Friday, 31 July 2009

Friday 31 July 2009

Today I wake up around 5.20AM covered in fever dreams and worry about my lambasting from Kerry-Jo on Facebook last night. It worries me how a person have such a negative and wrong perception of me.

Eventually I move properly at 5.40AM and leave around 6.20AM. I worry that with only gaining around three or four hours sleep last night will potentially involve just as little energy today.

The walk to the station is fresh this morning, in other words summer cold. It works for me however.

At the station one of the staff, one of the scabs, smiles at me to whom I respond by scowling and ignoring her. This is what she deserves; do not pretend that this situation is acceptable.

The platform appears/feels somewhat more busy today. I see The Wookiee. Ironically today when we board the train there is much more room than yesterday and even seats for those that can be bothered to sought them.

The apologies from Information Jimmy over the train PA sound completely hollow this morning.

As a gesture the RMT have failed with their strike. Services have hardly ground to a halt (as was their apparent desire) and instead have only given birth to major inconvenience/nuisance and now a distinct lack of sympathy and support to their cause from the passengers. National Express were already major villains but now their staff and union are disliked too because they have blotted their reputation is a more explicit, direct and tangible manner. They’ve scored one hell of an own goal.

National Socialism, the National Front and National Express – things called National are pretty rubbish.

Today on the train there is a really hot Adrienne Shelly with Traci Lords lookalike complete with sunglasses to add to and complete the air of mystery. She is not the usual commuter fodder and I cannot help but feel amazed and dazzled by her efforts. No wedding ring. No green light either though.

It’s payday! Now lets see just how long it is before/until the vultures and vampires suck me dry.

The fucking train beaches outside Stratford. Motherfucker! I decide not to get off at Stratford and do the Nike swish today, there is no necessity derived from panic to escape this train today, just a desire to set fire to it and teach someone a lesson.

Here’s a thing. If the majority of the line is not moving today due to the strike why the fuck are we beaching outside the fucking station? There is no fucking traffic to be getting caught up in.

Eventually I get into work where my efforts against public transport appear appreciated.

Today thankfully turns out to be a relatively smooth day, we are at the end of the month now so most of our work has been put to bed for the month until August starts next week.

Sadly the news comes through that Bobby Robson has passed away. When he attended the tribute match the other Sunday he did look scarily fragile, verging on unrecognisable. Soon people begin expressing tributes and they are warmer and most vast than usual sentiments. I guess being the greatest England manager of my generation/lifetime will have meant he helped provided many exciting moments for people.

My own Bobby Robson anecdote is how I used to play five-a-side football with the very first player that Robson released when he joined Ipswich Town. The guy was only a youth player and never made it anywhere else but it makes for a great story/legacy. I have looked the guy up in the records and on the internet but never seen his named mentioned which does bring the story into question in some degree but the fact that he was so skilful and always wiped the floor with us despite being double our age would suggest/indicate some level/degree of school. He was also the guy that gave me “The Cat” nickname for my goalkeeping exploits.

In the afternoon things begin to truly wind down, not least when our boss plops himself down at the spare desk and begins to have a snooze in the seat. I guess its kind of obvious why I get on with the guy.

Tonight is the outdoor film screening of Alien and Poltergeist at Somerset House which I am going to with Racton, Eleanor and others including a guy called Stephen who is responsible for the Adam And Joe cry of “Stephen”, “I’m coming” (I guess you have to be a fan). As ever I am quite excited about hanging out with the most minor of celebrities.

Over the course of the day everyone seems quite busy and when it comes to heading over no real solid plans have been hatched. In the end Racton tells me that he is heading to Holborn from work so I arrange to meet him there.

For about half an hour I stand on the corner of Holborn watching a busy London summer night fly past me. Everyone seems to be smoking these days. Well, everyone that decides to stand next to me while waiting for his or her own friends. This is truly a hectic part of town inhabited by all kinds of specimens, many of whom I find attractive.

Eventually Racton turns up reporting that people are already at Somerset House in the grand queue with view to snagging a hot spot. We briefly stop by the Sainsburys before joining them.

I have never been to Somerset House before but I have been hearing for years from people who have attended cool stuff and when we roll up at the place it truly is impressive.

Upon arrival I get into the spirit of things by purchasing a special Film Four blanket at an inflated price that rolls up into something that is easy to carry around.

