lunch I have king prawns and cous cous – this is at least slightly healthy right?
The Girl is paranoid that the IT Guy has put a program on our computers that records our web visits and for a few minutes she manages to make me paranoid about this also. This dose of fear comes from the reality that internet usage is now being monitor at various sites but realistically any IT department is always going to be able to record which sites people go to. The Girl is just worried that her Sims-esqe garden she runs on Facebook Tamagotchi style might be discovered (as if we don’t know about it already).
Tonight I work a little late and end up leaving at 5.50, which isn’t fun. Despite this it still looks like I am going to catch a decent train home. That is until the tube stalls between Barbican and Moorgate. Are these the powers of Szesze beckoning me?
In the end I catch the 6.30 Norwich train and sit next to a man rocking two mobile phones. Never ever trust a man with two mobile phones. The first person I ever met with two mobile phones was some kind of prostitute. One for business, one for pleasure, all for shagging. Then one of his phones rings and it has a Benny Hill ringtone. Fucking idiot.
As I look to my right I notice a guy watching something on his iPhone featuring Hesh from The Sopranos along with Denis Leary and it genuinely/really annoys me that I don’t know what it is. A Google search later and it turns out that it is Rescue Me, the TV show in which Leary is haunted by the ghost of Bill Hicks I believe. With this knowledge I feel less annoyed.
When I get home it is in anticipation of the latest tourettes syndrome documentary on BBC1 featuring John Davidson of John’s Not Mad. Of course watching these documentaries comes with a high degree of being mean spirited and as things get emotion on the programme they also become quite boring. You can’t help feel for John Davidson though, he was the pioneer but now it seems everybody is getting in on this tourettes syndrome documentary lark. They are the Bush to his Nirvana.
Its always tickled me slightly that the guy is from Galashiels as that is/was where Roger and Dawn Of The Replicants were from. Damn I miss that guy.
After scraping out a bit of writing while distracted away from the documentary I head to bed bored. I need a girlfriend.
Wednesday 27 May 2009
Wednesday 27 May 2009
Dream: I am hanging out socially with Stevo, Ivan and Seymour from Butt Road. We are all attending an NBA exhibition game being held in Colchester curiously. We all get on really well as time appears to have mended wounds. However as the game begins I am unable to get a ticket and I find myself being left behind by the other three. Perhaps this is how I view how our worlds and lives have panned out.
I wake up OK this morning, not great but adequate. Movement is a combination of swift and sluggish, counteractive and contradictory.
As I leave and head towards the train station once more yet again a car comes out of its drive and cuts me up before proceeding to slow me down in my progress to work. As I follow I watch both windows emit bellows of smoke and scraggy hands regularly popping out of the windows flicking cigarette debris into the road. Scum.
The walk to the station is something of a slight chore this morning. Yet again kickboxing this evening was not even a consideration this morning as I got ready for the day ahead. At the station “our” (the regulars) section of the platform is full of yet more new faces. Where the fuck are they all coming from?
I STILL feel uncomfortable off the back off the Brazilian’s comments. This is the kind of shit I have never been able to learn how to shake off.
Reading The Metro I see that National Express has a 90.5% record for trains arriving on time. I would be to differ and as a result it makes me even more interested as to what the time we arrive this morning will be. On cue we get in 8.04 routinely late.
Into work and the day begins badly when my boss gets slightly bolshy about the April accounts being prepared, firing unnecessary ultimatums at us in the process. It’ll get done, it always does.
Today is an embarrassingly windy day for me. I suspect this is off the back of consuming a lot more vegetables than usual.
The day consists of me working fucking hard trying to put a horrible mess right. I believe in the building trade this would be described as “made good.”
At the day rolls towards its inevitable conclusion the boss makes a subtle hint towards our working late as he proceeds to begin working on the audit at 5PM. This suggestion is welcomed by something of an evil scowl from all involved in our office and an uncharacteristic negative response from myself that harks back to the early days of my career and the attitude (problem) I would exhibit. The problem is that tonight is the European Cup final and some of us are pretty excited about seeing the final football match of the season. Needless to say none of us working stiffs stay any longer than we have to, much to the personal and professional disappointment of my boss I suspect. As Nora leaves on time he jokingly refers to her as a “part timer” but you can sense a subtle feeling of betrayal and disappointment in the comment.
When I get to Baker Street and change tube lines for a second day running I see an old Baker Street acquaintance. This time it is The Korean, the person who really ran our “team”. She doesn’t see me I believe and it’s a relief and probably for the best. If she had seen me I doubt she would have acknowledged me anyway. I have to say though I do slightly fancy her still.
On cue I catch the 6.20PM Norwich train home and on it I see my cousin Sean that is always an awkward encounter. I think only three of us in my family (extended) have only ever had to wear suits on a regular basis and he is one of us. The only time he has really approached me with any gusto was one Saturday night in town when I was knocking about with Bella and she and I had just performed some kind of split up. It always terrifies me acknowledging him.
I get home in time for the Manchester United v Barcelona European Cup Final and the game is pretty poor as Manchester United choke. Somewhere you suspect it is possible money exchanged hands and at the offset you actually hope that there will be trouble just in order to liven proceedings up.
When I get home to Bohemian Grove there is still no sign of my Vice Magazine subscription reaching any kind of reality. I email Vice Magazine to see if there is a problem.
Home I catch the arse end of this week’s Apprentice and it is Luke Skywalker being fired. He was rubbish anyway, he looked like an unfortunate teenager and was apparently homosexual, which I suspect may not be in Sir Alan’s mould/mold.
It turns out now that there are four wimmin and just the gormless bloke left for next week’s penultimate show and the always excellent job interview episode. By this point I bet one of them is already pregnant despite there not being a looker amongst them. All five of them, they’re just rubbish.
After falling asleep at the wheel (watching TV in bed) I reawaken at the end of the season finale of series 2 of The Wire and the Steve Earle “I Feel Alright” montage/sequence. I remember the first time I saw this and how it truly blew me away and now it still gives me goosebumps. For weeks (maybe months) afterwards “I Feel Alright” became a permanent fixture on my iPod and a true inspiration tune to help me face my days working at Baker Street and enduring the Central Line every morning.
On that high note I resume sweet dreams.
Dream: I am hanging out socially with Stevo, Ivan and Seymour from Butt Road. We are all attending an NBA exhibition game being held in Colchester curiously. We all get on really well as time appears to have mended wounds. However as the game begins I am unable to get a ticket and I find myself being left behind by the other three. Perhaps this is how I view how our worlds and lives have panned out.
I wake up OK this morning, not great but adequate. Movement is a combination of swift and sluggish, counteractive and contradictory.
As I leave and head towards the train station once more yet again a car comes out of its drive and cuts me up before proceeding to slow me down in my progress to work. As I follow I watch both windows emit bellows of smoke and scraggy hands regularly popping out of the windows flicking cigarette debris into the road. Scum.
The walk to the station is something of a slight chore this morning. Yet again kickboxing this evening was not even a consideration this morning as I got ready for the day ahead. At the station “our” (the regulars) section of the platform is full of yet more new faces. Where the fuck are they all coming from?
I STILL feel uncomfortable off the back off the Brazilian’s comments. This is the kind of shit I have never been able to learn how to shake off.
Reading The Metro I see that National Express has a 90.5% record for trains arriving on time. I would be to differ and as a result it makes me even more interested as to what the time we arrive this morning will be. On cue we get in 8.04 routinely late.
Into work and the day begins badly when my boss gets slightly bolshy about the April accounts being prepared, firing unnecessary ultimatums at us in the process. It’ll get done, it always does.
Today is an embarrassingly windy day for me. I suspect this is off the back of consuming a lot more vegetables than usual.
The day consists of me working fucking hard trying to put a horrible mess right. I believe in the building trade this would be described as “made good.”
At the day rolls towards its inevitable conclusion the boss makes a subtle hint towards our working late as he proceeds to begin working on the audit at 5PM. This suggestion is welcomed by something of an evil scowl from all involved in our office and an uncharacteristic negative response from myself that harks back to the early days of my career and the attitude (problem) I would exhibit. The problem is that tonight is the European Cup final and some of us are pretty excited about seeing the final football match of the season. Needless to say none of us working stiffs stay any longer than we have to, much to the personal and professional disappointment of my boss I suspect. As Nora leaves on time he jokingly refers to her as a “part timer” but you can sense a subtle feeling of betrayal and disappointment in the comment.
When I get to Baker Street and change tube lines for a second day running I see an old Baker Street acquaintance. This time it is The Korean, the person who really ran our “team”. She doesn’t see me I believe and it’s a relief and probably for the best. If she had seen me I doubt she would have acknowledged me anyway. I have to say though I do slightly fancy her still.
On cue I catch the 6.20PM Norwich train home and on it I see my cousin Sean that is always an awkward encounter. I think only three of us in my family (extended) have only ever had to wear suits on a regular basis and he is one of us. The only time he has really approached me with any gusto was one Saturday night in town when I was knocking about with Bella and she and I had just performed some kind of split up. It always terrifies me acknowledging him.
I get home in time for the Manchester United v Barcelona European Cup Final and the game is pretty poor as Manchester United choke. Somewhere you suspect it is possible money exchanged hands and at the offset you actually hope that there will be trouble just in order to liven proceedings up.
When I get home to Bohemian Grove there is still no sign of my Vice Magazine subscription reaching any kind of reality. I email Vice Magazine to see if there is a problem.
Home I catch the arse end of this week’s Apprentice and it is Luke Skywalker being fired. He was rubbish anyway, he looked like an unfortunate teenager and was apparently homosexual, which I suspect may not be in Sir Alan’s mould/mold.
It turns out now that there are four wimmin and just the gormless bloke left for next week’s penultimate show and the always excellent job interview episode. By this point I bet one of them is already pregnant despite there not being a looker amongst them. All five of them, they’re just rubbish.
After falling asleep at the wheel (watching TV in bed) I reawaken at the end of the season finale of series 2 of The Wire and the Steve Earle “I Feel Alright” montage/sequence. I remember the first time I saw this and how it truly blew me away and now it still gives me goosebumps. For weeks (maybe months) afterwards “I Feel Alright” became a permanent fixture on my iPod and a true inspiration tune to help me face my days working at Baker Street and enduring the Central Line every morning.
On that high note I resume sweet dreams.
Tuesday 26 May 2009
Tuesday 26 May 2009
This morning I wake up still feeling blue from the Brazilian’s comments. He has certainly touched (ruptured) a nerve.
As I leave the house it is raining so with it on comes the green American Apparel hoodie that has definitely seen better days. Soon I find myself looking down at it and notice that it is filthy. Goes with my trousers I guess.
Upon arriving at the station the platform is rammed for some reason. Where did all these commuter tourists come from? Having to do and put up with this shit every day of my life I feel entitled to some kind of preference when it comes to boarding and leaving the train and choosing a good seat. Public transport really brings out the bitter little Nazi in me.
On the platform Baggy Eyed Woman tries to bump me out of the way as ever and she succeeds as ever. Despite this I do manage to get a decent seat and as a woman sits opposites us she wearily makes the angry comment “having to fight for seats at Colchester…” Collectively we ignore her.
