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.