As we queue there is briefly a minor panic when it appears that the security Nazis are not allowing people with bottles into the venue and suddenly our numerous bottles of pop and plonk begin to look endangered and precarious. After a few stunted attempts at making punters pour their bottles into plastic cups (pretty futile) security soon relaxes and common sense prevails.

The event of seeing these movies outside on a huge screen comes coupled with a picnic beforehand and with this the others truly put me to shame offering up an amazing spread and including me when my own efforts offer little more than nibbles. This is how every summer night should be spent, lounging and indulging in the kindest of evenings, full benefiting from what the world has to offer. These are the best of times.

As a DJ plays soundtrack hits in the distance we truly chill until the sun begins to go down and naturally it is time to watch the first movie.

Just before Alien begins the announcer says that there is a special guest to introduce the movie and it turns out to be Officer Kane (John Hurt), which is mondo cool. He jokes about the filming of his famous scene with the alien bursting out of his belly and the guy is just a total legend.

Alien is Alien and thankfully it has been several years now since I last saw it so it is pretty fresh as a result. Less fresh are the latecomers in front of me who decide to lie in front of me for the duration pretty much on top of each other. At the end of proceedings we will all give them dirty looks as they pack off home before Poltergeist begins.

It is quite a spectacle to see the movie screen cast in reverence to its surroundings, to the most regal of buildings framing it while above the stars begin to come out on another amazing summer evening. Who ever came up with this concept of watching movies outdoors at the height of summer knows the idea of outdoor luxury. As the terrifying opening credits for the movie roll out I actually get Goosebumps.

Alien is a movie I can remember being terrified of when I was a youngster but as an adult I have kind of lost my desire to watch science fiction and horror movies, I guess I find the world dark and confusing enough already. This time now I find myself understanding the Weyland-Yutani element fully and thoroughly. Also later after the event Racton points out that it was the special edition where it features Tom Skerrit begging Sigourney Weaver to kill him.

After the movie there is the beginnings of a chill in the air and thankfully with this the three middle-aged twats in front of us decide to head off, probably with view to attempting group sex. I am somewhat relieved when everybody around me points out what monumental twats they were throughout the movie; I thought it was just me being hypersensitive.

With my body now hating me for having sat on the cold stone ground for several hours now I have to head to the bathroom to relieve myself. As I emerge and return to our picnic zone I spot John Hurt coming in the opposite direction and as I pass him I perform the perfect gesture of recognition without being a pest with a spot on nod and smile that acknowledges.

In the brief gap between movies we reacquaint with each other in a gesture of having made it through the first part of the marathon.

Soon Poltergeist kicks off and it genuinely surprises me just how much of the movie I can remember, especially consider how little a fan I was/am of it originally. I remember it was once responsible for one of the most terrifying moments of my childhood at Christmas as after watching it one night later in the middle of the night one of my new Liverpool FC posters suddenly came loose of its Blu-Tack and rolled up on its own before falling to the ground in very noisy fashion.

As the movie rolls I receive a text message from Nina informing me that Noirin has unsurprisingly been voted out of Big Brother (“Ha, noirin is out. See ya later be-atch lol”).

Unfortunately with the night getting older and later the climate also turns colder and the clouds above begin to suggest a shower. With the tubes being screwed up and this a late one anyway Racton is good enough to offer me the spare room in his Tulse Hill crib tonight and as I begin to lose interest in the movie this gets coupled with a dash of drizzle which sees me giving in on the night and rolling up in my new Film Four blanket for something of a snooze.

Luckily I am not a complete party pooper to the point that I miss the famous line of Poltergeist and when the little girl delivers “they’re here” it echoes around Somerset House in the most thrilling and exciting of manners. In the end I manage to keep my eyes open for the climax (now this is something I do not remember or recall).

As the movie rolls to an end we all quickly gather up our remaining food and belongings. Myself emerging from a disco nap I only find myself perving over a girl in the distance wishing that it were her I was going home with tonight.

With the weather now taking a definite turn for the worse we leave Somerset House and head towards getting a bus.

The bus ride is its usual terrifying experience for me and as it wheels through Kennington I reel off my usual list of people I know who live there. We stand for the entire duration of the journey suffering a fellow passenger exhibiting some of the worst BO known to Western civilisation.