At Kelvedon some greying fat arse bastard decides to squeeze between me and the academic Ric Flair lookalike. He officially ruins the day.
Despite the train being fucked and even stopping at Ingatestone this morning we get into Liverpool Street at 8.07 that is crap but not quite as crap as expected.
Upon arrival it becomes apparent that my train ticket is working on the overground barriers but not the underground barriers. Did the guy at the station give me the wrong replacement ticket on purpose? Does he know something I don’t know?
This revelation is subsequently followed by a rubbish tube journey to Baker Street spent sat opposite a Parminder Nagra lookalike with rubbish hair and a nasty and hateful demeanour. When the tube eventually reaches Baker Street I find myself physically manhandling an Asian guy who/that is stupidly stood in the aisle, in the way. There are words post grope but my iPod drowns them out.
The tube ride from Baker Street to St Johns Wood experiences a nasty hold up at 8.40 as it is reported over the PA that somebody has jumped under a train at Finchley Road. Immediately upon hearing this announcement I take a seat because they things are never resumed quickly as medics and the authorities have to deal with body parts and red tape. Perhaps this is karma beating me on the head and just as I was shoving the guy out of the way on the tube minutes earlier some kind of out of body shoving motion was also knocking the poor person at Finchley Road under a train. No doubt it was a guy dropping to his death, it is always males that commit suicide in this, probably doing so off the back of some pain caused/induced by emotional mistreatment from a lady. Maybe.
It has been quite a while since I have been stuck on a non-moving train in a tunnel for such an extended time. I hold back the panic.
As the delay in the tunnel begins to reach 30 minutes I begin to look around at who I might need to shag to continue the human race if we remain on this train forever and who looks the best person sacrificed for the first meal. Ultimately when I see who probably has the best meat to be eaten Alive style the bad news is that I am looking at my reflection in the window opposite me. Own goal!
Fortunately as the wait feels as it is beginning to last forever I am being kept sane by listening to an MP3 on my iPod of Nardwuar The Human Serviette interviewing David Cross. This is funny shit; the archive on Nardwuar’s website is astounding, really extensive. I wonder if his interviews were ever intended to be listened to by people (practically) living underground on a train?
Then the announcement comes over the PA that the train may need to “detrack” and we might have to walk out into/onto the tunnel. My initial reaction to this suggestion is “what about the killer spiderwebs and rats?” An additional terror gets added to my day. Thanks Information Jimmy.
Finally some of our worst fears are confirmed as word is announced that there is going to be a “detrainment.” Is that even a real word? Regardless slowly we all step towards the end of the train and out through the drivers cab out into the darkness of the Jubilee Line tunnel.
By now the emergency services have arrived to assist and in groups of ten people the police lead us up the tracks 150 metres to St Johns Wood station. The tunnel is surprisingly well lit as one both sides are lines of lights making it possible to look down and see where your/my footing is at. This is quite different to the climax of 28 Weeks Later where you would be given to believe that a tube tunnel is the darkest place on (under) earth that is also inhabited by zombified versions of your relatives. Also it is a bit of a relief when there are no rats to be seen.
Walking along the tracks actually proves quite difficult work. There is no real routine to the way they are set out and to be honest they weren’t designed with the idea of people walking along them in mind. I find myself following an elderly lady and this is convenient as I am able to use this fact as blame for why I am walking along the tracks so slowly but truly it is difficult to do and there is no way you can take your eyes away from lies beneath you. In the process I just feel myself ruining my newish DC trainers more and more as the dust around is extensive.
Eventually there is a literal light at the end of the tunnel. Is this what it is like to die? Am I actually on my way to heaven right now instead of work?
Reaching the station rarely have I ever been so happy as to see a fully lit area. Also when I emerge from the station and out into the surface of London the air has never felt fresher. It hadn’t occurred to me at the time underground that there was anything wrong with what I was breathing but in comparison outside feels super fresh. Very rarely will you ever come across a person to describe the London air as fresh.
By now the time is just after 9.30 and the first thing I do is text my boss to tell him that I’m almost at work. When I eventually bowl into work at 9.45 it is with stories of the wonder of the underground. I do not feel I do the adventure justice in my description although everything in the office finds it kind of funny. Such things could only happen to me it seems.
It takes me a while to get into the day as I begin to milk my experience in the hope of people making me drinks and giving me sympathy. This doesn’t last long however as I begin to get leaned on for April accounts.
Once the ball gets rolling on the day however it is a very busy one in which I find myself being productive in setting up schedules for the beginning of the new financial year etc. This task/chore should really be a no-brainer but at these times nothing is easy at this place.
For lunch today I was going to be good, to turn over a new leaf and have soup but the option/flavour is leak and potato – two ingredients that are never going to make a decent dish out of anything. There is no effort or love in the hearts of our kitchen when this was being put together it seems.
At the moment I find myself having lots of dirty thoughts about Beth Ditto and when her new song comes on the radio I am finding myself more and more looking her/it up on the internet.
At the close of shop I finish the day not having yet completed the accounts but still I feel I have accomplished a lot in the process.
As I get the tube back over to Liverpool Street no one thankfully throws themselves under the train on this side of the journey. At Baker Street station however I do see an old Baker Street work colleague and part of me dies in the process, it is too fucking depressing to be reminded of that place and time. I’m not sure if she blanks or just doesn’t see me, although she was one of the nicer people that worked at the firm and probably didn’t clock me (I would like to think).
Later on the tube journey at Kings Cross I see a lookalike of my American friend. Damn I am haunted and obsessed by that. When we both get off at Liverpool Street it really does look like her in a really unflattering way.
Tonight on the train home I sit opposite a guy on a laptop with the biggest most bulging bug eyes almost popping out of his head that I have ever seen. Everything it seems shocks or surprises him. I begin to wonder what is he looking at on the other side of that laptop? Away from the eyes he also looks like Joshua Jackson from Dawson’s Creek.
Back in Colchester I change my train ticket yet again this evening pointing out that it only works at overground barriers and not underground ones. I still wonder if those guys gave me a faulty travelcard on purpose. Is there somebody that reads this drivel?
As I walk home and up the hill near Balkerne Heights in the distance I see dad walking Bobby across the bridge next to the Hole In The Wall. It appears as if Bobby actually sees me as he holds dad up slightly. The old man however he doesn’t see me, he's off in a world of his own and his eyesight isn’t so hot either. As I close in on them and catch them up once more Bobby is first to see me and he refuses to move as dad attempts to take him off in another direction towards another pub.
Stopping by at my parents I find myself suckered into their soap world vortex. Sadly however the dog chooses not to howl along to the theme of Coronation Street, which is apparently his current party trick.
During the advert breaks I tell them both about my adventures on the tube today but I fail to wow them also, damn I just cannot sell myself in any walk of life.
My parents have been on Facebook and they have seen my photo from ATP with Lydia Lunch on there as my profile photo and now mum thinks that Lydia Lunch is my girlfriend. I guess I do have a video in my flat that could qualify her as relationship material. Mum however has absolutely no idea who Lydia Lunch but she loves it/her. She keeps asking “who is that girl?” The answer is a lady almost your age, at least not young/old enough to be your daughter. That said if only she was my other half, what hilarious consequences that would give birth to.
Avoiding all soaps on their computer I begin watching my download of the Amy Poehler Saturday Night Live special and the sketch with Paul Giamatti where she plays a hyperactive girl buying an instrument is one of the funniest sketches I have ever seen on the show. It is probably pretty much too late in the day to point just how talented this lady is.
I head home at 9PM leaving Balkerne Heights behind. When I step through my door at Bohemian Grove there is still no copy of Vice Magazine from my subscription. Darkness.
Home I actually manage to get some writing done, ploughing on until well up to 11PM with the last episode of 606 this season playing in the background. Tonight Danny Baker does not mention Millwall once; I guess it would only serve to fuel ridicule.
Once I finally head to bed I fall asleep watching Art School Confidential.
Monday 25 May 2009
Monday 25 May 2009
Arrival is at 8AM this morning. With it I wake up feeling exhausted, yesterday has slowly crept up on me.
On TV I catch GMTV as it is business as usual in the real world. These guys come rain or shine work to produce their certain definite brand of dumbed down news cake in celebrity news. Behind those fake fucking smiles plastered on those morons’ faces is pure agony.
My song of the moment is the new Empire Of The Sun single “We Are The People.” Currently this song haunts me, helps me feel young and makes me feel the summer. Words can only fail me.
I feel VERY low today; the Brazilian comments still resonate in my head. Wow, still affected by an overpaid Mexican (Brazilian, its all the same) that flips burgers for a living in a glorified manner. Get over it Jase.
It would appear that I keep losing money as when I check my pockets from yesterday I appear to be £10 down. This is the second time this has happened recently. I am being pickpocketed or as money loses value for both me and the economy am I becoming worrying carefree in a manner quite out of character.
Today arrives DOA. It is hot, uncomfortable and sticky and this is inside my flat. The idea/concept of leaving the house and going into this heat does not seem a good idea to me. With my energy levels very low and feeling uninspired/uninterested in writing I grab one of my dozens of unopened DVDs and attempt to watch The Adventures Of Barry Mckenzie.
The Adventures Of Barry Mckenzie is one of the movies that was earmarked and highlighted in the Not Quite Hollywood documentary. It would appear that the seventies Australian movie industry mirrored the British one with weird sex comedies that verged on softcore porn. The Adventures Of Barry Mckenzie features an Aussie Rube coming to England (Earls Court) off the back of some kind of inheritance in an attempt to gain some cultural experience. As ever with the plot of an innocent abroad story he wins the day without really realising. Apparently the character was based on an old Private Eye strip and with it one of the real sources of interest for the film is the appearance from Peter Cook. Ultimately however the movie just ends up being one step up on the Confessions films with little depth and Peter Cook’s brief appearance towards the end doesn’t really serve to enhance either his legacy or the quality of the movie.
Perhaps I am looking in the wrong place for the real movie highlight of the day as ITV3 today chooses to show all three On The Buses movies back to back which cannot ease the pain either. OK, I have to admit now that even I am bored of championing these movies in a postmodern sense.
Today is a day of major writers block. When my latest efforts to scribble any words down fail I head back to the DVD collection and attempt once more to watch the Alan Moore documentary. I tried to watch this earlier this year on a dull, rainy Saturday afternoon and it only served to depress me extremely and even if that is not that reaction to it today, it still fails to thrill and enthral. Perhaps the documentary should have had less about him and more about his work in it.
At 5PM I pretty much throw in the towel and head to the olds’. When I arrive the dog is at least happy to see me suggesting that they have not been paying him much attention today. Despite this he still seems to take a lot of joy in biting me. This visit however is only fleeting.
In the evening back home I feel sick of Facebook suggesting a guy called Mark Marshall as a friend that I make comment to this extent on my status update which appears to strike many nerves with many people on the website, a lot of whom went to school with the person also.
Bored I begin watching Green Street 2. Yes I am an idiot. The most depressing aspect/spectacle is Marina Sirtis doing her best impression of Ilsa The She Wolf. Everything that made her great as Troi on Star Trek has suddenly been drained from her in old age and this includes her acting technique, which is now so far from convincing it, is embarrassing to watch.
