Tuesday, 30 June 2009

Tuesday 30 June 2009

Everything in my flat feels broken at the moment. I am ashamed about the amount of dust I sometimes I find objects caked in and now the latest thing to stop working is my turntable meaning I am unable to listen to and plough the hug piles of seven inch singles I appear to have amassed in some kind of trainspotter-esqe attempt to recapture my youth.

The euphoria that came with yesterday morning has unfortunately not followed through into today. Yesterday I peaked too soon; too early and lumbering around my flat today I already appear to be suffering from cabin fever.

It is distinctly noticeable how the back of the apartment is cooler than the front. Thems the logistics.

In theory I should be doing something about my car today but truly I just cannot be bothered and in my mind I have better things I feel I could be doing.

After a morning of listening to records (my vinyls!) and attempting to write about them for various websites (mainly Diskant and No Pictures) bored around lunchtime I head for refuge.

My idea of refuge appears to be to watch my download of Slumdog Millionaire. This movie has been universally lauded so you just know that it is going to be crap in some capacity because generally people club together to like just one thing it is usually moronic as it spreads itself thin and taps into some claptrap emotion that makes it a shared experience as it touches the right nerve. If anything it is just an exercise into mass marketing, a psychological experiment.

I watch the first thirty minutes of Slumdog Millionaire and are you fucking kidding me? What a pile of shit, and that is not just the pile he purposely jumps/drops into in order to get some guy’s autograph. At what point did the national consciousness decide it was all right to accept such reality/behaviour into our comfy existences. When the movie reaches an Oliver Twist-esqe moment and the villain is trying to convince one kid to blind his brother (the hero of the movie) it is just bollocks and I do not want to be politically correct enough to condone this movie.

(perhaps I did this yesterday)

As I return to writing I squeeze some out but the warm summer day is somewhat stifling and distractive. Flicking through films I have yet to watch I come across Ask The Dust which I figure should hopefully inspire and kickstart me back into writing today.

I never did finish reading Ask The Dust. This was the movie that I was reading when I nearly ended up in that threesome in Holland Park that royally freaked me out and genuinely scared me. I remember in the aftermath, in the close shave, being asked what I was reading and I just mumbled some shit about the book. When I got home I literally put it down and never picked it up again.

The movie version obviously isn’t so great. I don’t really see what Bukowski saw in this guy, sure he is earnest but he was scandalous and as a result not so interesting. I guess the fact he is played by Colin Farrell in the movie goes against but the whole starving writer vibe existing hand to mouth serves to titillate in its own way as any potential writer can empathise and associate.

After the movie I hardly feel inspired. It was actually a struggle to finish and the weak Hemingway-esqe ending just didn’t really rub.

Fortunately I do wind up writing into the evening, mainly concentrating on music reviews rather than any book or blog action. The nation appears to be losing its shit for Wimbledon but it is just too hot to be bothered with that. Serena really does have a great pair though.

Today I am loving the Andy Nice record “The Secrets Of Me.” The strings suit my mood and the weather so perfectly today, the pace slows when I listen to this record and as things take order they begin to make sense. Then I put on the Doomed Bird Of Providence record and finally I click with the record.

At 9PM BBC2 shows a conspiracy theory documentary about 7/7. I find the show very pro-Islam, more pro-Islam than is comfortable. It appears nobody wants to take ownership for/of the actions of those four lunatics that day and scarily a lot of people are just more than happy to be suspicious of the government as being responsible. I can tell you now despite all those facts presented by all the bedroom fanatics featured in this show the 7/7 bombings were the unfortunate results of crazed individuals that got lucky by fluke. Sure they planned their efforts extensively but at the same time these guys weren’t brain surgeons.

After Big Brother the night ends with The Royal Tenenbaums. I really struggle with this movie these days, I remember driving to Ipswich with Chris to watch it at the cinema when it was released and really loving the movie but watching it again now the pace really drags and the characters just aren’t colourful or quirky enough. Maybe it is due to the movie being the least believable and funny of Wes Anderson’s movies. I am asleep before the end of it.

Monday, 29 June 2009

Monday 29 June 2009

The great holiday experiment and yet I find myself up just after 7AM.

Today begins with a bang. I have not been this productive from a writing perspective in months. Outside the day is warm but inside all is cool. This is exactly what I was hoping for from these times.

When I briefly pop into my room and find Facebook open on my computer there is an instant message from The Girl saying “guess what happened?” Unfortunately for the first time in history she is no longer on Facebook so I am unable to respond/reply but I guess this has something to do with what the Albanian waiter was telling me on Facebook last night. I guess the roof has fallen in on our office after all.

This week I am dipping in and out of “Breakfast Of Champions” again in the hope of finally finishing the book so that I can see/watch the movie without a sense of guilt. Despite my American Friend’s recommendation this is a strange book lacking some kind of coherence at this time.

Mid morning the post arrives and it is two seven inches, some magazines and some DVDs. This is going to be a good week, I have lots to do and nothing to get bored about.

Around 12.30 dad calls up to tell me that he has been to the hospital for his check up and that the car is now ready to borrow if I need it. I say sure and he comes to pick me up as we head to PC World to exchange the external drive I was heading out to exchange yesterday.

It is a truly hot day outside, suffocating and miserable. This fact is compounded when dad decides to take the long route to Stanway to PC World and we get caught up in some roadwork. The people laying the tarmac look like they are frying, they are totally made of stern/strong stuff. As we pass Colchester Zoo I spontaneously suggest a visit but the old man doesn’t want to do it. No one ever wants to go to the zoo.

We pull into PC World car park and dad drives right into a handicap spot. Well, I guess he does have one of those orange badges but still it doesn’t seem right. I exchange the drive easily as a man that speaks too fast and too low deals with me, I have no idea what he is saying to me and I just reply with stock answers such as “yeah”, “no” and “the weather’s hot.” I think that may be how I spoke a few years ago.

As we step out the store we casually walk through the alarm barriers and set them off. No one moves, no one comes running to check that the drive is paid for. OK, next time I am in PC World I will walk out with something larger.

On the way home we stop off via Kent Blaxill where the old man seems to need some piece of hardware or something. I call the office and speak to The Girl who gives me low-down on the heavens falling in on the building. It sounds bad but she also sounds pretty casual about things. I worry about what has been destroyed and ruined and curse the reality of how as we appear to be getting a grip on things in the department, this pile of shite happens to us. These things always occur when I have time off on holiday.

When dad drops me off back at the flat I set about getting the replacement drive up and running and yet again it proves resoundingly ropey. I come to the conclusion that neither of my machines can cope with the drain of having two external drives going through their USB drives. I can’t be bothered returning it again though.

In the afternoon I begin watching Slumdog Millionaire out of morbid curiosity to see what everybody has been raving about. After thirty minutes I switch the tripe off. What kind of politically correct sheep herd mentality has deemed that this film is worthy of anybody’s time. It truly is awful. How can any sensible and right thinking person not be repulsed by the sight of some kind diving head first into a big pile of shit just in order to get the autograph of some no mark. The whole torture and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire spiel also sucks. Why in my wildest imagination should I be expected to give a flying fuck about any of this? I turn the movie off just as the main character’s brother is being persuaded into poking his eyes out.

Away from this shit I pick up the Have I Got News For You DVD that covers the first years when Angus Deayton hosted with stupid hairstyles. In the end I sit and watch all three hours of the main disc in one hit. Those are three hours I am never going to get back. It is a pretty fulfilling experience at times and definitely funny to see the vibe of the early days of the show but I question how much worth there is in watching (very) old editions of the show now.

By the time the disc is finished it is now early evening and teatime. Looking through my other DVDs remaining in shrink-wrap I pull out the movie Idiocracy which Tank Riot has vehemently recommended and appeals to me because it has a Maya Rudolph co-star. It is a Mike Judge joint and in the end it is OK, not mind blowing but fun all the same.

With the summer evening serving up a wonderful breeze this Monday represents some of the greatest moments that this summer is likely to offer.

In the end with the TV permanently buzzing in the background always ready to distract me I attempt to do some writing with pieces both for Diskant and No Pictures.

Eventually I fall asleep as the late night movie Anita And Me plays out on my bedroom TV.

Sunday, 28 June 2009

Sunday 28 June 2009

Dream: I am at work and the people around are acting as if they are at a barbecue. Then we begin clock watching for 5.30 at which point some kind of meeting amongst the bosses occurs and I have to stick around. In Malcolm Tucker mode the big boss turns up with some kind of sales listing that’s need processing in time for a review the next day by the consultant beginning 10.45. My boss wants me to stay back to sort these adjustments out but I just want to head home and do so.

Awaking at 7.30 this morning the day is already warm and uncomfortable even if the sun has not decided to make an appearance.

(unfortunately at this point my computer crashes and I lose 523 words of this entry – I will now endeavour to try and piece them back together, pardon my heart if it is not into it).