Eventually we get through Brixton and into Streatham where we get off the bus and attack the hill of Tulse Hill. Its arduous and hard work as the night now well into the early hours sees me almost falling asleep while walking.

As we near Racton’s street some mardy black girl asks us the directions to somewhere grotty. I don’t bother responding to her with anything more than a limp point but the others indulge her to which she fails to respond with thanks. Some people in the early hours.

When we get back to Racton’s crib it is with the highest sense of relief. Now home we don’t mess about and quickly we all head to bed to rescue what sleep we can.


Thursday, 30 July 2009

Thursday 30 July 2009

Dream 1: I am in Nottingham at a party full of Nottingham types, some recognisable by face some recognisable by name. Obviously my friend is there and as a result the whole bastardised Gringo Records legacy is dredged up much to my chagrin, annoyance and discomfort. Feeling out of sorts I begin to play up and ultimately this is frowned upon even though I can’t help but feel these people would frown on me anyway because I do not fit into their criteria and my ignorance of their version of accepted social conventions is something that doesn’t register regardless.

Dream 2: I leave my kitchen sink taps running which inevitably causes the sink to overflow and floods the worktop area in my kitchen destroying everything in its path including the latest Rothko thing.

I do not wait for the alarm clock this morning I just look at my watch and see 5.40AM as the right time to get up in order to wrestle/attempt/attack the skeleton train service this morning. It looks like its going to have to be the 6.48AM train rather than the 7.48AM – my options are limited and crap, much like the service that National Express offers its customers. It was interesting to see someone else on the television last night accusing National Express of having contempt for their customers – seriously this is how it feels.

Originally I was thinking about taking a hammer and attempting to start a riot on the train: this was only half a joke. Of course I am not that looney tunes but you can really see how a person could be driven to such means/degrees.

Arriving at the station this morning I have never seen it so quiet. Stepping through the gate the reality that the last train home tonight will be at 7PM is confirmed. This is disgusting and sick, incompetence and greed on the grandest of scales.

When the train rolls up it is a full one from Norwich. Them and their Nazi train to Auschwitz service.

On the train I stand next to some bumpkins sat in Priority Seating (for the infirm and elderly) and I begin to wonder if with my weight I qualify for this status yet. Certainly all the abuse I get for it would lead me to believe I do.

This is not a day for standing on a train as a minor panic attack hits me and my chest tightens. At this rate I will experience a heart attack within two years.

Ultimately though the journey just represents how callous and apathetic the RMT and National Express are – I genuinely do feel that my life is being put at risk on this train today with all the Bombay overcrowding.

The train arrives at Stratford at 7.25AM and by this stage I have just had enough and I get off early deciding to catch the Jubilee Line Nike swish up to St Johns Wood. This is pathetic.

My life is beginning to resemble a joke without a punch line, a sick and nasty comment without a redeeming statement at the end to justify and enforce it all.

As ever the soundtrack to my miserable journey is one of the Chunklet The Jesus Lizard live sets which I play/listen to in the hope that residue emitting from my headphones will serve to make my co-commuters experience as miserable as mine.

In the end I walk into work just after 8.15AM. I do not think I have ever been this early for this job ever before. As a result the angry boss comes in and hands me a coffee (“first in gets the coffees.”)

Around 9.30AM the consultant phones and shouts at me down the line. He is beginning to remind me of Melchett a worrying amount. He is the accounts equivalent of a Blackwater mercenary. What he requests is shit, the work is incomplete and in my opinion unsatisfactory. It is too early to be requesting information in the detail that he wants because the work has not been full/completely performed.

As a result of this nag I sail out the remainder of the day unfocused. If the guy is going to exhibit such a shitty/crappy attitude with me he has to learn/realise that my cooperation is naturally going to plummet. I am only accommodating to a point and this was a lesson Moriarty was never able to grasp a hold of either, basic leadership driving skills. Subtly I am very professional but when the climate takes me I can also switch to “doing fuck all” mode very easily also.

My boss has grief on his own plate. He was supposed to leave at 10AM for family reasons but in the end he doesn’t get away until past midday. The scene of him being forced to prioritise work over his family achingly reminds me of that in Remains Of The Day.

For lunch I opt for just soup in a gesture of being healthy but then an extra bowl of fries arrives with our order and it becomes mine. The best laid intentions.

