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.

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