On that note I pause the movie 40 minutes in and being watching some documentary on BBC2 called Going Postal about kids in America taking shotguns to school and shooting classmates. Didn’t Michael Moore cover this with a documentary already? That said at the moment we were armed in this country I could definitely have imagined a few people that Facebook are suggesting to me as friends performing such acts at my high school (secondary school). It’s a sick world when you’re a kid. The documentary is really poor and soon I am asleep.
Arrival is at 8AM this morning. With it I wake up feeling exhausted, yesterday has slowly crept up on me.
On TV I catch GMTV as it is business as usual in the real world. These guys come rain or shine work to produce their certain definite brand of dumbed down news cake in celebrity news. Behind those fake fucking smiles plastered on those morons’ faces is pure agony.
My song of the moment is the new Empire Of The Sun single “We Are The People.” Currently this song haunts me, helps me feel young and makes me feel the summer. Words can only fail me.
I feel VERY low today; the Brazilian comments still resonate in my head. Wow, still affected by an overpaid Mexican (Brazilian, its all the same) that flips burgers for a living in a glorified manner. Get over it Jase.
It would appear that I keep losing money as when I check my pockets from yesterday I appear to be £10 down. This is the second time this has happened recently. I am being pickpocketed or as money loses value for both me and the economy am I becoming worrying carefree in a manner quite out of character.
Today arrives DOA. It is hot, uncomfortable and sticky and this is inside my flat. The idea/concept of leaving the house and going into this heat does not seem a good idea to me. With my energy levels very low and feeling uninspired/uninterested in writing I grab one of my dozens of unopened DVDs and attempt to watch The Adventures Of Barry Mckenzie.
The Adventures Of Barry Mckenzie is one of the movies that was earmarked and highlighted in the Not Quite Hollywood documentary. It would appear that the seventies Australian movie industry mirrored the British one with weird sex comedies that verged on softcore porn. The Adventures Of Barry Mckenzie features an Aussie Rube coming to England (Earls Court) off the back of some kind of inheritance in an attempt to gain some cultural experience. As ever with the plot of an innocent abroad story he wins the day without really realising. Apparently the character was based on an old Private Eye strip and with it one of the real sources of interest for the film is the appearance from Peter Cook. Ultimately however the movie just ends up being one step up on the Confessions films with little depth and Peter Cook’s brief appearance towards the end doesn’t really serve to enhance either his legacy or the quality of the movie.
Perhaps I am looking in the wrong place for the real movie highlight of the day as ITV3 today chooses to show all three On The Buses movies back to back which cannot ease the pain either. OK, I have to admit now that even I am bored of championing these movies in a postmodern sense.
Today is a day of major writers block. When my latest efforts to scribble any words down fail I head back to the DVD collection and attempt once more to watch the Alan Moore documentary. I tried to watch this earlier this year on a dull, rainy Saturday afternoon and it only served to depress me extremely and even if that is not that reaction to it today, it still fails to thrill and enthral. Perhaps the documentary should have had less about him and more about his work in it.
At 5PM I pretty much throw in the towel and head to the olds’. When I arrive the dog is at least happy to see me suggesting that they have not been paying him much attention today. Despite this he still seems to take a lot of joy in biting me. This visit however is only fleeting.
In the evening back home I feel sick of Facebook suggesting a guy called Mark Marshall as a friend that I make comment to this extent on my status update which appears to strike many nerves with many people on the website, a lot of whom went to school with the person also.
Bored I begin watching Green Street 2. Yes I am an idiot. The most depressing aspect/spectacle is Marina Sirtis doing her best impression of Ilsa The She Wolf. Everything that made her great as Troi on Star Trek has suddenly been drained from her in old age and this includes her acting technique, which is now so far from convincing it, is embarrassing to watch.
On that note I pause the movie 40 minutes in and being watching some documentary on BBC2 called Going Postal about kids in America taking shotguns to school and shooting classmates. Didn’t Michael Moore cover this with a documentary already? That said at the moment we were armed in this country I could definitely have imagined a few people that Facebook are suggesting to me as friends performing such acts at my high school (secondary school). It’s a sick world when you’re a kid. The documentary is really poor and soon I am asleep.
Sunday 24 May 2009
Sunday 24 May 2009
This morning I awaken very early, petrified of missing my train and subsequent rail replacement bus along with cancelled tube line in an enormous fear of arriving and turning up late to Wembley and the plays off final for Millwall. It almost scares me sick.
Today is a BIG day. I think a large part of yesterday’s impotence was the result of a fear of today going wrong.
The day opens with a panic. It was always obvious that the trains and their replacement buses would be causing one hell of a hold up/delay but when I realise I have messed up and got the wrong information from the station (next week) I find myself flapping as I pick the old man up for London.
One quick and speedy car ride to the station later dad and I find ourselves on the next train pointed towards London which is the 10.06 to Romford which will then mean a rail replacement bus ride to Newbury Park. Oh joy.
After a stunted train journey together we eventually hop aboard a bus at Romford and head to Newbury Park. I remember doing this journey at the beginning of the year for Szesze’s little girl’s birthday party and it is truly shit. The fact that National Express have the fucking neck/nerve to charge normal rates for this journey is truly offensive.
I feel bad dragging the old man onto a bus, this is fucking shit. And unfortunately under such bleak circumstances conversation has long since dried up. Instead we listen in on conversations from true hard nuts, without doubt some Essex beached supporter of some horrible premier league London club that ain’t gonna win the league again in a hurry.
When we finally arrive at Newbury Park it is as I remember it – still a long fucking way away from central London. After an excruciating wait the tube is pretty busy as I find myself perving towards an Asian girl with oddly dyed hair which seems to work for her whilst also looking as if the dye job was being done while she was being dragged through a bush.
Eventually the inevitable families get on with their whining snivelling kids. These units generally tend to be middle class people out for the day on some educational daytime disguised as fun but caked in misery. The dad sits to my left and as we slowly shudder towards Liverpool Street and real parts of London he pulls out a copy of The Economist to read. This guy is a true party.
Just after midday we finally reach Liverpool Street, it is disgusting and depressing to think that all that fucking about with rail replacement bullshit serves to add an entire hour to our journey. With kick off at 1PM I slightly begin to get a bit twitchy but hopefully once aboard a tube here it should be plain sailing to Wembley. In theory but you can never trust the transport.
As I perv over some other pretty Asian girl at the platform eventually a tube heading towards Wembley Park arrives and we board it and beginning playing spot the Millwall fan.
When the tube reaches Baker Street it makes an excruciating pause and some Scunthorpe supporters board the train. They front a little with their Northern accents but their shirts looking fucking stupid and their voices make them sound thick.
Eventually after a few worrying glances at my watch the train starts moving once more and as it hurtles past the slum areas of West London arrival at Wembley truly is an eye-opening exercise into just how poorly positioned/situated our national stadium is. That said in monorail transportation fashion all routes to the stadium remove any necessity to mingle with the locals or even look at the proles.
Now excited Dad and I get off the train and head to where the Twin Towers should be. The walkway to the station is rammed/populated by what appears to be almost exclusively Millwall – the buzz is in the air.
Happily we follow the masses and notice the sign that says “Millwall left and Scunthorpe right”. As we walk up the runway it becomes more and more apparent that I have no idea where our turnstile is.
On the floor it is caked in rubbish of bottles, cans and all sorts of other waste paraphernalia. Pointing this out I hear a woman say “they had better clean this up because if don’t win we’ll be well tooled up.” We are definitely with Millwall.
A little way little along the concourse we see a guy absolutely fucking wrecked barely able to stand and definitely unable to walk. I know that feeling. His mate is trying hard to get him into the ground for the game uttering the immortal words “come on, you’ll be all right once your inside” which is only met with staunch shakes of the poor drunk dude’s head. Dad amused comments “what a state to get in by lunchtime” and we laugh. Then a bunch of lads walk past cheering and shouting in an Arnie Pumping Iron accent “you can do it!” Never let it be said Millwall supporters don’t have a sense of humour.
By this point kick off is about fifteen minutes away and upon our first glimpse of the turnstiles the queues are still scarily way back looking as if they will take until halftime to clear. Still though the ticket is clear as fucking mud and I find myself having to ask a steward just where our turnstile is. She slurs something at me and points but I’m none the wiser but thankfully/fortunately the old man spots Wembley Club with no lines whatsoever as it becomes apparent that as part of the rip off price for our ticket one benefit is a quick turnstile resembling a cross between an Oyster Card system and getting into the BBC.
Ahead of times my boss at work had warned me of the facilities inside the stadium so when it comes to getting a drink before the game I find myself faced with stupid confusion over where the queue actually begins and as Millwall fans do half a dozen pints are being ordered at a time. As I attempt to snag a place in some kind of line I only find myself getting stressed up by some lowly Wembley staff member cleaning up some puddles with a mop. They guy would a prick at any time and with the mop is probably trying to wipe up the residue of his personality, career, life and existence. He can hate me all he wants and get in his small victories but I will always fuck him and his sort in the end.
With the nerves kicking in I run for a pre-match piss into some pretty spotless toilets although I do not see a stall (or stool) anywhere. When I head back to dad he points out the dozens of pints that have been left behind by fellow ‘Wall fans. This is because at Wembley you are not allowed to take the drinks to your seat (which is pretty much like most grounds). We begin to wonder if we are even going to be able to take our extra large Cokes to the seats. As I look out on the glass windows surrounding the section it just all looks like some grubby airport, a nightmare in modern architecture.
We head to our seats with barely minutes before kick off. Stepping out into the seated area is a stunning moment. Immediately my concerns about being seated in the corner are eased as the stadium and our view are truly amazing. For somewhere so large, so vast an optical illusion makes the venue look actually quite small.
Obviously people are sat in our seats, this is also the Millwall way and when I ask the first guy where his seat is he just looks and glares at me. This isn’t aggression, the guy is just fucking out of it. His mate acknowledges me and apologies as they move on. I pat him on the belly as he passes and all is good. This is also the Millwall way.
The players come out on the pitch and they look like ants. The sprawl of Millwall fans around the stadium is truly impressive, easily eclipsing the small token gesture of Scunthorpe fans at the opposite end of the ground. With support like ours and support like theirs there is no way they should go up.
This is a serious occasion, serious to the point that the FA lay on someone to sing the national anthem. I cannot recall ever having experienced this before (maybe at the UEFA Cup game against Ferencvaros) and it all seems pretty over the top. Regardless we stand up and observe the badly sung song.
The game begins to a dulled roar. It does not open confidently, immediately Scunthorpe (emphasis on the sCUNThorpe) look tastier and more up for it. I hate to admit it but they look bigger and more dangerous. This is in stark contrast to their performance against MK Dons where/when they look weak and tepid combined with basically knackered.
The worst possible thing happens after six minutes when they score. Some guy called Sparrow goes straight in on a chance Forde only managed to parry. A huge collective shrug and groan echoes around the stadium as suddenly it begins to feel like business as usual for Millwall.
Slowly however Millwall begin to get warmed up and start knocking the ball about nicely and begin to move forward. Unfortunately Scunthorpe also keep up with the pace as still look dangerous every time they go forward, there is some kind of spark to the way they are playing that Millwall do not seem to have. With them shooting towards our goal at the far end of the ground I say to the Old Man “do you think its an optical illusion due to the angle of our view that they always look so dangerous whenever they attack?”