Thursday afternoon pans out aimlessly. The highlight comes when Racton books tickets for the tenth anniversary of ATP at Christmas. The line-up for this festival gets better by the week. Otherwise however I wind up doing little in the PM, as the computers crash so do I.

Leaving at 5PM it is with fear of what train spectacle I have awaiting me ahead. I have two choices of train – the 6PM or the 7PM. I fucking hate how the commuters just take this abuse but then again what are we going to do?

Eventually I get to Liverpool Street just before 5.40PM and the 6PM train is almost already full. My misery gets compounded as I find myself crushed as some big girl decides to squeeze in next to me. As a result I just look out of the window and dream of a happy places.

By the time the train reaches Chelmsford thankfully an exodus occurs and suddenly there is room to breathe in our seats.

Sat over the aisle to my left is a light brown haired lady reading what appears to be a Collins dictionary. This is already strange behaviour to me but when she later gets bored of the book and decides to have a sleep she begins doing this strange gulping convulsion with her neck. With this in mind on top of an already foul mood I my possession I make comment on Facebook about her having “incredible spasms” to which I add “I fancy her, should I go grab her tits to see if she is all right?” OK, obviously such blunt language and gestures is not necessarily an act of decency but long after I have forgotten this comment later in the evening it comes back to bite me on the arse.

Eventually the train gets back to Colchester in what again isn’t too much of a delay in all honesty it is just the gross needless inconvenience caused by it all that leaves a bad taste in the mouth.

As I walk to the olds’ at Balkerne Heights to collect my car I see what I think is Lucy (old housemate amongst other things) stood outside the NHS call-in centre. She looks spaced out, zapped, as if on heroin. As I pass she appears to hide her face from me so I do not get the opportunity to say “hello” to her although as to how welcome this gesture might be is another thing.

After stopping off to see my parents and Bobby I head for home (Bohm Grove) around 8.30PM.

When I arrive home I check my Facebook and off the back of my grumpy comments from early regarding the lady’s neck spasms and her tits a friend called Kerry-Jo has left a response jumping down my throat:

“Wow, haven’t been this offended at a facebook status in a while! To adapt david Mitchell, there shouldn’t be any jokes that aren’t allowed, only sentiments. It makes me glad that as of tomorrow I will be in France for a week and not have access to FB! :)”

The comment comes as quite a shock and I have to admit does concern me. I cannot believe that someone has taken such a stupid comment so literally, thought so little of me to think that I actually consider this thought beyond making a nasty comment to reflect my circumstances and surroundings. It’s weird to be harangued by such a person that I seem to remember going to great lengths to demean me the last time we were out (at Jrink in Soho early last year). Hypocrisy ahoy. Ultimately though it takes two people to be offended: one to be offended and one to offensive.

We this comment playing on my mind I respond “Should I have kept schtum about the Adam’s Apple? I was just bored. I don’t know about sentiments, you can’t take a status so stupid literally, its fun to be childish sometimes. Have fun in France!”

I can do no more. At the end of the day if people don’t want to like you they will always find a reason to use against you.

Unfortunately I roll out the rest of the night with it playing on my mind. In many ways her response serves to offend me just as much as my original comment apparently offended her.

With Big Brother on in the background a minor moment occurs but it still fails to pull me from the ridiculous concern of Facebook this evening. Briefly I chat to Lucy asking if it was indeed her that I thought I saw earlier. She says it wasn’t her but from here we have something of a pleasant conversation on Facebook. She comments on the mini Facebook fracas, taking my side. I guess this is some kind of validation/vindication. She then points out that my offended friend sounds sexually frustrated, which obviously tickles me. I’d like to think so.

After this I just nod off, warm at the height of summer.

Wednesday, 29 July 2009

Wednesday 29 July 2009

Today is marked by shit weather for a shit day ahead. I feel like a whale this morning. This is good for nobody. Luckily the walk to the station is a breeze.

This morning seemingly in preparation for tomorrow the trains are fucked. This is what lies ahead.

On the train this morning I spot another person reading the “Celeb Diaries.” What on earth does this say about a person’s dreams and aspirations? Too late!

After being beached outside Liverpool Street as ever the train eventually pulls into the station at 8.06AM. Yup, any industrial action occuring tomorrow and in the future is definitely deserved and justified.

The tube ride to St Johns Wood is nondescript this morning and the walk to the restaurant turns out to be even more quiet.

