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.

No comments:

Post a Comment