Proceedings turn into a scrap and Millwall’s grafting appears to keep them in the game and manages to contain Scunthorpe and as the first half comes towards an end the greatest things happen.
With just under ten minutes left to go in the first half the guy sat in front of me decides to get up and have a piss. As a result it is perhaps thanks to this guy that Gary Alexander scores probably the greatest goal that Wembley has ever seen.
From the right flank he gets stuck in and gains possession and out of the blue he has a pop, pounding the ball and as it comes sailing in our direction it goes over the Scunthorpe keeper and suddenly the net bursts and unbelievably he scores an equaliser. There is almost a delayed reaction and as ever I feel I am ahead of the roar as all around me everyone explodes. In front of me the old guy turns round and understatements “what a goal!” To my left the Old Man appears to be loving it.
Suddenly the noise is deafening. After a half where/when it really wasn’t possible to see where a goal was going to come from this served as a true turnaround.
As the fans started to get behind the team a belief felt born and a couple of minutes later Dave Martin sent in a cross that Alexander headed and their keeper appeared to spoon. When the ball passed the keeper it appeared to take forever to cross the line in slow motion and once it was finally there another deafening scream wailed out over the stadium.
For the first time in the game Millwall found themselves with the momentum and the unfortunate thing appeared that with half time only a few minutes away this would unfortunately be snuffed out just as soon as it had started. And with that the referee blew his whistle.
At halftime the old man and I looked around in amazement. This had been the best half of football I had seen in a long time and dad was having a good time with it. With the way the first half had ended we just wanted to get the game going again, to get the job done and finished.
During halftime things turned incredibly corporate once more as everywhere you looked in the ground appeared to be an advertisement. On the big screen in between replays of the goals came videos of gibbering idiots from both teams talking feebly how their team is going to win today. I don’t really think a real Millwall supporter would talk to camera in this way.
This morning I awaken very early, petrified of missing my train and subsequent rail replacement bus along with cancelled tube line in an enormous fear of arriving and turning up late to Wembley and the plays off final for Millwall. It almost scares me sick.
Today is a BIG day. I think a large part of yesterday’s impotence was the result of a fear of today going wrong.
The day opens with a panic. It was always obvious that the trains and their replacement buses would be causing one hell of a hold up/delay but when I realise I have messed up and got the wrong information from the station (next week) I find myself flapping as I pick the old man up for London.
One quick and speedy car ride to the station later dad and I find ourselves on the next train pointed towards London which is the 10.06 to Romford which will then mean a rail replacement bus ride to Newbury Park. Oh joy.
After a stunted train journey together we eventually hop aboard a bus at Romford and head to Newbury Park. I remember doing this journey at the beginning of the year for Szesze’s little girl’s birthday party and it is truly shit. The fact that National Express have the fucking neck/nerve to charge normal rates for this journey is truly offensive.
I feel bad dragging the old man onto a bus, this is fucking shit. And unfortunately under such bleak circumstances conversation has long since dried up. Instead we listen in on conversations from true hard nuts, without doubt some Essex beached supporter of some horrible premier league London club that ain’t gonna win the league again in a hurry.
When we finally arrive at Newbury Park it is as I remember it – still a long fucking way away from central London. After an excruciating wait the tube is pretty busy as I find myself perving towards an Asian girl with oddly dyed hair which seems to work for her whilst also looking as if the dye job was being done while she was being dragged through a bush.
Eventually the inevitable families get on with their whining snivelling kids. These units generally tend to be middle class people out for the day on some educational daytime disguised as fun but caked in misery. The dad sits to my left and as we slowly shudder towards Liverpool Street and real parts of London he pulls out a copy of The Economist to read. This guy is a true party.
Just after midday we finally reach Liverpool Street, it is disgusting and depressing to think that all that fucking about with rail replacement bullshit serves to add an entire hour to our journey. With kick off at 1PM I slightly begin to get a bit twitchy but hopefully once aboard a tube here it should be plain sailing to Wembley. In theory but you can never trust the transport.
As I perv over some other pretty Asian girl at the platform eventually a tube heading towards Wembley Park arrives and we board it and beginning playing spot the Millwall fan.
When the tube reaches Baker Street it makes an excruciating pause and some Scunthorpe supporters board the train. They front a little with their Northern accents but their shirts looking fucking stupid and their voices make them sound thick.
Eventually after a few worrying glances at my watch the train starts moving once more and as it hurtles past the slum areas of West London arrival at Wembley truly is an eye-opening exercise into just how poorly positioned/situated our national stadium is. That said in monorail transportation fashion all routes to the stadium remove any necessity to mingle with the locals or even look at the proles.
Now excited Dad and I get off the train and head to where the Twin Towers should be. The walkway to the station is rammed/populated by what appears to be almost exclusively Millwall – the buzz is in the air.
Happily we follow the masses and notice the sign that says “Millwall left and Scunthorpe right”. As we walk up the runway it becomes more and more apparent that I have no idea where our turnstile is.
On the floor it is caked in rubbish of bottles, cans and all sorts of other waste paraphernalia. Pointing this out I hear a woman say “they had better clean this up because if don’t win we’ll be well tooled up.” We are definitely with Millwall.
A little way little along the concourse we see a guy absolutely fucking wrecked barely able to stand and definitely unable to walk. I know that feeling. His mate is trying hard to get him into the ground for the game uttering the immortal words “come on, you’ll be all right once your inside” which is only met with staunch shakes of the poor drunk dude’s head. Dad amused comments “what a state to get in by lunchtime” and we laugh. Then a bunch of lads walk past cheering and shouting in an Arnie Pumping Iron accent “you can do it!” Never let it be said Millwall supporters don’t have a sense of humour.
By this point kick off is about fifteen minutes away and upon our first glimpse of the turnstiles the queues are still scarily way back looking as if they will take until halftime to clear. Still though the ticket is clear as fucking mud and I find myself having to ask a steward just where our turnstile is. She slurs something at me and points but I’m none the wiser but thankfully/fortunately the old man spots Wembley Club with no lines whatsoever as it becomes apparent that as part of the rip off price for our ticket one benefit is a quick turnstile resembling a cross between an Oyster Card system and getting into the BBC.
Ahead of times my boss at work had warned me of the facilities inside the stadium so when it comes to getting a drink before the game I find myself faced with stupid confusion over where the queue actually begins and as Millwall fans do half a dozen pints are being ordered at a time. As I attempt to snag a place in some kind of line I only find myself getting stressed up by some lowly Wembley staff member cleaning up some puddles with a mop. They guy would a prick at any time and with the mop is probably trying to wipe up the residue of his personality, career, life and existence. He can hate me all he wants and get in his small victories but I will always fuck him and his sort in the end.
With the nerves kicking in I run for a pre-match piss into some pretty spotless toilets although I do not see a stall (or stool) anywhere. When I head back to dad he points out the dozens of pints that have been left behind by fellow ‘Wall fans. This is because at Wembley you are not allowed to take the drinks to your seat (which is pretty much like most grounds). We begin to wonder if we are even going to be able to take our extra large Cokes to the seats. As I look out on the glass windows surrounding the section it just all looks like some grubby airport, a nightmare in modern architecture.
We head to our seats with barely minutes before kick off. Stepping out into the seated area is a stunning moment. Immediately my concerns about being seated in the corner are eased as the stadium and our view are truly amazing. For somewhere so large, so vast an optical illusion makes the venue look actually quite small.
Obviously people are sat in our seats, this is also the Millwall way and when I ask the first guy where his seat is he just looks and glares at me. This isn’t aggression, the guy is just fucking out of it. His mate acknowledges me and apologies as they move on. I pat him on the belly as he passes and all is good. This is also the Millwall way.
The players come out on the pitch and they look like ants. The sprawl of Millwall fans around the stadium is truly impressive, easily eclipsing the small token gesture of Scunthorpe fans at the opposite end of the ground. With support like ours and support like theirs there is no way they should go up.
This is a serious occasion, serious to the point that the FA lay on someone to sing the national anthem. I cannot recall ever having experienced this before (maybe at the UEFA Cup game against Ferencvaros) and it all seems pretty over the top. Regardless we stand up and observe the badly sung song.
The game begins to a dulled roar. It does not open confidently, immediately Scunthorpe (emphasis on the sCUNThorpe) look tastier and more up for it. I hate to admit it but they look bigger and more dangerous. This is in stark contrast to their performance against MK Dons where/when they look weak and tepid combined with basically knackered.
The worst possible thing happens after six minutes when they score. Some guy called Sparrow goes straight in on a chance Forde only managed to parry. A huge collective shrug and groan echoes around the stadium as suddenly it begins to feel like business as usual for Millwall.
Slowly however Millwall begin to get warmed up and start knocking the ball about nicely and begin to move forward. Unfortunately Scunthorpe also keep up with the pace as still look dangerous every time they go forward, there is some kind of spark to the way they are playing that Millwall do not seem to have. With them shooting towards our goal at the far end of the ground I say to the Old Man “do you think its an optical illusion due to the angle of our view that they always look so dangerous whenever they attack?”
Proceedings turn into a scrap and Millwall’s grafting appears to keep them in the game and manages to contain Scunthorpe and as the first half comes towards an end the greatest things happen.
With just under ten minutes left to go in the first half the guy sat in front of me decides to get up and have a piss. As a result it is perhaps thanks to this guy that Gary Alexander scores probably the greatest goal that Wembley has ever seen.
From the right flank he gets stuck in and gains possession and out of the blue he has a pop, pounding the ball and as it comes sailing in our direction it goes over the Scunthorpe keeper and suddenly the net bursts and unbelievably he scores an equaliser. There is almost a delayed reaction and as ever I feel I am ahead of the roar as all around me everyone explodes. In front of me the old guy turns round and understatements “what a goal!” To my left the Old Man appears to be loving it.
Suddenly the noise is deafening. After a half where/when it really wasn’t possible to see where a goal was going to come from this served as a true turnaround.
As the fans started to get behind the team a belief felt born and a couple of minutes later Dave Martin sent in a cross that Alexander headed and their keeper appeared to spoon. When the ball passed the keeper it appeared to take forever to cross the line in slow motion and once it was finally there another deafening scream wailed out over the stadium.
For the first time in the game Millwall found themselves with the momentum and the unfortunate thing appeared that with half time only a few minutes away this would unfortunately be snuffed out just as soon as it had started. And with that the referee blew his whistle.
At halftime the old man and I looked around in amazement. This had been the best half of football I had seen in a long time and dad was having a good time with it. With the way the first half had ended we just wanted to get the game going again, to get the job done and finished.
During halftime things turned incredibly corporate once more as everywhere you looked in the ground appeared to be an advertisement. On the big screen in between replays of the goals came videos of gibbering idiots from both teams talking feebly how their team is going to win today. I don’t really think a real Millwall supporter would talk to camera in this way.
Stood in front of us was a shaven headed man in a Dennis Wise number 19 shirt and this truly was the most exciting time since that era.
Eventually after the longest wait the second began and the game resumed. I am sure halftime now lasts for 20 minutes – which is pathetic.