Today I finally get the 1.5TB external drive I bought from PC World three weeks ago out of its box. For some reason it doesn’t really surprise me when it fails to work, such is my luck at the moment.

As a result of this I had zero intention of leaving the house today but now I figure being that I have already had the item several weeks I had best return it and exchange it. It has a dizzying affect on me to have to get into the guts of my computer and perform the simple task of putting an external drive into the mix. I wonder why it isn’t working, maybe it is due to the fact that a 750GB external drive is already attached along with an internal drive of about 120GB. Surprisingly despite being under this apparent pressure the PC (my reliable Dell that isn’t attached to the internet) remains relatively reliable.

With this in mind I pack up the broken drive, stuffing it into the box fearful that because I have ripped and thrown out all the backs for the accessories that they will give me shit.

Last night when I drove home from the olds just as I left the Balkerne Heights car park the petrol light came on my so instead of heading straight to PC World this means I have to now make an additional trip/journey to the petrol station, my usual being the Asda near North Station. This proves to be my big mistake and ultimate undoing today.

As I hit the roundabout at the station suddenly I find myself confronted by one hell of a backlog and hold up. A sign indicates that two lanes are turning into one as the spare is closed while various road workers do road working type things. All in all it looks like the big roundabout is getting some kind of overhaul. Just how much has to be done to a roundabout though?

Soon I find myself stuck in a real tail back of traffic. I am rammed in with no options but to keep/stick with the flow. I keep calm though and figure it shouldn’t add too much to my journey. It’s an unnecessary annoyance but one of those things and that I should just make the most of people out of the house.

The closer I get to Asda the more intense the bottleneck appears and soon I find myself heading towards Asda against one hell of a hold up. My early optimism of the block not being too lengthy suddenly feels dumb and naïve.

Pulling into Asda the line up and queue is all the way back up to the front entrance of the fucking store. What kind of mass incompetence is causing this shit? Obviously there is no fucking chance that I will be able to get into the petrol station. As one twat stops and plops himself straight across the roundabout and entrance to the petrol station I find myself with no choice/option but to get with the winning team and head into the actual Asda car park and hope for the best.

Eventually I get parked up and soon I am inside the store on an unnecessary shopping spree. Nothing major, nothing essentials just toppings to improve my week ahead at home.

When I leave the store the car park has only eased slightly. For a while I consider sitting in the car and reading the newspapers until things improve but soon a gap in the queue seems to appear so I take my chances.

As I slowly creep into the throng of snail paced driving I tear confidently into a bag of Marmite peanuts to facilitate the luncheon period. With cars at lengthy standstills I turn my own engine off with view to saving petrol. When things begin moving once more as I attempt to turn the car over it splutters and refuses to spring to life. I try again and soon it becomes evident that the fucker has died on me and isn’t going to return any time soon.

While I frantically try to boot the car in any method possible (starting in second gear etc) a girl sat in a broken down Fiesta to my right says “it isn’t going to start.” I nod in embarrassment disguising my angry at her apparent smartarse almost smug conclusion.

Behind me a queue of cars begins to form so on come my hazard lights as suddenly I genuinely do not know what to do. Eventually the cars behind take the hint and drive around me displaying a degree of understanding and patience that in their position I don’t think I would reciprocate.

For a painfully long period I just sit in my beached car in the middle of the road portion of the car park. Every now and then cars round me on their way out of the car park, which now seems easy to escape and get out of. Some how I manage to keep calm while wanting to scream.

Eventually I get my head around circumstances and push the car into a spare parking space on the edge of the lot. It never ceases to surprise me just how easy it is to push cars but perhaps/maybe this is a mark that I am superhuman.

As ever I go running home to my parents as I call up dad to tell him what has happened. In my mind I hope it is just a battery failure such as when the car broke down a few weeks ago but with the way the dials were moving on my dashboard once more I suspect a much more serious electrics problem going on.

With lunchtime hitting the car park suddenly gets busy again and tough to exit. I tell the old man that rather than him come to collect me I will walk to their place at Balkerne Heights and by the time I reach there it should be past lunchtime and the car park more quiet.

I look over at the girl still sat in her own broken down car. She is supping water on one of the warmest days of the year so far. As I emerge from my car she makes comment and I head over to try and solicit empathy. She appears far less flustered than me and has her own person rushing to come and rescue her. I tell her that I am walking off to get help and as I head off towards town we exchange wishes of luck.

Just before heading off I return to my car to lock up and suddenly it appears that I cannot lock my car. The electrics must truly be fucked. Every time now I go to lock the doors with my fob they click twice, locking then unlocking once more. As a result of this I return to my car to guard it rather than head to my olds as disclosed.

Suddenly with this movement and the return to my car against what I told the girl/lady I develop some kind of complex and decide I really want her to get sorted out and be gone before I get help for my own car.

Once more I call dad up to explain I am not now walking to him and he again offers to come and help me which this time I am happy to get. When he pulls into Asda car park about a quarter of an hour later he drives right past me as I have to run and find him.

As the girl gets sorted out seemingly by her father in a Landrover my own old man is unable to work wonders on my car and get things started. As feared it does not appear to be the battery.

Eventually I concede defeat and call up my insurance breakdown recovery people and unfortunately they tell me it will probably be an hour before the truck turns up.

Together me and the old man wait by the side of my dead car, a dead car now in my mind on its way out. We try not to feel like chumps but as the bonnet remains up on the car every time a car passes the driver seems obliged to look at us with inspection. Dad is far more oblivious to these things than me, I am too self-conscious.

Happily the truck eventually turns up and when it arrives the guy behind the wheel is cool and not in the least condescending. The first thing he says is “so you’ve got a broken car.” He attempts to revive the fucker a few times but its long gone and as dad redirects traffic in a comical fashion the guy winches my car onto the back of the truck with view to returning to my home. I feel guilty about dragging him out on a Sunday but it’s his job.

As dad drives off and heads back to his home just like convoy I get to sit in the front of the truck. This fucker is immense, it is so high up off the ground. He has come down from Chelmsford and shakes the trip off as normal (“I had to go up to Blackpool a few weeks ago”). When we get back to Bohemian Grove and drop my dead duck car off I thank him profusely for, if nothing else, not taking the piss out of me for having a broken down car.

All in all I spend almost four hours in the Asda car park today. I’m supposed to be on holiday!

Not long after I get back the old man phones up. Mum has done me Sunday lunch and he is offering to come and pick me up. When he does so, dragging me back to my family home, it is with relief and joy, especially when the dog is so visibly happy to see me.

After dinner I wind up listening to a bootleg of the recent Faith No More reformation gig at the Brixton Academy. It sounds great but I do find myself enjoying more the argument between the bootlegger and an overenthusiastic fan. This reminds me of Tom and the guy taping the Slint set at ATP a few years ago. Good times.

With time getting on I get dad to give me a lift home and in the evening the Confederations Cup final is on TV and the game between Brazil and USA turns out to be a really good one. The USA take an early lead but eventually Brazil claw their way back and win 3-2.

This is also Glastonbury weekend and in the evening the footage concludes on BBC2. Everyone appears to be raving about Bruce Springsteen but when they show him performing he looks pedestrian and out of place. What fucking trip has this guy been on over the past few years to establish such a reinvention. Now he appears to think he is Neil Young when really he is not that removed from being the Jon Bon Jovi in street clothes he always was. Silvio Dante loses all credibility when he hangs out with him.

The real highlight of the night is Blur closing proceedings. Their set is astounding and their performance truly amazing. Nobody had said they were this good! They with “Girls & Boys” which is cool and perfectly displays how into Albarn appears to be but when they follow with “Tracy Jacks” I lose my shit as I fill with goosebumps and amazing memories of other times connected to that song. Blur far surpass any expectations I could ever had have of them previously.

Later as the footage has to move away for contractual obligations the coverage moves to The Prodigy headlining the other staff and suddenly you would be given to believe that all music comes from Essex.

While I am watching all this mind-blowing music (modern retro as it is) the Albanian waiter from work begins messaging me on Facebook telling me how the roof caved in on the restaurant last night during a storm. I genuinely cannot tell if he is being truthful or if he is taking the piss out of me (it does concern me that I might come over as a bit gullible to the proles at work). I just shake off the information he gives me and I ask him if he is watching Blur.

Soon the weight of a heavy day takes its toll on me and as the footage of Glastonbury screams off in other directions (rubbish bands and rubbish stages) I pass out.

Saturday, 27 June 2009

Saturday 27 June 2009

At the risk of sounding dramatic I feel as if I am checking into rehab today. So on that note it doesn’t necessarily feel healthy to begin watching Last Days at this time.

Today is another subtly warm one, very muggy, perhaps too muggy for comfortable. With the warmth/heat comes the sensation of my clothes feel sticky and clinging to me. Part of this is due to the climate but also a lot is probably to do with my increase in size. The quick glimpse of myself that I capturing in the reflection of the tube carriage window last night was not good for the self esteem; and neither was seeing old ghosts avoiding eye contact with me.

