Saturday 16 May 2009
Dream: we (my family) are at the house in Little Clacton where I grew up and spent my youth. It is a bright sunny day and the place is as wonderful as I remember it could/would sometimes be. Our old neighbours are there also, even the poor deceased ones. It’s not quite a party but it is a joyful gathering. While we congregate we notice a man with a rucksack walking through our front garden using it as a shortcut to next door. He is German and I take real exception to this and go out and confront him. For some reason I am angry and pissed off and want to take something out on him and when I accost him in our neighbour’s garden we get into an argument where he feels totally justified in his trespassing. We wind up in the middle of Holland Road having a fight where the pair of us exhibit kickboxing moves (as per my classes) that really don’t have much contact or force behind them. Neither of us appears bothered by the other any more.
After initially waking up around the early hours to discover my TV still on (playing children’s TV shows) instead of turning the set of I put it on mute and roll back over in the hope of getting back to sleep. Why I do not just turn it off I will never know. Eventually I re-emerge with the time 8.45, representing something of a lie in. This time when I look up at the TV it is the horseracing show and those rural types terrify me – one of them made my life hell and misery when I worked at Baker Street.
Outside it is a dull, overcast day. Indecision means I do regret not biting on the ATP ticket but in many ways my heart is just into that kind of thing any more as much as sometimes I act that it does. All these bad records that I buy these days, I fear they are just decoration and a gesture to fill some kind of hole and void in my life. This is not a lifestyle.
That said I really fancy some Bombay Mix this morning so quickly pull my shit together for my routine Saturday morning Asda run.
The Sun has now come out; it is as if ATP is mocking me, taunting me revealing my decision to decline to be one of mistake.
Asda is Asda this fine Saturday morning. There is nothing to write home. I get my Bombay Mix along with some tortilla wraps put it into.
Back home I put on the radio, open up the newspapers and soon enough lethargy kicks in. I was really hoping to get some writing done this weekend, that was the big plan, but do I fuck.
Feeling stunted I pick up the copy of Not Quite Hollywood that I have got from Lovefilm. This is a really great documentary full of humour and covering a whole series/batch of movies that no one in their right mind has ever heard of. I still cannot decide whether it is a good thing or a bad thing to have Barry Humphries appear as a talking head and be a very knowledgeable and prominent/key part of the history of Australian filmmaking (Ozploitation).
Unsurprisingly there is a fair bit of smut and crass humour as is the considered state of mind of the Australian experience/condition. For a very long time at the beginning of the movie the focus is featured on the sex comedy (softcore porn) genre that in a way mirrors/echoes the Confessions movies etc of the period in the UK. That said the Australians just appear to do things louder and cruder, not least with the examples of Stork and Alvin Purple featuring hapless sex crazed stars that for some reason come over as a kind of hero that their British (Pom) counterparts would appear severely unable to ape. This is then followed by the Barry Mckenzie movie which basically would appear to just be an exercise of the Aussies coming over to the UK to exact some kind of revenge by ripping the piss out of country (including covering all the pavements with dog shit) and showing us how things are done, albeit with a manly hint/whiff of homophobia.
As the documentary treads heavily towards darker subjects, the movies that serve to inspire the future international hits such as Mad Max and Wolf Creek are covered with brute clarity in some cases and in the process some true gems (it appears) get mentioned in the form of Turkey Shoot and Dead-End Drive In in addition to a few movies that made it over to the UK on VHS including Razorback (now on DVD complete with Trevor Horn Easter egg I am told) and Roadgames. Thankfully throughout the movie there is no mention of Crocodile Dundee (although the early Paul Hogan comedy show I do recall on Channel Four as being very funny) or any reference to Ramsey Street/Summer Bay. Suddenly with this documentary my day doesn’t feel quite so wasted after all.
At 4PM I arrange to meet up with Mark in town and we wind up trawling around town before hitting Costa at the end of the day. Obviously the girls behind the counter don’t want to be serving us but who cares.
Catching up is good; it hasn’t actually been that long since we last saw each other but work has overtaken things and now it is time to let rip and gripe. First however I get to hear about his adventures of Japan which can only serve to make me feel envy. I have to go that country.
As closing time hits the Costa conversation is still flowing so we proceed to hit the Hospital Arms for some real drinks. On the way we discuss what movies Mark saw on his flights and the one that stands out the most is the Tyson documentary.
Not long into our first drink Mark’s brother Steve calls already sounding a bit pissed. We tell him where we are and he says he’s heading over to join us. Good times abound.
Not long after turning up soon he is saying good things about my writing, which always helps, and to have people big up your book/writing down the pub is a real thrill. Colour me boosted.
Steve fills us in on this amazing new show he has uncovered called Kenny Vs Spenny. It sounds fucking sick.
When we later move outside into the beer garden the scene is perfection and the story about Gonzalez and one of his keyboards is the shit. Later as Mark shoots off (he splits the scene) I hang about for a while before peoples head back into town on a mission at which point I duck out myself not really interested in getting pissed up at this time/moment.
The real truth is that I am heading back to watch this year’s Eurovision Song Contest, not that this is something that should even be entertained to admit. There were some rumours of another Eurovision party this year but it would appear nothing ever reached fruition. Shame.
Ultimately I need not have bothered, as the show is pretty dull this year as soon my interest/attention is directed towards other things. The loss of Terry Wogan is a heavy one even though to his credit Graham Norton does a half decent job toning down all the elements of himself that are annoying and not trying to be Wogan. All in all it seems like Eurovision has too much footage of Alan Partridge’s girlfriend. In the end Norway wins which became kind of predictable a third of the way into voting. No fun.
I go to bed when really I probably should have stayed out.