With the heat being stifling predictably the second half restarted without the urgency and pace that the first half ended and once more Scunthorpe appeared to be back in the game, regrouped and subtly menacing. They still looked bigger than us and with more spark but the second half initially proved pretty even as the countdown to 90 minutes and defence of the lead started for Millwall.
Gradually things appeared to be swinging towards Millwall and just over ten minutes into the second half the miss of the game occurred as Gary Alexander met a cross with his head that looked easier to score than miss. All around me people could not believe he managed to miss such a sitter. Suddenly the luck looked like it was running out.
As the pressure switched towards Scunthorpe pressing Millwall an unfortunate equalizer went in at the 70th minute from that Sparrow guy again.
With this a sudden suspicion and realisation that extra time was inevitable came and to be honest with a game this entertaining the idea of another thirty minutes was appealing although Millwall really needed to shut up shop and get the winner as soon as possible.
Scarily now though Scunthorpe once again looked the more dangerous proposition and again every time they were coming forward down in front of us and having an attempt at goal the Millwall defence were not filling the supporters with much confidence.
As the clock turned into the last ten minutes it was worrying to notice how much of the game was now Scunthorpe and as the latest attack came in and I shouted “get it out!” a true mess up in the box saw the ball go across to an unmarked Woolford who knocked inbetween Forde’s legs.
The goal went in at the 85 minute mark, the worst possible time. Some Millwall players dropped to their legs as the Millwall collective’s heart sank. A last ditch effort chant from the fans started up but the way things were going it wasn’t looking likely Millwall were going to snag a third.
When the referee eventually blew his whistle it came with a depressing resignation that today Scunthorpe were just better than Millwall. The sad truth was that it was impossible to even build up any anger, it was just a depressing defeat.
Afterwards the old man says to me “do you want to wait around?” and I said “no, lets get out of here” half fucking despising Scunthorpe and half realising the shit the lay ahead getting on a train.
Outside the ground everyone looked some kind of distraught. A few people made jokes but the majority just sighed. The rubbish had indeed been cleaned up to there were no “tools” but after all the momentum coming into the game, the additional support that had suddenly appeared out of thin air and generally a pretty great season and performance by the club/squad in the run up we had really come round to believing that this was going to be our day, our return to a position in football that better suits and represents a club such as ours.
Staggering through the masses out of the blue some kid says to me “looks like Division One again next year” which cuts through the silence of me and the old man. I just nod in resignation, the kid was obviously able to see the misery in my mind.
Its not about the apparent “glamour” of playing at a higher level in the championship its about sustaining the club and I really do not know how much more longer the club can put up with third tier finances bankrolling a club far above that level.
Walking towards the station the police riot horses are out in force and it is pretty funny to see Millwall fans pat them with affection like puppy dogs as they walk past. As I make sure dad and I don’t get separated in the masses I look over and see an amazing looking Oriental lady leaving also. This is so typical of me, as we all walk in tandem to the tube I keep looking over and perving at her. In times of such shit it is still my dick that dominates my thought process/pattern it would appear.
Getting on the tube is surprisingly easy, hats off to the old bill these days they do have their crowd control methods down and very organised. The old man even manages to snag a seat and I am embarrassed when he asks me if I want it. How bad would that have looked if I had kicked him out of his seat? I would have been rightfully lynched.
Eventually the train gets back to Baker Street and the carriage clears. For some reason on the opposite platform are a few people wearing Rangers shirts. We all wonder what the fuck that is about and I half hope the ‘Wall start shouting some kind of abuse so that it is possible to unleash some steam. Then however we notice a Millwall fan already at Baker Street station looking lost. The impression everyone gets is that they are trying to get to the game.
When we finally get back to Liverpool Street we head up to McDonalds for some food. An original plan was to go to the restaurant in St Johns Wood and snag some grub while showing dad where I work but with the Jubilee Line in tatters today that was looking possible.
At McDonalds I get us two huge meals as we sit outside and drown our sorrows. For the entire time we sit at our table we keep seeing Millwall fans all the way out in East London.
By this point conversation has all but dried up between us. Had we won things would have been different but once more when football should be the thing between dad and I to bring us together quite frankly once again it only serves to stunt proceedings.
As I head to the toilet for a piss the old man almost gets into something with some French tourists who just start to take my seat. I sense someone else would be happy to kick off at this time.
Today is a gorgeous day, one of the best to which visit London but with the tube and train lines in tatters neither of us feels like doing much else than facing the long, annoying trip home.
Eventually we take the bull by the horns and take a seemingly never ending ride from Liverpool Street to Newbury Park on the Central Line.
This is a pure family and tourist train and I watch as a baby stares at dad and he gives the little ‘un a big smile back. Damn I really should have given my parents grandkids.
When we get to Newbury Park it is back onto another crappy replacement bus which takes us only to Romford to where we arrive to the knowledge that the next train to Essex will be another 25 minutes. This is Sunday public transport in action. And this only serves to compound our misery.
With the heat making us thirsty we spot a vending machine and I run to it. Like a Transformer it kicks us in the balls by being out of order but thankfully on an opposite platform there is another one that appears to work.
After I get drinks for us I follow some Millwall supporters up the stairs who discuss “the worst thing is going into work next week and having people take the piss for losing. Its different, we’re used to losing.”
Finally the train back home turns up and arrives and we sit pretty much in silence all the way. I guess the old man is now getting a glimpse of what I have to put up with daily. I wish we had more to talk about but I guess the misery is manipulating what the subjects and sources can be.
Once back in Colchester the time is 7PM. The reality is that our day has taken 9 hours for an hour and a half of football. Fucking public transport, fucking National Express.
When we get back to Balkerne Heights the dog is really happy to see us having had to endure a day at home with mum. On Sky is the game and I watch the first half wanting to see Gary Alexander’s wonder goal and just how long it took for his sitter to cross the line. Seeing his missed sitter again, that I can live without.
Back at Bohm Grove I finally get around to watching my download of Synecdoche, New York. This turns out to be the only time this weekend that I feel inspired to write.
The movie is a head trip assisted by the lightheadness coming from smoking a Cuban cigar. Big mistake, what have I got to celebrate?
When Hesh from The Sopranos turns up in the movie briefly it begins to feel like a Woody Allen film before resuming the wreckage of a Charlie Kaufman.
After a long long day I go to bed feeling drained and wounded.
Saturday 23 May 2009
Saturday 23 May 2009
It is a beautiful day. I do not think the skies could possibly be any more blue or the sun any more comfortably brighter. Sat at my desk looking out of the window the huge trees are in full bloom glistening against the glow of the sky behind it. I can see squirrels running around on the branches and a couple of times a bird flies and bumps into my window. All is well in this best of all possible worlds.
The 8AM hour is perhaps my most favourite. Ordinarily at this time I will find myself on public transport lost to a world of commution. Not today however, today is a rare treat for me, a break – this is my weekend.
My day begins with watching an episode of The Power Of Nightmares by Adam Curtis. I am not quite sure how this is supposed to improve and uplift my day but certainly I feel it serves to enhance from a knowledge perspective. Actually with this three episode documentary the guy really does lay out the basis of recent history and the modern world pitting the corresponding American Neocons (such as Mindy) against the Fundamental Islamists and highlighting how both sets of ruling bodies are attempting to ruin the world for everybody right now. This documentary was made in 2004 and I remember watching it when it was first broadcast and how it blew my mind back then. Five years on and the world does feel a much changed place, the voices at the top seem more quiet and the ruins are now more subtle. Islam once more no longer appears to possess the threat that it once did as a kind of leftist thinking of world commentators currently concentrates on the economic and financial woes in and brought on by the West. Adam Curtis should really do a series on the current financial climate and apparent imminent collapse of capitalism. His recent piece on “Oh Dear-ism In The Media” on Newswipe was magnificent.
Soon the Saturday routine begins as I make a stop off at the train station to get a replacement ticket for the one that stopped working last night (cheap tat). Its relatively painless as I look for the train schedules for the weekend unable to find them but still knowing that the services are decimated.
I do the Asda thing and slump one step closer to being single forever.
On cue I am back home by 10AM with the day still my oyster. Yeah, right. After another week of commute work commute I find myself exhausted and before the end of Jonathan Ross’s radio show I am back in bed snoring.
When I wake and shake off the feeling I find myself only ending up and watching an episode of The Power Of Nightmares before heading back to another nap and after wasting the morning I appear to be well on the way to wasting the afternoon.
At 5PM I finally pull my finger and text Mark about meeting up and we wind up meeting up for drinks at the Hole. It is a beautiful day and finally I feel as if I am making some kind of gesture towards not wasting my life away. Mark still sounds up to his neck in work and inevitably conversation ends up addressing indie music past and present. There is nobody else sat in the beer garden and so as a result there is nobody else about to ruin the day.
Three hours later I end up at the olds’ watching Britain’s Got Talent. Basically I go from Mark Boyle to Susan Boyle in one swift (and foul) move. I feel disgusted and ashamed with myself to admit that I find myself getting suckered in by the show, I can completely see how this show (and its ilk) prevents people from blowing their brains out.
When I eventually get home in the evening the only other TV option is the repeat of Have It Got News For You featuring Reginald D. Hunter yet again. This guy slays every time he appears on the show, he is amazing.
Afterwards the BBC2 night ends with Donnie Darko. Over the years I have purchased this DVD four times and still to this date I have never seen it the whole way through. As ever tonight it sends me to sleep before the end but long after I have since lost interest in proceedings.
When I awaken briefly with the TV still running it has long since gone. Bye.
It is a beautiful day. I do not think the skies could possibly be any more blue or the sun any more comfortably brighter. Sat at my desk looking out of the window the huge trees are in full bloom glistening against the glow of the sky behind it. I can see squirrels running around on the branches and a couple of times a bird flies and bumps into my window. All is well in this best of all possible worlds.
The 8AM hour is perhaps my most favourite. Ordinarily at this time I will find myself on public transport lost to a world of commution. Not today however, today is a rare treat for me, a break – this is my weekend.
My day begins with watching an episode of The Power Of Nightmares by Adam Curtis. I am not quite sure how this is supposed to improve and uplift my day but certainly I feel it serves to enhance from a knowledge perspective. Actually with this three episode documentary the guy really does lay out the basis of recent history and the modern world pitting the corresponding American Neocons (such as Mindy) against the Fundamental Islamists and highlighting how both sets of ruling bodies are attempting to ruin the world for everybody right now. This documentary was made in 2004 and I remember watching it when it was first broadcast and how it blew my mind back then. Five years on and the world does feel a much changed place, the voices at the top seem more quiet and the ruins are now more subtle. Islam once more no longer appears to possess the threat that it once did as a kind of leftist thinking of world commentators currently concentrates on the economic and financial woes in and brought on by the West. Adam Curtis should really do a series on the current financial climate and apparent imminent collapse of capitalism. His recent piece on “Oh Dear-ism In The Media” on Newswipe was magnificent.
Soon the Saturday routine begins as I make a stop off at the train station to get a replacement ticket for the one that stopped working last night (cheap tat). Its relatively painless as I look for the train schedules for the weekend unable to find them but still knowing that the services are decimated.
I do the Asda thing and slump one step closer to being single forever.
On cue I am back home by 10AM with the day still my oyster. Yeah, right. After another week of commute work commute I find myself exhausted and before the end of Jonathan Ross’s radio show I am back in bed snoring.