This week’s trip to Asda was not an overly fruitful one. If I am really to detox next week I have to keep things minimal but when the few items to have marked as essential are either not on promotion or even in existence at the store this scuppers plans somewhat. The key to the week is liquids and fluids and cynically none of the healthy stuff is on promotion anymore. Likewise with the change of bedding I only wanted new pillowcases and a new duvet cover but it would appear these are not sold separately. Fuck knows when I will actually find myself bothering to change these.

As the bill passes £30 I notice I haven’t actually bought any food this week. There is some Berocca (on Nikki’s recommendation a couple of months ago) but no food. I really hope this plan works but at this time I can’t see it doing so.

After doing a little writing and then being disrupted/distracted by Last Days upon scanning through the Freeview channels I see that the Alternative Rock episode of Seven Ages Of Rock is on TV at 11AM. It is weird; in the light of Michael Jackson’s passing suddenly Kurt Cobain is everywhere again.

A truly terrifying moment occurs as I walk past my front door and point at the letter box and say “that guy (the postman) should have been along by now” just as two parcels come shooting through the slot. With all the rubbish that buy online with cyber retail therapy that guy must fucking hate me with a pure resentment as he has to lug all my shit around with him every morning. It almost makes me afraid to open the packages. Ordering so much out of boredom while at work I honestly couldn’t tell you what will be in these packages today (although they are DVD shaped).

As I stumble through Freeview and come across a channel called Yesterday it plays an advert from a company called eHarmony. They are not a dating site apparently and instead choose matches through a much more sophisticated criteria. It sounds like Gattaca to me.

The Left Of The Dial episode of the Seven Ages Of Rock comes on and it is as fun as I remember, albeit somewhat factually inaccurate to say the least. Still any TV programme that features Black Flag, Mudhoney, Sonic Youth and Nirvana is always going to be the best thing on TV.

A couple of years ago Racton gave me a screener DVD of this show for my birthday and it was a really great, touching gift from him.

The remainder of the day is about pottering around the flat, making tokenistic efforts to write that get interrupted by watching videos I have downloaded.

This is Glastonbury weekend, which now always reminds me of dog sitting in Harlesden for Nichola. Today it is four years ago since I saw James Brown, got drunk and dropped my new Nokia phone down the Kentish Town Forum toilet with her. As I head over to the olds for the afternoon I flip the BBC coverage on and come across Spinal Tap looking bloated and disappointing. Despite being legendary the BBC presenters act as if they have no idea who they are dealing with (especially Jo Whiley unsurprisingly). Rubbish. I look online to see if there is some coverage of Neil Young’s set because the whole world appears to be raving about him at the moment but there is nothing online and when BBC show him doing one song there is no spark just an abundance of cheese. What on earth are my friends hearing in him?

In the evening, after getting dinner, I head home and do some writing while endeavouring to catch the Glastonbury footage on BBC2/BBC3. Unfortunately little of it thrills and soon it becomes an early night in the face of such limited entertainment.

Friday, 26 June 2009

Friday 26 June 2009

Even the cows on my walk to the station look sad this morning.

Anyone that called his kid “Blanket” is all right by me.

I left my bedroom TV running on purpose last night in order to get the most from the rolling news coverage. Ultimately though it just served to disturb me and keep me awake meaning this morning I am a mess.

I beat the alarm clock in order to peak a look at the ITN coverage of Michael Jackson’s death ahead of the GMTV Technicolor experience that is the “news” on the horizon. So we’ve moved on from Iran now than have we? Coogan said last night that it was the Nation Of Islam that killed Jacko in order to divert attention away from the Muslim going ons in Iran right now. He of course was joking but I thought I heard that they did find a Pee Wee Herman bowtie at the scene of the tragedy.

The train journey is a solemn experience today, no one is smiling and many seem shocked/stunned/phased. Of course the majority of my fellow commuters look this way on the best of days with their expression and beaten postures.

Arrival into Liverpool Street is timed at 8.05 and today appears to be one of those mornings where everybody appears intent on walking into me at the station. No one looks where they’re going any more but they always seem to see/catch my hand coming as I give them a clip around the ear as/for punishment (deserved). I have no luck, god hates me.

At the tube platform a group of young girls giggle profusely as they take photos of each other on their mobile and it really appears to unnerve us all standing waiting for the next train. I guess different people deal with their grief in different ways.

I also see the man from last week in his dress. I make a point of not getting on the tube that he does.

This morning I almost fall asleep on the tube to Baker Street, I am already in/on holiday mode. Whether I get through the day at my desk without sleeping will now be an obstacle. Today is the predicted grey with the threat/promise of rain above. This is going to be rubbish.

Ultimately it is a slow day lacking in productivity. I do a list of things to do but by lunchtime I have barely touch it or scratched the surface due to distractions elsewhere in the office/department. This distraction takes the form of too much hand holding of the outsourced guy that is doing the new company when it would probably be just as quick for me to do it myself.

Eventually though the day comes to an end and I manage to wipe off enough things from the list in order to cover my arse.

With Racton’s gig in Fitzrovia this evening not having a very early stage time this gives me the opportunity to catch a movie beforehand and I decide on properly catching Synecdoche, New York before it leaves the cinemas.

Out of work at 5PM I head straight to Shaftsbury Avenue despite the boss wanting to have drinks. With time on my side I manage to hit Fopp where I wind up buying the new Spinal Tap CD and DVD, a Beastie Boys 12 inch compilation CD and The Shining on DVD.

As I enter the cinema it is with the last people standing that have not seen Synecdoche. Just prior to the movie beginning Racton calls me to tell me that their stage time will be around 10PM which fits in perfectly with the evening’s plans.

I have to admit watching Synecdoche on a big screen wasn’t all that different to watching it on my PC. Again it is hard work and real trawl through my mental wellbeing via Philip Seymour Hoffman’s character. I can’t help but think with this movie that Kaufman is trying to pull together some major representation of what it is to live and exist. The way in which Hoffman’s character obsesses over his play as he pieces it together is just how the rest of us strive in piecing together our own lives. With it the efforts and hard work are filled with joy and sadness, unfortunately often more sadness than joy.

This film is basically the telling of a life’s work and the example delivered is the surreal way in which the play takes on more importance than is healthy as it descends into obsession but this is just how life is, how it runs out and how before we reach our goals our time is sadly up all too soon. The characters that come into our lives, star and then move on are perfectly represented and the prolonged agony and angst caused by imbalanced feelings and relationships are often correctly displayed as vital forks in the road here.

I suspect for years people will be reading new meanings into this movie and the fact that it often drags and takes too long will be overlooked in exchange for the reality that the movie touches nerves and is painfully efficient and concise in its (failed) attempts to dismantle and put back together life.

At the beginning of the movie a woman sat on her own in front of me to the right laughs at every single inch of humour in the movie. By the end she is silent. Unlike the twat behind me to my left who appears to have brought in his weekly groceries to eat the entire way through the movie, complete with the noisiest packaging, and clumsiest unwrapping there of, in history. Finally someone behind me sure enjoys kicking the back of my seat. All these annoyances seem typical of the oversensitive nature of the movie.

When the movie ends a lonely sensation grabs hold of proceedings. With the credits being black on a white background as the lights come up it all serves to dazzle and as I leave the cinema I feel stoned and flighty. Again the movie (much like when I first watched it) has a weird and profound affect on me and a strong/strange urge to blog.

The city in the summer almost blinds me this evening. As I emerge just after eight the skies are still clear blue and it could even be midday. This is what summer is all about, why people fall in love and the atmosphere makes them horny. I love the ferocity of London on summer nights, the way it does not stop and the buzz of excitable slutty people exudes and enthuses.

I walk off Shaftsbury and onto Charing Cross Road up to Tottenham Court Road on my way to Fitzrovia. I have never knowingly been in this part of London before (seldom do I go North of Soho) but with such a name it has many promises attached.

When I finally hit Foley Street and The King & Queen it is for some reason a strangely intimidating part/area of London. This fear is actually based on nothing, only a lack of familiarity with the area and the shocking acknowledgment of some major construction work happening in the centre of London that otherwise cannot be seen from the more obvious, touristy parts of central London (Oxford Street).

Almost immediately I see Racton, bumping and falling into him in the process. This is a relief as the view of The King & Queen from the outside was playing out slightly badly for me. Fear of the unfamiliar will always bring me down.

Tonight the gig is being promoted as part of some kind of festival called SCALEDOWN, which seems to be highlighting acoustic and experimental wares of London types in smart clothes.

As we head upstairs there is already some music in progress and as I see familiar faces smiling it feels rude to be interrupting the attempted art occurring in the corner at this time.

The first act is a lad called LITTL SHYNING MAN making what I would imagine to be the sounding of a whale dying. At the close of the “set” the hosts for the evening ask him what his parents think of his music.

The hosts (and I guess promoters) for the evening are a strange pair cradling glasses of red wine and making bad jokes in a slightly menacing fashion. They are a cross between the Vic and Bob characters Tom Fun and Derek and Matt Berry. If we dare speak between acts and interrupt their spiel they make us shush until we pay attention. It’s a tactic that works for the majority of the evening.

The second act I see if someone called SPOONO who plucks away at his guitar in a John Fahey style. Often he makes his instrument sound as if two are being played. There is no doubting his talent but I’m not really into the content.

Following however comes a cuddly singer songwriter called IAN EVANS who is plainly the promoters and hosts’ favourite of the evening. He does the one-man thing with words and guitar and I’m sure manages to make a number of hearts flutter and swoon in the process. Not mine though. After a couple of dogged originals he kicks into his cover version of “Wuthering Heights” which perfect displays his pitch.

With view to going crazy on the bill the penultimate act TRIPTIK push out some weird experimental kicks using jazz instruments and amped up kitchen cutlery to make looped and ringing noise. For some reason this really causes them to show their age as it all gets very Stockhausen and seldom pleasant to the ears. Quickly the novelty wears thin and various members of the audience begin pulling faces. As they plunder on with their set some drunk foreign guy sits in the corner of the room loudly describing the set on his mobile phone to a friend. Was he put there as a plant by the toffs to add to the event of playing with forks as instruments? Ultimately it all just feels like listening to the sound of instruments dying. The things I do to be sociable.

LIMN as ever pull through and raise standards of any bill that they appear on. Playing in an acoustic setting for the first time the four of them sat in a row on chairs facing the audience makes them look almost awkward. The instrumentation has drastically changed and suddenly roles have been reversed and changed in ways that even the band appears to be struggling to adapt to. Despite this they bowl out recognisable songs from their cannon as the beats and rhythms remain. If you can imagine what a stripped down Battles or Tortoise would sound like sat around a campfire then you are almost there with calculating the sights and sounds of a LIMN acoustic gig. None of these songs have been released yet and it is to their detriment as they possess hooks and a sense of playful fun that equates to the listening enjoying the fruits as much as the band appear to be gaining themselves. In the end they prove head and shoulders above anything that comes before them this evening sounding well rehearsed, talented and a genuinely serious proposition. One rousing ovation later and their solid set is concluded.

At the close of proceedings we head downstairs and begin to saunter home. We all appear to be going off in the different directions tonight: some South, some North, some East such as myself. Downstairs in the pub a proper Friday night is in full flow and as drinking spills out onto the streets it is an almost beautiful sight in beautiful surroundings. Then I see a thoroughly wasted young lady sat on the kerb about to be sick in the pocket of her partner. Beautiful.

The close of the evening sees a slip in quality as when I get back to Liverpool Street I suddenly find myself confronted by a full and squashed train home of AC/DC fans returning from Wembley. I had joked earlier about not wanting to get beaten up by AC/DC fans this evening but I never expecting anything like this. With much alcohol in their blood and erections from the rock of Bon Scott they turn out to be loud and surprisingly intimidating. When did I turn into such a pussy? Me and my Winger t-shirt.

As I stand trying to pretend they are not there and attempting to drown them out by listening to max volume hip hop I look across and notice a girl from my school days. It is Faye. She was the queen of primary school; all us boys fancied her and she knew it. When things got to secondary school she was no longer queen and things weren’t quite so rosy but still given half a chance you would have jumped through dozens of hoops for her. Recently in the big influx of old school people discovering each other on Facebook she, like many others who didn’t speak to me at school, added me as a friend and occasionally I have found myself exchanging messages with me, perhaps (probably) in a lame attempt to see if it might be possible to rekindle (well, kindle) anything. Our exchange messages were nice enough but nothing to read again or into.

Tonight however she does not bother to acknowledge me. She is plainly present with her other half and I guess in the flesh I am not half as impressive as my Facebook profile suggest I be. It looks like she is returning from the AC/DC concert where her now inebriated other half has dragged her tonight. She turns her back on me seemingly in an attempt not to exchange glances and the reality of the world away from Facebook hits me hard once again.

I don’t really care but it just disheartens me to have confirmed and established the bad opinion and impression that I already have of people. I’d like to think it is just me and my negativity but more so it is people playing their roles.

Back in Colchester it is with great relief that I get home this evening, away from the AC/DC mobs and into my week off at home.

Thursday, 25 June 2009

Thursday 25 June 2009

Born into this.

Staying awake past midnight last night was a mistake with hindsight as today I am the walking dead although in this current climate that pretty much means I will fit right in with all the other drones around me.

As I get in my car this morning again the odour is nowhere near going away, what am I going to do? When I park up I leave the windows open ever so slightly in the hope that a little air will make some kind of difference.

Heading to the station once again my iPod Shuffle is deciding it doesn’t want to work today so again I am back on the iPhone which unfortunately doesn’t have the greatest selection of hits on it.

The train this morning is as per. A few regular faces are still missing but I don’t mind as this means I get my corner seat and I am able to slump against the corner of the carriage in an attempt at some additional sleep/rest.

For some reason today people appear to be staring at me on the train. Fletcher-Dervish in particular stares me at while the woman that looks like an inflated skeleton doesn’t look too impressed by me either.

The soundtrack to my journey is two more episodes of Tank Riot, this time the new religion episodes. One of the religions they cover in the show is the Church Of The Subgenius and its figurehead “Bob” Dobbs. All in all this totally sounds like a movement I could get into.

We hit Liverpool Street at 8.06; dare I add any more comment to that fact?

When I reach the restaurant this morning there appears to be some severe meeting already going on. I say “good morning” and barely get a response, such is the apparent intensity.

The Girl is not in today which sadly means more telephone duties but also a quieter day.

Slowly people begin to slope in and early on I am flying. When I look at the time and see it is 10.30 I have already accomplished a ridiculous amount of work already today, which can only be good for everybody. However with this self recognition comes some kind of slump and soon the peak is over as the reality of the hot summer day kicks in along with office lethargy.

Work is weird at the moment. After the hardcore panic of last Thursday’s review deadline and Friday’s bank deadline I am currently stuck between two jobs and not really able to make any progress on either. I can’t do June’s accounts because June is still happening and I can’t do too much on the new company’s accounts because they are currently in the hands of the man with the walking stick. So unfortunately with such an unfocused reality things begin to meander.

For lunch I have chicken coated in parmesan and breadcrumbs along with linguini and baby tomatoes. I wonder what the poor people are doing.

The afternoon does not bode much better as the heat just increases and the office gets more uncomfortable. As my eyes near closing the lady sat opposite me puts me to shame with her at least attempting to do some work. Around 3PM though I have already thrown in the towel on proceedings and am scrapping around on my accounts.

When the manager comes in asking for a little help with the photocopier and switching from A4 to A3 we basically queue up to help him out of boredom. As we enter the room with the photocopier we find ourselves confronted with the sight of our posh boss laid out on a desk speaking on his mobile. Now that is a laidback boss. As we giggle at the sight he takes the opportunity to remind us of his slipped disc (or disk?). All apologies.

Not before time 5.30 comes around and we are flying out of the door (but not before I get a conference call back for the boss that I fucked up first time around – bloody phones). Again this evening the tubes are sweltering and miserable.

When I eventually board the 6.20 I just about snag a seat but as I do so I catch my arse pocket on the arm of the chair and a very loud ripping sound occurs and much repressed mockery with it. To my left a group of three people on a business jolly exchange yuks for the entirety of the journey until the ticket inspector comes along and points out that the fat lady has the wrong dated ticket and promptly he turns into a little Nazi about things. Wow, not only do National Express provide a poor service, they border on abusive while maintaining it.

The train gets back to Colchester around 7.15 and it is a long walk ahead facing me. I’m getting too old or too out of shape to do this every day now.

Getting to Balkerne Heights this evening I find myself worryingly out of breath and with a heart sunk deeper than it necessarily should be.

Back home at Bohm Grove I sail out the evening watching bad comedy television and this week I watch TNT with a different mindset/attitude looking out for Crosby. I appear to miss him.

Just as I prepare to go to sleep Stevo begins texting and emailing me asking “has Michael Jackson died?” This is news to me and when I check the BBC website it indeed appears that he has been rushed to hospital off the back of a heart complaint. Oh dear, this isn’t good.

A little later sadly it gets confirmed that Michael Jackson has apparently died. The news hits Facebook like a rocket as everybody suddenly turns into a comedian and makes their bad jokes. Truly though there is no sport in making Michael Jackson jokes, every possible thing that could have ever been said about him already has been.

Switching to the TV news and it turns to rolling coverage from outside the hospital. Apparently it is was fire ambulance that had taken him to the hospital where he eventually passed away. That immediately sounds fishy.