When I wake and shake off the feeling I find myself only ending up and watching an episode of The Power Of Nightmares before heading back to another nap and after wasting the morning I appear to be well on the way to wasting the afternoon.
At 5PM I finally pull my finger and text Mark about meeting up and we wind up meeting up for drinks at the Hole. It is a beautiful day and finally I feel as if I am making some kind of gesture towards not wasting my life away. Mark still sounds up to his neck in work and inevitably conversation ends up addressing indie music past and present. There is nobody else sat in the beer garden and so as a result there is nobody else about to ruin the day.
Three hours later I end up at the olds’ watching Britain’s Got Talent. Basically I go from Mark Boyle to Susan Boyle in one swift (and foul) move. I feel disgusted and ashamed with myself to admit that I find myself getting suckered in by the show, I can completely see how this show (and its ilk) prevents people from blowing their brains out.
When I eventually get home in the evening the only other TV option is the repeat of Have It Got News For You featuring Reginald D. Hunter yet again. This guy slays every time he appears on the show, he is amazing.
Afterwards the BBC2 night ends with Donnie Darko. Over the years I have purchased this DVD four times and still to this date I have never seen it the whole way through. As ever tonight it sends me to sleep before the end but long after I have since lost interest in proceedings.
When I awaken briefly with the TV still running it has long since gone. Bye.
Friday 22 May 2009
Friday 22 May 2009
Dream: I find myself having sex/making love with/to a genuine person that I honestly and truly love. This is the most unlikely, far fetched and surreal dream I have had yet.
Regardless of the reality for a while the feelings born in the dream come through and optimism prevails during the early part of this brand new morning.
Today is Dante Hicks day for me – “I’m not even supposed to be here today.” I can only expect that it will be littered and filled with problems and grief.
When I get to the station the platform is bare/sparse. It would appear that I wasn’t the only person with the plan to take Friday off as holiday and hook a four day weekend with the bank holiday. Oh well, the best laid plans.
As the train passes through Kelvedon I look out of the window and see that there is a hot air balloon flying above representing some kind of freedom for someone at this hour. Wish you were here.
While riding the train in an act of insecure egotism I find myself reading parts of my own/this website. I come to the conclusion that these days my writing is best described as “dyslexic.” Feedback please, usual address.
I still need a shave.
Despite beaching twice outside Liverpool Street the train manages to pull in at 8AM again this morning. See, it can be done, it was not my imagination. Perhaps this is a sign of things/times improving and getting better. Maybe all those fucked up weekend rail replacement bus services off the back of track work is suddenly showing some kind of subtle improvement to proceedings. Sadly however once in London the tube decides to fuck me instead.
By the time I reach Baker Street to change lines I find myself confronted by the sight of a girl with cross eyes. You really don’t see many of these any more. What happened? Did they find a cure?
Today is a beautiful day which makes me pine for companionship. This weekend there are options to go out but they are not casual ones that I feel a popular and social person possesses. Yes, you know who I am thinking about at this time.
Fritzl appears to blank me as I head in this morning but maybe that is just in my head. Later what is inside my head becomes the main topic of discussion in the afternoon. I don’t feel I get much support from my co-workers sometimes, my team.
After work I end up in drinks with the boss and it is a pretty extended session lasting for around three hours and not really very many bases are covered. He drags the auditor into proceedings and eventually we end up sat outside on one of the brightest evenings of the year so far.
As conversation proceeds I bore slightly and space out as my boss says things that perhaps should not be told to the auditor but knowing the finances of the business myself there is nothing fraudulent going on that could/should/would really raise a real alarm.
Eventually my boss’s wife turns up and she doesn’t appear too impressed or amused that we have just sat and got drunk ahead of them having a meal at the restaurant that evening. As the auditor leaves I hold back not wanting to get involved in a tube journey with him and laboured discussion/conversation.
My boss’s wife insists she has seen/met me before and when it is established she is thinking of my predecessor Andy I hide a sense of insult with a joke and a smile. I also add that old line from the Simpsons episode “that’s the problem with first impressions, you only get to make them once.” Ouch, should I really be saying such things at this time? Luckily my boss displays scorn in his disagreement of this statement.
Not long afterwards I am heading home wishing I hadn’t spent the evening getting drunk.
When I eventually get back to Liverpool Street drunkenness hits me on the sobering 9PM Friday train to Lowestoft. As I attempt to get through Gate 10 at the station the gate wrecks my ticket – this is the annoying gate that damages travelcard strips, it has happened a few times before.
As I settle into my perch hoping not to suffer any ill affects on the way home this evening I spend the journey trying to work out if the girls sat opposite me listening to the new Tori Amos CD are twins. One is larger than the other but they definitely sport strong similarities. Perhaps one is the good twin and the other the evil twin.
My god I appear to be bored with the world.
The walk back to Balkerne Heights this evening is hard work and wobbly as the night ends on a stagnant note.
After that brief visit once home I look at what is on TV and all it has to offer is the Shaft remake followed by Just Friends later on. I soon fall asleep.
Dream: I find myself having sex/making love with/to a genuine person that I honestly and truly love. This is the most unlikely, far fetched and surreal dream I have had yet.
Regardless of the reality for a while the feelings born in the dream come through and optimism prevails during the early part of this brand new morning.
Today is Dante Hicks day for me – “I’m not even supposed to be here today.” I can only expect that it will be littered and filled with problems and grief.
When I get to the station the platform is bare/sparse. It would appear that I wasn’t the only person with the plan to take Friday off as holiday and hook a four day weekend with the bank holiday. Oh well, the best laid plans.
As the train passes through Kelvedon I look out of the window and see that there is a hot air balloon flying above representing some kind of freedom for someone at this hour. Wish you were here.
While riding the train in an act of insecure egotism I find myself reading parts of my own/this website. I come to the conclusion that these days my writing is best described as “dyslexic.” Feedback please, usual address.
I still need a shave.
Despite beaching twice outside Liverpool Street the train manages to pull in at 8AM again this morning. See, it can be done, it was not my imagination. Perhaps this is a sign of things/times improving and getting better. Maybe all those fucked up weekend rail replacement bus services off the back of track work is suddenly showing some kind of subtle improvement to proceedings. Sadly however once in London the tube decides to fuck me instead.
By the time I reach Baker Street to change lines I find myself confronted by the sight of a girl with cross eyes. You really don’t see many of these any more. What happened? Did they find a cure?
Today is a beautiful day which makes me pine for companionship. This weekend there are options to go out but they are not casual ones that I feel a popular and social person possesses. Yes, you know who I am thinking about at this time.
Fritzl appears to blank me as I head in this morning but maybe that is just in my head. Later what is inside my head becomes the main topic of discussion in the afternoon. I don’t feel I get much support from my co-workers sometimes, my team.
After work I end up in drinks with the boss and it is a pretty extended session lasting for around three hours and not really very many bases are covered. He drags the auditor into proceedings and eventually we end up sat outside on one of the brightest evenings of the year so far.
As conversation proceeds I bore slightly and space out as my boss says things that perhaps should not be told to the auditor but knowing the finances of the business myself there is nothing fraudulent going on that could/should/would really raise a real alarm.
Eventually my boss’s wife turns up and she doesn’t appear too impressed or amused that we have just sat and got drunk ahead of them having a meal at the restaurant that evening. As the auditor leaves I hold back not wanting to get involved in a tube journey with him and laboured discussion/conversation.
My boss’s wife insists she has seen/met me before and when it is established she is thinking of my predecessor Andy I hide a sense of insult with a joke and a smile. I also add that old line from the Simpsons episode “that’s the problem with first impressions, you only get to make them once.” Ouch, should I really be saying such things at this time? Luckily my boss displays scorn in his disagreement of this statement.
Not long afterwards I am heading home wishing I hadn’t spent the evening getting drunk.
When I eventually get back to Liverpool Street drunkenness hits me on the sobering 9PM Friday train to Lowestoft. As I attempt to get through Gate 10 at the station the gate wrecks my ticket – this is the annoying gate that damages travelcard strips, it has happened a few times before.
As I settle into my perch hoping not to suffer any ill affects on the way home this evening I spend the journey trying to work out if the girls sat opposite me listening to the new Tori Amos CD are twins. One is larger than the other but they definitely sport strong similarities. Perhaps one is the good twin and the other the evil twin.
My god I appear to be bored with the world.
The walk back to Balkerne Heights this evening is hard work and wobbly as the night ends on a stagnant note.
After that brief visit once home I look at what is on TV and all it has to offer is the Shaft remake followed by Just Friends later on. I soon fall asleep.
Thursday 21 May 2009
Thursday 21 May 2009
Annoyingly I wake up this morning with a thumping headache. Then when I get up suddenly I appear to have a stomach ache to compliment it. As a result of this I actually bypass breakfast which is a BIG rarity in my world; there is nothing worse than arriving at work feeling angry. That said in my thirty minute window for getting ready for work and leaving this morning half of it does appear to be spend sat on the toilet contemplating the world and existence as I gamble as to what colour the stools will be.
As a result of this bother the walk to the station from the car park is a real struggle this morning as I gradually begin to feel rough all over. At times like these I cannot help but resent the measures my lifestyle demands of me. A lesser person (such as The Girl) would take today off sick.
Somehow against the odds though I still manage to get “my” seat, worryingly I find myself becoming quite territorial about it these days. In the process I wind/end up sitting opposite the girl I catch the same train with every day and quite fancy. I found out yesterday that the term for this is “goldfish bowl syndrome”, a kind of scenario where boredom from repetition and familiarity will cause a person to become attracted to people they see on a regular basis.
Today I get to see just what the book that the girl is reading. When I finally clock what it is disappointingly it is Jade’s book which immediately says/tells to me, rightly or wrongly, that this girl is kind-hearted and sweet natured but has no sense of humour and a brain that has turned to mush.
The train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8AM this morning – see it is possible to arrive on time.
On the radio with additional airplay now I am finding myself more and more obsessed with the new Empire Of The Sun “We Are The People.” No mainstream song has clicked with me in this manner for a very long time.
It is another very busy day as my headache continues to rage. And this is before the constant barrage of questions and queries heads my way.
During the day my iPhone keeps ringing with the Beaumont Seymour telephone number attached. What do they want from me? Wasn’t their sacking me enough? Do they want blood now? Come on guys it was almost five years ago when you did your best to ruin me.
Tomorrow is supposed to be a day off, a much needed day off and one that I have been looking for immensely ever since I booked it. Unfortunately as my boss flaps about the status of the audit I stupidly offer to come into work and postpone the day. I’m so dumb.
Then if that was not bad enough once more the chef pisses me off again at lunchtime. I don’t tell him the food he serves up resembles dog food (either joking or serious) so why does he feel entitled to insult me with name calling? Is this a Brazilian thing? Does he come from a box in some shanty town where they never got around to taking etiquette classes?
It’s always bad when somebody begins to refer to you so explicitly in such a derogatory manner. First it signifies a distinct loss/lack of respect/face, somewhere down the line you have exposed weakness and now it is viewed here is an entrance to one of your weaknesses. Secondly it suggests the individual is attempting to gain some kind of leverage against you and a big issue/concern arises because you really need to know why this is. To be continued.