Hovering around Facebook to catch/see people’s reactions it only serves to depress. Tom hits me on Facebook messenger I just cyber shrug. Then The Girl’s friend Michelle strangely begins chatting to me, not about Michael Jackson just about how my day was. I immediately begin complaining about all the bad jokes already circulating Facebook and the internet. It is at this point AOL crashes on me which I begin to wonder whether it is MJ induced but ultimately it serves as a good thing because it keeps me away from all the shitty negative comments annoying me.

I continue to watch the rolling news as any kind of arsehole gets dragged out to comment on the situation. Soon the news is in a loop and “information” is being repeated rendering the whole coverage as informative as GMTV. With this I finally go to sleep around 1AM surprisingly saddened by the death of the guy, a person whose music I have pretty much always despised. Go figure.

I brace myself for an annoying day ahead tomorrow.

Wednesday, 24 June 2009

Wednesday 24 June 2009

Today I wake up at 2.30AM with the Big Brother live stream blaring out on my TV while my bedroom window next to it sits wide open giving my entire complex a good listen in. My neighbours must love me.

Emerging into Wednesday proper I find myself confronted with a sweaty demeanour and early discomfort. These days are definitely getting warmer.

Staggering around my flat I pull myself together and actually manage to get out on time today, always a bonus. Unfortunately once more as I step into my car it remains stinking and once more I find myself reminded just what a distinct failure my life is beginning to resemble.

The walk to the station is tough this morning as I again crave further sleep and further rest before I finally pass out through exhaustion.

Arriving at the platform at Colchester station it is all new faces it seems. Where do these people come from?

On the train a weird looking couple sit opposite me straight from the Colchester take off. For the entire journey one of them sniffs their way through proceedings although whenever I look up I can never quite tell as to which of them it actually is. Part of me thinks/suspects that the sniff may be something that they share and swap like a baton during a relay race. She looks 60 and gormless and he is a shave headed gorilla from some backwater several years her junior. I suspect that if we ever got into a fight it would not be clean and he would use the tactic of biting. She also looks like she has not had an orgasm in years and he looks like he hasn’t seen his dick in years. Towards the end of the journey she gets the last laugh however by stepping on my new shoes as the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.06 late, not that these drones notice. They never do.

As I stagger from train to tube at Liverpool Street yet again there are charity people with their rattling buckets and wacky clothing ensemble. I’m sorry but I cannot possibly imagine a time in which people are feeling less charitable as they fall off their commuter trains on their trudge to work at jobs they hate. Rethink.

Sitting on the tube it is opposite some skanky Asian bird who I find hot. Unfortunately as she gets off at Kings Cross the carriage judders and she winds up almost falling on top of me and stepping on my new Airwalk shoes. What’s the fucking deal dude; did these new shoes come accompanied with bullseye targets on them?

Sometimes I wish terrorists would hijack my tube just to bring a bit of excitement to proceedings. I of course would bash their brains and save the day in the process. Truly it could be my making.

The reflection that meets/greets me as I enter the restaurant today is an optimistic one. Moving forward.

Today is the sad anniversary of the death of Tony Hancock. Over the years his real life has taken on as much legend as his radio and television persona. I truly love this man and his work, he really was a revelation to me, never so explicitly had been miserable and bloody-minded so funny. In many ways it made it all right to moan for humour for me and how failing at a task can be just as worthwhile and fulfilling as accomplishing it. The sad reality of his personal life being so dark is a tale that will sink any ship and relates to a number of problems (insecurity, alcohol dependence) that can hit any person in any walk of life. Sadly it made the man so tangible and easy to associate with and therein lies I feel the reason why he was so liked, he managed to hone his undeniable talent into a form that really struck a nerve with people regarding the human condition in the most concise way. All comedy owes everything to him.

Officially for me these days the day does not begin until The Girl is in and today she happily trots in at 9.13 oblivious to this. Maybe I should buy her a watch for her birthday, I wonder if she can read hands?

It turns out to be a slow morning. I accomplish some stuff but not enough to fulfil me spiritually. For lunch I have lemon chicken and fries, a sure-fire sign that I am not feeling too self conscious at this time.

Opposite to the morning I find I have a great and productive afternoon although beginning to look at the work on the new company that we have outsourced to the man with the cane it appears to have been done quite incorrectly. I can’t really criticise the guy that did the accounts because these are difficult, fiddly and very involved accounts to do – it is a tough system we use/run. Ultimately it is looking like to put his figures straight/correct it will take more time to do than if we had just done them from the start. This I predicted as soon as the idea was first suggested/floated.

For some reason I find myself wanting to read PG Wodehouse books today so I send out a Facebook request for recommendations. That doddery old fucker Hough responds with a Wikipedia derived bibliography. That I could have provided myself.

Also other peaks into the internet unearth that the new Woody Allen movie Whatever Works doesn’t have a UK cinematic release. That is rubbish.

After leaving work the tube this evening is incredibly hot and sticky in which I begin to melt and wilt. As it get announced at Farringdon that the train will be stopping at Moorgate (and not Liverpool Street) we exit en mass. Boarding the next train the man rocking this train’s mike (black Information Jimmy) sounds as if he is having a breakdown while driving the train. All in all it makes for a tense three stop journey.

The train ride home on the 6.20 Norwich train is slow and laidback moving as if the driver is stoned. As I look out at my fellow commuters I see a blonde Aryan guy fresh from his day in the city crushing Muslims and Jews that looks like somebody who I went to school with who did indeed act like an Aryan back then. He is so fucking important.

When I get back to Colchester it is with a genuine sense of relief. Briefly I stop by my parents place at Balkerne Heights before heading home to Bohm Grove where I watch Larry David guesting on Jon Stewart before eventually passing out watching a boring documentary about NASA.

Tuesday, 23 June 2009

Tuesday 23 June 2009

Dream: very annoyingly my dream today features my long departed American friend. She’s dead to me.

I’m running on empty at the moment. When I awaken around 4.20 is it yet again with the TV still on and rather than turn it off I just switch it on mute.

Beyond this I barely recover any sleep and eventually I find myself fully awake ahead of my alarm clock sounding off.

On GMTV this morning in amongst all the idiot speak and idiot fools, Clare the weathergirl appears to be putting in a real effort. Perhaps she is feeling the heat now being the more senior weathergirl and in a gesture to put the other weathergirl into the dark this morning she is wearing a very nice dress which does not quite accommodate her belly. As a result of this imperfection and frailty it makes her look even more attractive, even more human, even more tangible. I have actually read that she suffers from some kind of disease that makes her look bloated and it isn’t called “pies”. Regardless it all gives me a smile this morning. Whoever does the weather, Clare will always be queen.

When I get into my car this morning unfortunately the fucker still stinks. I really do not know how to sort this out or what to do. Rapidly this is scarily turning into that Seinfeld episode and unfortunately with £3800 still to pay on the car loan it would appear that I am laboured with a troublesome odour for the foreseeable future, which is much to me detriment. Why did my fucking old man have to leave that bag of rubbish in my car? His transition into Willy Loman is beginning to cause me genuine headaches again.

The train ride this morning is so so, I act blinkered so as not to cause suspicion that I am anything but.

To my left is that guy with his laptop and appeared to take much joy in nudging me all the way to London the other morning. A few times I look over at what he is watching on it and it looks like the most vanilla, bland video a person could ever put on a computer. Funny really, the guy looks more like a person to have kiddie porn on his computer.

During the ride I listen to the latest Collings And Herrin podcast (#68) and do not laugh once. Which I think is a reflection on me but equally could be those guys.

Eventually the train rolls into Liverpool Street at 8.05. Late. As I leave the train the ponce haired fucker that always sits stoic and is very rude when made to move cuts in front of me as we leave the train. I take great pleasure in kicking him in the heels and letting him know that he has wasn’t supposed to get off the train in front of me. I hope my gesture sets him up for the worst day of his life.

As I board the tube at Liverpool Street so does a throwback from 7/7. In the interests of national security I should take him out, him and his big beard and dress. That look will fool no one at the gay discos. However he soon gets off at Farringdon and thus we both have escape.

Feeling wild thoughts right now, boredom and fatigue is a wicked combination as contempt festers and actions become insinuated. I have no balancing/levelling influence in my life to tell me to just “shut the fuck up”, which pretty much abstains me from any responsibility for my actions I think.

On tube I watch as some guy combs out his afro and I just want to grab the comb and ram/stick it in his neck. Then I notice he looks like Michael from The Wire. Abort! Abort!

My day improves infinitely as it turns out that I have won tickets to the Answer Me This 100th episode at the Roundhouse. Yes! I really wanted a ticket to this, it sounds like some of the best possible times.

At work The Girl trots in at 9.09, which I guess is an improvement – in her world and mind.

Thankfully today I have the best, most productive morning that I have had for months. I guess with the pressure off it is now easier to focus and get on with things. My adjustments to the figures/accounts however knock the bottom line significantly.

For lunch I boringly go with penne and chicken. Lots of carbs, lots of poultry.

I try to log on to my Pilkipedia account again today and once more it continues to immediately boot me out – has my American friend had me barred? Paranoid but I believe it could be the sort of thing she has engineered before for a pat on the head. Committed Christians hey, what you gonna do?

Just after lunch word comes through that Thierry Henry is in the restaurant. Apparently he used to be a regular when he played for Arsenal until one day when the kids from the school opposite got wind of him eating in the restaurant and started attacking the cars in the car park. This definitely kicks up a buzz in the restaurant and soon I am finding a reason to pop down into the restaurant and check him out. He looks a pretty cool customer.

In the afternoon I finally find the first time/opportunity to do some work on the new company, the accounts that we have outsourced due to what was a ridiculous deadline of two weeks from the bank about three/four months ago. The accounts are still nowhere near ready to being complete. In a two week period we could never have got the accounts done but given a month we would have got it done. This was evident and obvious at the time and now look where we are as a result. However finally being able to pick up and look at the figures is a real step forward and display of progress.

Towards the end of the day the posh boss comes in asking me to bid on his eBay auction. If I am not careful I could soon become the owner of a twin kids buggy.

Conversation wanders onto my holiday next week and more suggestions of travel as I pine for Berlin, not least the idea of visiting locations from Wings Of Desire.

Again later as I wander to Facebook I stagger across Sara’s profile and how mature and grownup it all seems, especially compared to me. Then again as with all my “mature” friends’ profiles it looks kind of boring and stunted also. This is I guess how I justify myself.

After work when I hit Baker Street and the Metropolitan line platform I clock the manager from Baker Street that used to get stoned and go fishing at the weekends. Unkindly some people at the office referred to him as “Rat Boy.” To be honest I don’t want to speak to him so I avoid him concentrating heavily on reading my London Paper and London Lite while also really intensely working on my iPhone. In my defence I do barely remember his name and probably struggles to recall mine.

The train ride home to Colchester tonight is thankfully relatively comfortable as I listen to a Tank Riot episode of HR Pufnstuf. I like stuff.

During the ride I come to the conclusion that the method I am using to write “books” is akin to a band jamming out a song from a riff and how the method is to trim the fat until the piece is crisp and efficient. I am still yet to decide whether this is a good method or not.

Once back in Colchester the walk back to my car is soundtracked by Funkadelic who I am loving right now. I’m listening to it so much that it is beginning to sound like Can to me.

When I get back to Balkerne Heights things are no happier. Mum tells me that dad is still depressed and complains how the other Balkerne Heights residents/friends have used him just because he was a director on the company and this is an idea that she is fiercely transplanting in his mind. She begins ranting at me how people aren’t worth a shit and that is why she “has no friends because they can’t be trusted.” It is pretty obvious from which parent I get my antisocial traits from. I attempt to tone her down by saying you can’t rely on people, not trusting anyone is a bit of a harsh stance. She then proceeds to launch into some kind of rant whereby she now wants to move away from Balkerne Heights because the management company (run by Terry Sutton) has allowed the place to go to ruin. The rant is super depressing and it is no wonder that dad is down if she is harping on like this for the whole of the day in his ear. She complains about the service charges and how they are the crux. I think also the fact that universally property values have dipped doesn’t help much either. I can’t help but agree with her on this though I too would feel aggrieved if Terry Sutton had come into my apartment complex and substantially/significantly increased my annual charges without justification or improved performance in standards but there are definitely better ways of dealing with these things than just fucking moaning and being miserable about them.

As a result I don’t stick around for long and soon I am heading home. As I get into my car the smell is still depressingly pungent and I now want rid of this car in the worst way.

When I step into our apartment complex I notice the neighbour the nurse’s door is open even though her car isn’t in its space. Should I pop my head in and see if she is all right? Nah.

Back home I see on my emails that I have won my boss’s eBay auction for a twins buggy. Whoops, what am I going to do with that? I need a girlfriend.

I attempt some writing but after an initial burst/flurry I am just too exhausted to produce anything of major worth.

Heading to bed I check my Facebook and some photos from bowling last Tuesday have emerged. As I indulge in flicking though pictures I am tagged in/on I come the one with me and my American friend in Brick Lane last summer in which she genuinely looks gorgeous. I slump.

This evening turns out to be the most beautiful of the year so far. Come 10PM the skies are still clear and bright and the temperature nears perfection as my window sits open allowing in the most efficient and non intrusive of breezes. It is at this point my tail pops out.

The day ends with watching the second home episode of The Thick Of It before I eventually fall asleep during another dull episode of Big Brother.

Monday, 22 June 2009

Monday 22 June 2009

My car still smells this morning and this depresses me no end.

So it is with the stink that this week begins on a bad note and unfortunately I cannot see things improving, especially in the light of having only two tops to wear that fit me for the five days ahead.

Once on the train at Chelmsford Mr Boring Cunt Couple gets on and sits next to me with his back to me. What part of this twat’s psyche prevents him from just sitting in a fucking chair like a normal person? When his back predictably bumps into my elbow repeatedly he appears somewhat shocked that the world fails to accommodate his choice of existence. He should just fucking die.

Not long after we leave Chelmsford suddenly some lunatic begins walking up the carriages of the train and it is this guy’s doppelganger carrying a bag containing two buns. This feels freaky, too surreal even for me to contemplate dealing with on a dark mood Monday morning. Fortunately as he walks off into the distance (the remainder of the train) neither of us ever see him again.

For the remainder of the hell ride to London a young Bradley Walsh lookalike sitting opposite me leans forward seemingly wanting to read his copy of The Sun in my lap. Why am I always surrounded by freaks on these fucking trains?

When we near Stratford Bradley Walsh gets up and steps on my new Airwalk trainers and my reaction makes it evident that today I am far too stroppy for my own good. I force an apology out of him via subtle reaction and glare/stare but this is not enough, this does not suffice. For him to really make things up to me I want him to just go away and leave me alone. Unfortunately just before Liverpool Street, while our train is beached, the guy fucking steps on my shoe again and this time I feel like hitting him. Chill. Pill.

The beaching of the train outside Liverpool Street feels like an extended period/spell today, even to the point that Information Jimmy apologies for the delay. So National Express, now that this is an official and admitted delay as the train bowls into the platform at 8.05 shouldn’t we be getting another apology?

By the time I am on a tube I am listening to “Group Sex” by the Circle Jerks at full volume on my iPod just to annoy my fellow passengers. How old was I the last time I looked?

When I get to my line change at Baker Street the next train is not for another seven minutes – welcome to my Monday.

Once eventually into work it is on time, just slightly delayed on usual but The Girl happily bowls in at 9.16 oblivious as ever to the fact that she is late. It might be fun living in her head some time.

It is difficult getting started this morning, especially acknowledging the fact The Girl is taking the opportunity to look online for a new place to live, making it tough to build up any steam.

Just before lunch I get pissed off as she begins harping on about going to a fun park on her day off later this week and I ask her when she booked the day off as I can’t find the email. This I do on purpose to pop/burst her bubble because she is pissing me off too much and this gives birth to an office atmosphere/tension that actually comes from her.

The Gossip are in session on Jo Whiley’s Radio One show today and they still sound exciting and in interview Beth Ditto gives good head that, whether by design or not, serves to empower the freaks and geeks and inspire them onto success giving them strength to get through the hard times of now. For this I think she is fantastic even if I know question her commitment to the cause but she and the band are truly the first band (in the mainstream) I have heard sing such a message since Nirvana. The band sound great doing “Heavy Cross” followed by a cover of Kanye West’s “Love Lockdown”.

For lunch I have fishcake. It is full of cakey fishy goodness.


The afternoon turns out to be a flakey one but I do manage to accomplish some stuff but it is a bit pedestrian in the process.

Being a hot day thankfully the boss lets us out early and as I walk up Loudoun Road to the tube station I swear I see Denis Norden. As a result of leaving the restaurant early I manage to catch the 6PM train to Norwich. When I get on it I see Sarah and she clocks me and responds with complete evils. I’m too tired to really care but what she represents to me is a drag especially in the light of a tube ride spent depressingly thinking about my American friend who I was never once nasty to but still chose to shat on me from a great height. These things bother me more than I should allow them to. This girl Sarah though, through her history of actions alone it’s a wonder that I don’t hate Muslims or Pakistans based on her representation of them. Fucking people.

To complete the bad memory flashbacks this evening when I get off the train back at Colchester I see Lulu from Butt Road reminding me of what happened there. What is this tonight, the crap nostalgia train? Why did these people ever enter and taint my life?

It is a genuine relief when I get to Balkerne Heights this evening as I feel exhausted both physically and mentally. The dog only appears semi happy to see me and this enthusiasm wanes even more when I decide to ping him on the nose with my credit card and he goes bonkers on me.

Tonight I leave their place pretty early and when I head home unfortunately my car still fucking stinks causing me continued discomfort. Once more I unleash an excessive amount of air freshener spray into the car before realising I have sprayed far too much and am now struggling to breathe as I become light-headed. Suicide by air freshener, is that possible? Has it ever happened? To counteract this foolishness I just roll down my window and it does the job.