Then on top of this in the afternoon the angry boss Malcolm Tucker-esqe rumbles me at the bar getting more than drinks and sniping “not busy big man?” Fair comment and I respond like a stoner “very busy” which could have been taken a couple of ways by him but thankfully it is taken the way it was intended.
Today I take the opportunity to email Vice Magazine again to enquire about my missing subscription issues. Jesus I paid that at the beginning of March and to date I have received FUCK ALL!
Happily the day ends far better than it has been progressing as possibly off the back of the boss’s comment I make a real breakthrough on the new Sage system. Actually this breakthrough is probably more to do with the fact that this is the first uninterrupted run I have had at it to date since it was installed. With this in mind I am well poised to do truly great things with the system tomorrow now.
When I get back to Colchester I pop into the olds’ at Balkerne Heights where I get suckered into watching Eastenders with them. In the episode tonight Phil Mitchell is drunk again and I begin wonder when did he turn into Jim Lahey from Trailer Park Boys? The performance is uncanny, almost exactly the same.
Excitement abounds this evening as the third Flux Capacitor gig is taking place at The Bull again this evening. It is however always with a certain level of nervousness and dread that I approach The Bull.
When I arrive several people are already in place and a good night ahead lies in prospect.
The first act of the evening is PINDOWN who hail from Ipswich and sound like Front 242 or Sheep On Drugs in street clothing. The singer looks like a combination of a svelte Mark Thomas and a person that knows their way around Canary Wharf. Behind him flashing lights scream as a titanic industrial background of classic rave collages and police brutality footage plays out through a PA that does not appear to fully compliment or accommodate the pulsating sounds coming from the lab technician of a gentleman providing the beats. There is a nonchalance to their performance that strangely sits comfortably with the vicious soundtrack and mature anger.
During the set my boss calls my mobile and I really cannot be bothered to answer it as I sense it can only be problems/trouble. It is as if someone upstairs knows I am having fun and that it must be stopped. Afterwards I head to the bar and bump into Nina and begin talking to her regarding our respective latest adventures.
At this point my phone beeps and it is a message from the boss asking me to call him. I step outside onto the sunny streets of Colchester in the summer and push the button. On the other end of the phone he sounds tired and cheesed off. He is telling me that I should take my holiday off tomorrow as planned in light of our accounts consultant not being overly communicative or cooperative. In a defiant act of brown nose I point out that today I have made a real breakthrough on the accounts and with that momentum in mind I can probably achieve/accomplish a lot by coming in tomorrow. To this degree the boss sounds genuinely grateful.
As I return inside I end up missing both THE FEZ and MR TINKLER sets as I get caught up in conversation ranging from corporate bribery to The A-Team, Hogan Knows Best and Run’s House.
Next is the first CATS AGAINST THE BOMB set in a very long time. As ever Adam is rock solid, complete with a guitar sound that sounds sharper and harsher than previous/ever. This is a defining part of the CATS AGAINST THE BOMB experience and has always been one of his true strengths as with every performance the content and delivery has always felt fresh, as if on a constant cycle of evolving. The set is mostly taken from his terrific “Attack Of The Bunny Boilers” record that more people really should have listened to. For one man with just a guitar and a box of tricks CATS AGAINST THE BOMB always appear able to delivery a true symphony of distortion in a bleached Big Black kind of manner delivering a cover of Haddaway’s “What Is Love?” in only half an ironic manner. All in all it is a timely reminder of how much we (our scene) miss gigs by CATS.
As socialising begins to kick in the evening has been coloured by an elder man walking around the joint with different coloured patches of hair on a head somewhat flagging in fur. This it turns out is JOHN CALLAGHAN and when he takes to the stage it is something of a genuinely disturbing experience. As the rowdy audience take front stage with a frightening ferocity the campest act in the country slaps on his backing track and prances through a wrong set of half singing and at one point half stripping. This is a man that puts a lot of effort into his show as his lo-fi/DIY outfits range from a disturbing cross between a conjoined twin and Kuato from Total Recall. Then he strips! Half bowler hat and half fishnets – this is some kind of MP fantasy being acted out onstage right in front of my eyes, this is what convinces a local MP to switch from Liberal Democrat to Conservative. Yes Terry, you! The closest comparison that springs to mind is unfortunately Jonathan King’s sickening pop attempts but obviously JOHN CALLAGHAN displays a kind of awareness that old JK molesting will never have. The homemade props reach new heights as on come the robot lights get attached to his chest Star Wars style and a cube of fairy/Christmas lights encase his head. It is all about the show, the music comes secondary and escape plans in the event of fire come a close third. It is a true testament to the man that he wins over this audience, generally made up of little alpha male wannabes. It is a true victory for odd and you feel like congratulating the man for the way he serves his audience alone. Far from being a world weary has been, this is a man that knows and has seen life. Afterwards Lee informs me that he has had releases on Warp Records and I am initially shocked but then it all begins to make sense.
With the theme of Lee’s birthday still running out came birthday cake introduced in the most aggressive of manners as “CAKE!” It almost looked inevitable that a food fight was about to ensue, especially considering the binge drinking element that was making up the audience.
Thankfully there was another party game to divert attention away from a potential food fight. The game was to re-enact a lightsaber fight from Star Wars complete with the audience coming together to hum a soundtrack/score of The Emperor’s Theme. For the contest four young Jedi wannabes were required and within seconds there were four hairy people on stage frothing at the bit to use a lightsaber on each other. Out came some brightly colour foam piping which were promptly grabbed with relish and delivered in the kind of aggressive and violent manner than Darth and Luke could only ever dream about. What was supposed to be a relatively fair contest suddenly (and inevitably) turned into a full on contact sport with a spirit not in keeping with birthday party games. Things actually genuinely appeared to look like they were going to spill out into genuine GBH as Lee performed a heroic job refereeing a truly frightening affair. As the two semi finals quickly get settled the final truly descends into an extended bout of childish behaviour as the snappier big baby really pummels his lesser opponent. However through his sheer menace and ferocity despite ending the contest with both lightsabers crashing the back of the head of his apparent enemy hinting at a trip to A&E, he did actually briefly drop his lightsaber at the beginning of the contest and against the flow of the fight he actually loses on by disqualification. I just watch on slightly panicked by the event and occasion really that such an incendiary happening in a pub like this is really walking the edge.
As Lee announces the winner on stage it is a controversial result not appreciated by losing combatant. As he turns his back the sore loser grabs a lightsaber and whacks him on the back. Miraculously things eventually calm down.
By the close of the game the room has cleared quite excessively. The dancefloor that doubled as a war field remained empty in the aftermath. It is at this point a drunken lady begins talking to me, telling me how crazy the whole night is. She asks me if I am working because I really don’t fit in with what is going down and then I half think that she thinks I am performing. I really don’t want to speak to her but she is keen to inform me that she only has one leg and her other one is made of wood. Fair dues on a truly freaky night this takes the biscuit. After some nonversation she then pulls the classic pub line/move of “will you look after my chair while I go to the toilet?” I grown and suddenly feel some kind of unnecessary responsibility. Her boyfriend then chips in by saying “last time she said that to me she went for a dump.” Nice.
Just before KUNT AND THE GANG begins his/their set Lee hops onstage as MIXOMATOSIS and as a special treat to the audience this evening he literally dives into a performance of “Call On Valerie” from his “Module 23: Originality In Music” lecture. This mish mash of Steve Winwood reclaiming his best hit back from rubbish dance music is coupled with MIXOMATOSIS leaping off the stage and onto the dancefloor where he proceeds to roll through the wannabe Jedi crowd like a human lawnmower.
The night ends with KUNT AND THE GANG and another storming set from Essex’s favourite son. In many ways KUNT AND THE GANG is a lyrical genius. Very rarely is swearing so poetic and well constructed, to be this distasteful takes major talent and hours of cooking up some kind of evil thought soup whereby a large part of the person’s conscience is given to the cloakroom and replaced with a comedic masterplan. For such an underground show it is a very slick show bordering the realms of music and comedy and blurring the line as to where one artform ends and the other begins. This is multimedia, Charlie Brooker endorsed and Derek And Clive enthused. Before you realise it you find yourself singing along to “Wanking Over A Pornographic Polaroid Of An Ex-Girlfriend Who Died” because the tunes are just so upbeat and the rhymes immediately memorable, just as with the greatest pop songs in history.
KUNT AND THE GANG just does not disappoint as “Gentleman’s Wash” gets an explicit explaining and when “Men With Beards (What Are They Hiding?)” gets a run out I suddenly become quite self-conscious about the fact that I have not shaved for a few days. I have nothing to hide though. The highlight for me is the existential dilemma that is the song “Chips Or Tits” and the impossible question. Obviously Little Kunt makes an appearance, often upstaging his larger, more human namesake. The tawdry tale of dealing with the music industry in “Use My Arsehole As A Cunt” cuts scarily close to the reality of my dealings in the industry myself.
As the night overruns the peoples’ enthusiasm doesn’t, KUNT AND THE GANG ends his set with a new song and tribute to the luscious Katy Perry in the form of “I Sucked Off A Bloke” which is the building site equivalent of “I Kissed A Girl” and having grown up around building sites and seen transit vans full of porn mags the song just rings so close to the bone, the painful truth. Sporting a playful expression like a child that has just set fire to his sister’s hair KUNT AND THE GANG ends the evening on a high with an audience that has been thoroughly entertained as the third Flux Capacitor gig at The Bull proves to be the biggest success yet, both financially and artistically.
After saying my goodbyes (and congratulations to those involved) I head home to Bohm Grove hoping that my play off final tickets for Sunday have finally turned up. Unbelievably they have not, making me officially worried. On an official tip however I do discover that my swine flu leaflet has finally arrived so now I know how to deal with this latest plague. I do however note that the guy on the cover of the leaflet looks like Malcolm Tucker which may or may not be some subconscious/subliminal message for readers and worriers to not act so fucking stupid. NOMFP.
Annoyingly I wake up this morning with a thumping headache. Then when I get up suddenly I appear to have a stomach ache to compliment it. As a result of this I actually bypass breakfast which is a BIG rarity in my world; there is nothing worse than arriving at work feeling angry. That said in my thirty minute window for getting ready for work and leaving this morning half of it does appear to be spend sat on the toilet contemplating the world and existence as I gamble as to what colour the stools will be.
As a result of this bother the walk to the station from the car park is a real struggle this morning as I gradually begin to feel rough all over. At times like these I cannot help but resent the measures my lifestyle demands of me. A lesser person (such as The Girl) would take today off sick.
Somehow against the odds though I still manage to get “my” seat, worryingly I find myself becoming quite territorial about it these days. In the process I wind/end up sitting opposite the girl I catch the same train with every day and quite fancy. I found out yesterday that the term for this is “goldfish bowl syndrome”, a kind of scenario where boredom from repetition and familiarity will cause a person to become attracted to people they see on a regular basis.
Today I get to see just what the book that the girl is reading. When I finally clock what it is disappointingly it is Jade’s book which immediately says/tells to me, rightly or wrongly, that this girl is kind-hearted and sweet natured but has no sense of humour and a brain that has turned to mush.
The train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8AM this morning – see it is possible to arrive on time.