I finally get around to playing my “From Out Of Nowhere” seven inch by Faith No More this evening but the fucker is half snapped. It’s an eBay purchase, so what do I do now?

Again tonight I watch Jon Stewart on More4 and on this episode he is mocking the new food invention in America of pancakes and sausage. Actually it looks pretty good, the kind of indulgence that will make you sick thirty minutes later but it looks like a great once in a lifetime ride to experience. I am sure my American friend has already eaten her fair share of the plate/dish.

When I head to bed I watch the Have I Got News For You repeat and guesting on the show is Clare Balding who is the spit of the “manager” at Baker Street that made my life hell and thus the sight of such a hideous memory causes me great discomfort and sadness.

My night ends with falling asleep to a pretty piss poor episode of Big Brother.

I need a holiday.

Sunday, 21 June 2009

Sunday 21 June 2009

“It’s thanks to you that I’ve turn out how I am today, Dad!

Yeah, I’m all YOUR fault”

For a second day running I awaken with my TV still on from last night. I really should knock that on the head. As a result yet again I wake up early for a Sunday, too early.

With some kind of clarity to my day FINALLY I manage to watch the entirety of the Source Awards episode of 30 Rock this morning. Tracy Morgan yet again slays his audience.

With the day still young and no plan or structure attached to it I set about watching the DVD of Peep Show series three that I got from HMV for £3. In one foul swoop I watch all six episodes back-to-back and worryingly I find myself laughing less and less at this show these days as it slowing begins to more and more resemble my existence. At least those guys are never lonely.

Once up and running around 11AM I endeavour to do some writing and other productive gestures. As part of this training I have a big breakfast which is two bowls of chocolate Crunchy Nut Clusters that clears two thirds of the entire box. That can’t be healthy.

Today is Father’s Day but off the back of yesterday’s angry words whether there are any plans to go out for lunch is still to be settled.

With nostalgia for the nineties off the back of reading the Luke Haines book still thriving I dig out my copy of that Britpop documentary Live Forever. I had actually forgotten all about its existence. It is strange I do distinctly remember at the time totally despising the scene even though I still bought the records, the NME and Melody Maker every week and Loaded magazine every month.

About twenty minutes after I begin watching the DVD mum phones, telling me to be at their place for 12.45 so that we can get to the Chinese buffet for 1PM and our Father’s Day dinner. This now means I will not have time to watch the whole of documentary before leaving which makes me slightly grumpy.

As I jump in my car and head to Balkerne Heights the car still stinks. This is that Seinfeld episode all over. Things as a result are still frosty when I arrive at their apartment.

Leaving the house for town we begin walking in the wrong direction towards the “restaurant”, here is another sign of dementia. Fortunately while we walk towards Crouch Street I check out Westwood’s unravelling posts on Twitter which appears to be the narrative of an old man getting stuck at a party somewhere in South London and not having idea how to get home. This guy’s hyperbole is genius; quite frankly I think these Tweets are the funniest I have ever read. Thanks Westwood for my first smile of the day.

Turning the corner onto Crouch Street I see Emma and Sue – the Webbs. They’re surprisingly friendly and happy to see me and when I point at the olds and say “Father’s Day dinner” on cue they laugh.

Inside the restaurant it is dead. I don’t know whether it is because it is early or the place is just struggling. I look at the vacant expression in everybody’s eyes in the restaurant and come to the conclusion that I shouldn’t be here right now. The last time I (we) came here was the Sunday I discovered Jade has passed away. I hope no celebrities die today.

The big unhealthy breakfast proves a HUGE mistake as after two plates of buffet (which I bloody love) I literally begin to feel ill. Maybe it is the food (probably initially reheated leftovers from last night) but more likely it is my eyes being bigger than my (admittedly pretty big) belly.

The meal is not the biggest/greatest success. Maybe on one occasion I should fork out and take my parents to an actual restaurant. Then again it is always only a matter of moments before one of them says something offensive about Asian people.

Afterwards I head into town and as I do so in the distance is Lindsey from Butt Road walking straight towards me. I try to work out which of us two puts in most effort into ignoring the other. She looks exactly the same as she ever did which in a way suggests no personal growth or development by/from her in that time. I however, at this time I just look like shit, so who is it getting the final laugh?

Thank god I am still not working at that firm and have actually made something of my life. Kind of. That said though beyond the bravado I do miss the feeling attached to those days, not least they didn’t contain four hour daily train journeys.

In HMV I find the Hitchcock boxset. For a bargain £20 it has pretty much every Hitchcock movie anyone has heard of. When I take the HMV bag back to my parents I think they spend the entire afternoon wondering whether it is a late Father’s Day gift waiting to be opened.

On a similar note I root around their place for the copy of Borat on DVD that I bought Dad for Christmas a couple of years ago. Obviously it is still in its shrink-wrap and as I attempt to coerce either of the parents to watch it mum briefly laughs at some of the visual jokes but on the whole it surprisingly doesn’t hold up (although I do remember a certain sense/degree of anticlimax at the time).

When I get home in the evening I finish off watching Live Forever and I find myself really feeling nostalgic for the nineties even though Britpop really wasn’t my personal highlight of the nineties. Go figure.

Saturday, 20 June 2009

Saturday 20 June 2009

The Day The Clown Cried

I can’t help but feel in a shit fucking mood today. I wake up at 9.15 with the TV still on playing Yo Gabba Gabba or rather some weird hybrid of the show where everyone appears to now have dubbed English accents. This however is not what pisses me off, more that I wanted to be up early this morning to go get a haircut because currently it is a mess. Waking at this time however I do not feel the ability to pull/get my shit together to head down to Holland/Clacton.

As I seethe it is at times like these I could/would really benefit from having someone around me to tell me to either “shut the fuck up” or “calm the fuck down.” I possess neither.

For some reason I want to watch Hitchcock movies today. That shouldn’t really be much of an ambition but at this time to pull that dream together just feels impossible.

I was ranting on Facebook again last night and I can’t help but feel I will wind up regretting. It looks like this blog has now been discovered by at least one person.

On cue, albeit a little late, I get dressed and head down to Asda to work on my routine. I am hungry and there is no food in the flat so I’ll be purchasing excessively this week no doubt.

I feel huge today and as I slip on one of the few remaining tops that fit me (so by default my favourite) I notice that there are still sick marks on it from Tuesday night. This truly is a sorry state of affairs. Instead of changing however I just do a quick bit of DIY washing on the top.

The weekly shop turns out to be a resounding failure. Again I notice the car suddenly has a horrible new smell attached to it and when I get to Asda I notice a few more speckles of puke on my top. Wandering around the store still half asleep I have no imagination and as a result my groceries this week lack any variation.

Upon returning to my car as I put my shopping bags on the passenger seat I notice a black bin bag sat on the backseat. This is a fucking mystery; perhaps Santa came early and left me a present. As I give it a curious prod it turns out it is a fucking bag of rubbish. As I rack my brains/memories for a point and/or reasoning as to why I put it there it dawns on me that the old man must have put it there for whatever reason. As I slip into my seat the smell of the car once again hits me and now it is obvious what it is and where it is originating from.

Once back home I call up the parents to ask why there is a black bin bag of rubbish sat in my car. The old man answers and I snap at him with some kind of rhetorical questioning, bad cop style. For a moment he doesn’t know what I am on about but then his memory jogs and it hits him what has happened. He briefly laughs about it but by this point I am truly steaming about the smell it has now sunk in my car. On the line I snap at him some more and he responds “but I didn’t do it on purpose” but that isn’t really the point. Before things get too heated I snarl “please don’t do it (put rubbish bags in my car)” and with that I hang up.

Pissed off I quickly peak into the bag and right at the top is an emptied pile of fag butts, the worst smell in my nasal vocabulary. The state of my car makes me feel nauseous and at a time where I am feeling beaten this is just another shitty thing on top of an already big pile of shit. This serves to be what finally sends me over the edge.

With fury I grab the bag and head over to my communal bin stores throwing it against the wall bouncing into the bins in the hope that the shit from inside sprays everywhere and I am able to ruin someone else’s day in the same manner in which my own has been fucked (tit for tat). As I leave the bin area and slam the door heavily which I later notice on my next trip to the bins is now broken by the slam. Angry child that I am.

In a childish strop now I angrily put my crappy groceries away and endeavour to do something of use but with such a bullish frame of mind regarding this state of affairs I just head back to bed around midday with view to restarting the day.

When I awaken the time is now 3PM and I have managed to accomplish wasting my Saturday and half of my weekend.

Needing to bank a cheque into the Alliance & Leicester account I rush over to Balkerne Heights where my cheque book is but upon arrival it is nowhere in sight and neither are the olds who appear to both be out walking the dog or something.

In a huff I begin scanning the channels on Sky and come across an episode of Star Trek Next Generation with the Borg in. It has been years since I have watched this show and I always thought the Borg was pretty cool. Watching it now it is surprising to see how wooden the acting appears.

Not long afterwards the Old Man returns and I pissed off about not being able to do my banking I have another go/pop at him which immediately causes more tension/hassle.

As mum serves as some kind of peacemaker between us I snag some dinner and potter around their place before heading home for 7.30 and a documentary about modern China on BBC2.

Returning home this evening, eventually the rain ceases and with it comes a most beautiful of evenings. A late evening sun emerges and with it a breath of fresh air and the promise for an optimistic future.

Buoyed on I drink a can of Rockstar energy drink and get into some writing.

As the evening heads towards an end once more I find myself laughing at Have I Got News For You before truly indulging in the amusing breakdown of Sree on Big Brother. He is so dislikeable his pain is delightful. It’s a schadenfreude Saturday night.

At 9.40 Chris (Baldwin) texts me to see if I still want to go out. This is just too late. I make my apologies and he concedes that he is tired too. This is a good sign that the ATP issues were only on the surface and not lasting. Maybe.

Eventually I fall asleep watching Risky Business with the movie now making more sense to me than ever before. Still not sure what happens in the end though.

Friday, 19 June 2009

Friday 19 June 2009

“When the seagulls follow the trawler, it’s because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea.”

Annoyingly I wake up this morning thinking that it is Saturday. As a result I am very laidback in bed not looking to move out of it in a hurry. Sadly then the alarm clock buzzes me back into reality.

The day starts with a thud as a friend emails me to point out that a friend writes for that TNT show on Channel Four that appeared to offend me so much last night causing me to rant and rave so much on Twitter and then Facebook. Whoops. Here’s hoping there isn’t going to be any fallout from that.

Today is a beautiful day; this morning is amazing and is exactly everything that is right about summer. As I listen to Devo on my iPhone dressed in my short trousers with a relatively easy day ahead at work things are really beginning to look up. This works.

Unfortunately upon making this my status on Facebook for whatever reason my old neighbour at Hollytree Court decides to respond by tearing the comment apart with a disparaging remark. I have no idea why he chose to respond in such a way with such a cuntish statement/gesture other than to conclude that he himself is just a cunt as a person. Really though, why say such things? Is it meant in humour because it most definitely did not act or result in humour. If you want to tear into me in a comedic fashion first you have to earn the right to do so otherwise I will turn on you like a motherfucker. And this is not the first time he has said such things so ultimately it just serves to confuse. I just delete the comment and hope nobody really sees it. Next time I will delete him, no big thing just my own gesture.

The train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.07 this morning. Hey, why ruin a rubbish record.

At Liverpool Street today I see a different midget to usual but he still looks like total aggro. Maybe it is the punk haircut or maybe it is the way he bounces around his friend looking as if he really wants to kick him in the arse but unfortunately mother nature (or God!) just made him too short. So then, seeing a midget at Liverpool Street – what kind of angst does that suggest/represent to me?

Feeling snappy today I actually find myself kicking a posh skinny wimp on the tube after he cuts me up boarding the carriage and when he wants to stretch his legs into/onto my seat opposite I ensure he can’t/doesn’t.

Arriving at work it is to the sight of the big boy in a fantastic mood now that the power is back on and it would appear food has been saved and damage limited. Always refreshing to see a smiling face upon getting to the restaurant.

My boss is also in as I arrive. He tells me to mail over the accounts to the consultant even though the balance sheet is not yet done/complete. This is not the first time I have had to reluctantly do this.

At work people like my new shoes as I show them off. This rocks but is perhaps a bit too feminine for my liking. Then again as I am always craving attention and commendation this is just what I am after.

After the pressures of yesterday today is a real comedown, a jovial and relaxed day. Eventually I get going on the bank reconciliation but this is far too late in proceedings.

Around lunchtime the consultant calls asking me for some schedules. When I tell him that I am still doing the bank rec this is not well received. He tells me that my P&Ls spreadsheet has a password and that he wants to know it. YES IT HAS A PASSWORD BECAUSE YOU WRECKED THE FUCKING THING THE LAST TIME YOU TOUCHED IT. I’m already pissed off to fuck with this person and now it seems he hasn’t even bothered to read, acknowledge or take on board my points and the damage that was done when he destroyed my work last Wednesday.

This knocks the wind out of me as we sail out the remainder of the day. I finish the bank rec at a leisurely pace while the others look out of the window criticising the driving skills of the mothers attending the kids’ party happening in our function room.

Leaving at 5PM I head direct for Shaftsbury Avenue and Looking For Eric at the Odeon.

At Baker Street Amy Lame gets on the tube and stands next to me but despite my being her “friend” on Facebook I am far too shy to speak to her. I really want to know why she supports Burnley FC though. To/for me that is insanity. “Suicide Squad” – ho ho.

Before heading in to the movie I perform my first Fopp spree in months. Amongst other things I buy a Marx Brothers boxset for £6 in addition to bad books on Chomsky and Freud and Interview and Lust, Caution on DVD for £2 each as well as “I Am Kurious, Oranj” by The Fall.

Looking For Eric turns out to be a great film. It is horribly grim and very slow paced but ultimately a very worthwhile watch benefiting from the most amazing of climaxes. Unsurprisingly Eric Cantona is fantastic. The man is a legend. Despite him never playing for a team I supported/liked he is my all time favourite footballer, the guy just sweats charisma.

The movie for the most plays out like some drawn out depressing episode of Shameless, not least for the appearance of Lip. The story arc is well drawn out and after a downbeat opening and subsequent reclamation a whole new arc enters halfway through serving as the cinematic equivalent of return to go.

Looking For Eric ends fantastically. A few weeks ago my friend Loxley exclaimed over Facebook how he wanted to give the film a standing ovation at the close and witnessing the climax tonight I fully see what he is on about. Out of nowhere comes the most fantastic final scene, one that is too special to waste in conversation, as a genuine surprise moment occurs. Without doubt I can’t help but echo the sentiments of my friend by wanting to give a standing ovation.

Ultimately Looking For Eric is something of a slog and not a pill to be taken if in a low mood. For the ending however the journey is most definitely worth the effort even if being working class on screen continues to appear and look to be as hopeless and futile as ever.

Afterwards as I fall out of the cinema onto Shaftsbury Avenue things look good in the terror twilight. From here I board a tube at Tottenham Court Road and eventually end up catching the weird 9PM Lowestoft train.

With time to spare I decide to snag a snack at Liverpool Street at the Whistlestop. I hate this faux overpriced off license but with all the station stores being cynically overpriced in many ways this is the lesser of many evils. Unfortunately however some fat dickhead in a cream jacket cuts in front of me in his attempts to buy a bottle of wine. I find myself afraid to go near him in case his tackiness rubs off on me. Quickly he aborts his mission to buy the bottle when there is no bottle opener available but this is not before I snap at him “I’ve got a train to catch” to which he cheekily responds “so have I.” The cunt. Thankfully I’m in a good mood and a good place to be dealing with such toss.

With a flapjack and Red Bull cola in hand I board the orange train and brace myself for misery and mystery. Slowly the train begins to fill, even more so than usual, and eventually a gorgeous girl takes the seat next to me to which I truly feel unworthy.

Unfortunately also on the train tonight are four loud politically correct thugs, each well dressed in clothes such as a cream jacket. Motherfucker, its that guy. Soon they are singing stupid rugby songs in full knowledge that with the four of them all being fat fucks that nobody is going to question them or ask them to hush.

To drown them out I max out on my iPod but pretty much they manage to drown me out.

Tonight I find myself listening to the Jerry Lewis episode of Tank Riot and with comes the first time I have ever heard of the movie The Day The Clown Cried. Apparently this is a truly off colour movie that once was a pet project of Mr Lewis but ultimately is in such poor taste that he has refused for 37 years to let anybody see it as he keeps the only copy safely tucked away in the safe in his office.

Apparently the premise of the movie is during the second world war a failed clown suddenly discovers he has the ability to entertain children in a concentration camp all of which culminates with him leading them to their inevitable demise/end. As some kind of exploration into the human mind this sounds/appears second to none but boy is premise truly shocking beyond belief in the first place.

As the podcast ends with me picking my jaw off the floor trying to believe what I have just heard it occurs to me that the rugby boyz are just getting louder as they sing stupider and stupider songs about each other. Suddenly I feel I know these cunts through the amount of times I have heard their names.

My final blow to drown these guys out is to pick the nastiest song on my iPhone and that turns out to be “Stagger Lee” by Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds which the poor pretty girl next to me has to endure fizzing out of my headphones.

Not before time the train arrives back in my beloved Colchester. As I pass the rugby boys it all appears very homoerotic. I get in a lick as I pretty to step over a bag and kick one of them in the leg. Pow!

When I get in I discover that Cairon has been surprisingly evicted from the Big Brother house.

I sleep.