On the radio with additional airplay now I am finding myself more and more obsessed with the new Empire Of The Sun “We Are The People.” No mainstream song has clicked with me in this manner for a very long time.
It is another very busy day as my headache continues to rage. And this is before the constant barrage of questions and queries heads my way.
During the day my iPhone keeps ringing with the Beaumont Seymour telephone number attached. What do they want from me? Wasn’t their sacking me enough? Do they want blood now? Come on guys it was almost five years ago when you did your best to ruin me.
Tomorrow is supposed to be a day off, a much needed day off and one that I have been looking for immensely ever since I booked it. Unfortunately as my boss flaps about the status of the audit I stupidly offer to come into work and postpone the day. I’m so dumb.
Then if that was not bad enough once more the chef pisses me off again at lunchtime. I don’t tell him the food he serves up resembles dog food (either joking or serious) so why does he feel entitled to insult me with name calling? Is this a Brazilian thing? Does he come from a box in some shanty town where they never got around to taking etiquette classes?
It’s always bad when somebody begins to refer to you so explicitly in such a derogatory manner. First it signifies a distinct loss/lack of respect/face, somewhere down the line you have exposed weakness and now it is viewed here is an entrance to one of your weaknesses. Secondly it suggests the individual is attempting to gain some kind of leverage against you and a big issue/concern arises because you really need to know why this is. To be continued.
Then on top of this in the afternoon the angry boss Malcolm Tucker-esqe rumbles me at the bar getting more than drinks and sniping “not busy big man?” Fair comment and I respond like a stoner “very busy” which could have been taken a couple of ways by him but thankfully it is taken the way it was intended.
Today I take the opportunity to email Vice Magazine again to enquire about my missing subscription issues. Jesus I paid that at the beginning of March and to date I have received FUCK ALL!
Happily the day ends far better than it has been progressing as possibly off the back of the boss’s comment I make a real breakthrough on the new Sage system. Actually this breakthrough is probably more to do with the fact that this is the first uninterrupted run I have had at it to date since it was installed. With this in mind I am well poised to do truly great things with the system tomorrow now.
When I get back to Colchester I pop into the olds’ at Balkerne Heights where I get suckered into watching Eastenders with them. In the episode tonight Phil Mitchell is drunk again and I begin wonder when did he turn into Jim Lahey from Trailer Park Boys? The performance is uncanny, almost exactly the same.
Excitement abounds this evening as the third Flux Capacitor gig is taking place at The Bull again this evening. It is however always with a certain level of nervousness and dread that I approach The Bull.
When I arrive several people are already in place and a good night ahead lies in prospect.
The first act of the evening is PINDOWN who hail from Ipswich and sound like Front 242 or Sheep On Drugs in street clothing. The singer looks like a combination of a svelte Mark Thomas and a person that knows their way around Canary Wharf. Behind him flashing lights scream as a titanic industrial background of classic rave collages and police brutality footage plays out through a PA that does not appear to fully compliment or accommodate the pulsating sounds coming from the lab technician of a gentleman providing the beats. There is a nonchalance to their performance that strangely sits comfortably with the vicious soundtrack and mature anger.
During the set my boss calls my mobile and I really cannot be bothered to answer it as I sense it can only be problems/trouble. It is as if someone upstairs knows I am having fun and that it must be stopped. Afterwards I head to the bar and bump into Nina and begin talking to her regarding our respective latest adventures.
At this point my phone beeps and it is a message from the boss asking me to call him. I step outside onto the sunny streets of Colchester in the summer and push the button. On the other end of the phone he sounds tired and cheesed off. He is telling me that I should take my holiday off tomorrow as planned in light of our accounts consultant not being overly communicative or cooperative. In a defiant act of brown nose I point out that today I have made a real breakthrough on the accounts and with that momentum in mind I can probably achieve/accomplish a lot by coming in tomorrow. To this degree the boss sounds genuinely grateful.
As I return inside I end up missing both THE FEZ and MR TINKLER sets as I get caught up in conversation ranging from corporate bribery to The A-Team, Hogan Knows Best and Run’s House.
Next is the first CATS AGAINST THE BOMB set in a very long time. As ever Adam is rock solid, complete with a guitar sound that sounds sharper and harsher than previous/ever. This is a defining part of the CATS AGAINST THE BOMB experience and has always been one of his true strengths as with every performance the content and delivery has always felt fresh, as if on a constant cycle of evolving. The set is mostly taken from his terrific “Attack Of The Bunny Boilers” record that more people really should have listened to. For one man with just a guitar and a box of tricks CATS AGAINST THE BOMB always appear able to delivery a true symphony of distortion in a bleached Big Black kind of manner delivering a cover of Haddaway’s “What Is Love?” in only half an ironic manner. All in all it is a timely reminder of how much we (our scene) miss gigs by CATS.
As socialising begins to kick in the evening has been coloured by an elder man walking around the joint with different coloured patches of hair on a head somewhat flagging in fur. This it turns out is JOHN CALLAGHAN and when he takes to the stage it is something of a genuinely disturbing experience. As the rowdy audience take front stage with a frightening ferocity the campest act in the country slaps on his backing track and prances through a wrong set of half singing and at one point half stripping. This is a man that puts a lot of effort into his show as his lo-fi/DIY outfits range from a disturbing cross between a conjoined twin and Kuato from Total Recall. Then he strips! Half bowler hat and half fishnets – this is some kind of MP fantasy being acted out onstage right in front of my eyes, this is what convinces a local MP to switch from Liberal Democrat to Conservative. Yes Terry, you! The closest comparison that springs to mind is unfortunately Jonathan King’s sickening pop attempts but obviously JOHN CALLAGHAN displays a kind of awareness that old JK molesting will never have. The homemade props reach new heights as on come the robot lights get attached to his chest Star Wars style and a cube of fairy/Christmas lights encase his head. It is all about the show, the music comes secondary and escape plans in the event of fire come a close third. It is a true testament to the man that he wins over this audience, generally made up of little alpha male wannabes. It is a true victory for odd and you feel like congratulating the man for the way he serves his audience alone. Far from being a world weary has been, this is a man that knows and has seen life. Afterwards Lee informs me that he has had releases on Warp Records and I am initially shocked but then it all begins to make sense.
With the theme of Lee’s birthday still running out came birthday cake introduced in the most aggressive of manners as “CAKE!” It almost looked inevitable that a food fight was about to ensue, especially considering the binge drinking element that was making up the audience.
Thankfully there was another party game to divert attention away from a potential food fight. The game was to re-enact a lightsaber fight from Star Wars complete with the audience coming together to hum a soundtrack/score of The Emperor’s Theme. For the contest four young Jedi wannabes were required and within seconds there were four hairy people on stage frothing at the bit to use a lightsaber on each other. Out came some brightly colour foam piping which were promptly grabbed with relish and delivered in the kind of aggressive and violent manner than Darth and Luke could only ever dream about. What was supposed to be a relatively fair contest suddenly (and inevitably) turned into a full on contact sport with a spirit not in keeping with birthday party games. Things actually genuinely appeared to look like they were going to spill out into genuine GBH as Lee performed a heroic job refereeing a truly frightening affair. As the two semi finals quickly get settled the final truly descends into an extended bout of childish behaviour as the snappier big baby really pummels his lesser opponent. However through his sheer menace and ferocity despite ending the contest with both lightsabers crashing the back of the head of his apparent enemy hinting at a trip to A&E, he did actually briefly drop his lightsaber at the beginning of the contest and against the flow of the fight he actually loses on by disqualification. I just watch on slightly panicked by the event and occasion really that such an incendiary happening in a pub like this is really walking the edge.
As Lee announces the winner on stage it is a controversial result not appreciated by losing combatant. As he turns his back the sore loser grabs a lightsaber and whacks him on the back. Miraculously things eventually calm down.
By the close of the game the room has cleared quite excessively. The dancefloor that doubled as a war field remained empty in the aftermath. It is at this point a drunken lady begins talking to me, telling me how crazy the whole night is. She asks me if I am working because I really don’t fit in with what is going down and then I half think that she thinks I am performing. I really don’t want to speak to her but she is keen to inform me that she only has one leg and her other one is made of wood. Fair dues on a truly freaky night this takes the biscuit. After some nonversation she then pulls the classic pub line/move of “will you look after my chair while I go to the toilet?” I grown and suddenly feel some kind of unnecessary responsibility. Her boyfriend then chips in by saying “last time she said that to me she went for a dump.” Nice.
Just before KUNT AND THE GANG begins his/their set Lee hops onstage as MIXOMATOSIS and as a special treat to the audience this evening he literally dives into a performance of “Call On Valerie” from his “Module 23: Originality In Music” lecture. This mish mash of Steve Winwood reclaiming his best hit back from rubbish dance music is coupled with MIXOMATOSIS leaping off the stage and onto the dancefloor where he proceeds to roll through the wannabe Jedi crowd like a human lawnmower.
The night ends with KUNT AND THE GANG and another storming set from Essex’s favourite son. In many ways KUNT AND THE GANG is a lyrical genius. Very rarely is swearing so poetic and well constructed, to be this distasteful takes major talent and hours of cooking up some kind of evil thought soup whereby a large part of the person’s conscience is given to the cloakroom and replaced with a comedic masterplan. For such an underground show it is a very slick show bordering the realms of music and comedy and blurring the line as to where one artform ends and the other begins. This is multimedia, Charlie Brooker endorsed and Derek And Clive enthused. Before you realise it you find yourself singing along to “Wanking Over A Pornographic Polaroid Of An Ex-Girlfriend Who Died” because the tunes are just so upbeat and the rhymes immediately memorable, just as with the greatest pop songs in history.
KUNT AND THE GANG just does not disappoint as “Gentleman’s Wash” gets an explicit explaining and when “Men With Beards (What Are They Hiding?)” gets a run out I suddenly become quite self-conscious about the fact that I have not shaved for a few days. I have nothing to hide though. The highlight for me is the existential dilemma that is the song “Chips Or Tits” and the impossible question. Obviously Little Kunt makes an appearance, often upstaging his larger, more human namesake. The tawdry tale of dealing with the music industry in “Use My Arsehole As A Cunt” cuts scarily close to the reality of my dealings in the industry myself.
As the night overruns the peoples’ enthusiasm doesn’t, KUNT AND THE GANG ends his set with a new song and tribute to the luscious Katy Perry in the form of “I Sucked Off A Bloke” which is the building site equivalent of “I Kissed A Girl” and having grown up around building sites and seen transit vans full of porn mags the song just rings so close to the bone, the painful truth. Sporting a playful expression like a child that has just set fire to his sister’s hair KUNT AND THE GANG ends the evening on a high with an audience that has been thoroughly entertained as the third Flux Capacitor gig at The Bull proves to be the biggest success yet, both financially and artistically.
After saying my goodbyes (and congratulations to those involved) I head home to Bohm Grove hoping that my play off final tickets for Sunday have finally turned up. Unbelievably they have not, making me officially worried. On an official tip however I do discover that my swine flu leaflet has finally arrived so now I know how to deal with this latest plague. I do however note that the guy on the cover of the leaflet looks like Malcolm Tucker which may or may not be some subconscious/subliminal message for readers and worriers to not act so fucking stupid. NOMFP.
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