Upon arrival into the office there is thankfully no nagging email from the consultant which leaves me to just get on with things in my own (more sensible) manner.

Our new office looks magnificent. The walls are clean and with the accident we have cleared out a lot of the files and boxes so now we are no longer suffocating under paperwork. I don’t think the head office of this company has ever had it so good.

Ultimately though it is another disjointed day, half moving office and half doing work. I am currently wrestling with my first VAT return on the new system. I have the result and what the final figures should be it is just extracting the actual make up of the figures that is proving troublesome.

For lunch I have penne with chicken with is an indication that I am feeling good. Then not long afterwards the IT Guy comes into our room with eight desserts from downstairs and I fear by the end of the day I wind up eating five of them.

With more train strikes scheduled for tomorrow I hit the internet for any kind of news and on The Guardian website I come across the best worded and expressed opinion from the passenger’s perspective:

cantabrigiensis 29 Jul 09, 12:08pm
As a businessman, running a company based in Norwich, I want to say that it is almost impossible to underestimate the damage done to the Norfolk/Suffolk economy by the dire state of the train service run by National Express. The journey time to London, two hours, is far too long for an mainline express service covering only 100 miles. Punctuality is terrible, rolling stock is unreliable, dirty and thirty years old. I have lost count of the number of times partners/customers have complained about the train service and I have been urged to 'relocate to Cambridge or somewhere with decent transport links'. I know first hand that the terrible train service to London was a key factor in Aviva/Norwich Union's decision to relocate its HQ function to London, which will have a devastating and increasing impact on the Norfolk economy. You can only have important managers or customers stuck on broken trains for four hours so many times before patience snaps.

As an individual, the appalling service on the Norwich-London line, particularly on Sundays, when it is often impossible to buy cheap tickets despite uncomfortable three hours bus/train journeys, means that friends,godparents and relatives simply do not want to visit for the weekend any longer. Again, I have lost count of the number of times I hear 'I can't face that train journey'.

As a taxpayer, I resent bitterly National Express's franchise. It seeks to nationalise losses on the East Coast mainline (a previously first class service destroyed post-GNER) whilst privatising profits and receiving state subsidies on the East Anglia franchise. It has broken franchise commitments on restaurant cars and seeks to reduce costs at the expense of customer service at every opportunity. It wastes large sums on pointless branding exercises, such as displaying huge 'National Express' logos on information screens for 50% time, which inconveniences customers who simply want to know how late their train is and reminds them of the corporate entity responsible for the shower of a customer experience. A wise word to National Express - branding is only a good idea if you have a service to be proud of. I'd say the way the trains are being 'run', joint branding threatens the coach business. Staff are obviously demotivated and make it clear they hate their managers whom they consider to be disconnected idiots, and the poor industrial relations shows itself in the terrible service.

A truthful slogan:

National Express: National Disgrace & Regional Disaster.”

Looking elsewhere the severity of the train strike hits me as I see the rescheduled timetable – one fucking train an hour with the last one home appearing to be leaving Liverpool Street at 7PM. Is this a fucking timetable from the blitz? Fuck the RMT part 2 – these cunts are being just as greedy as the people they are striking against.

Eventually the day comes to an end and on the train home I wind up sitting opposite a seemingly 80 year old David Bowie lookalike.

Elsewhere on the train I look across at a girl reading Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. Against the purpose of the book however she just appears to be some pseudo hipster so horribly removed from the original sentiments of the books it is disgusting. She just looks like Denise Richards. There is no sport in that.

Back in Colchester I stop by at Balkerne Heights and by the end of my visit both of my parents are individually telling me to “fuck off.”

I get home in time for Big Brother and oh dear Marcus and Noirin begin cuddling again. For me this is a complete compromise on the part of Marcus as he just reveals himself to be the mental midget we were all fearing, a complete wimp and fanny. In the meantime Siavash now appears to have been frozen out into the cold by the pair of them when really all errs are on the part of her and her slaggy ways. Damn I have seen this in practise in the real world so many times before.

I hit the sack.

Tuesday, 28 July 2009

Tuesday 28 July 2009

I’ve got something on my mind grapes.

My alarm clock does not go off this morning. Instead I look at my watch to discover in horror that the time is 6.20AM and it is long past time to get up. Panicked I get prepared and ready for the day in new record time.

I sleepwalk to the station in a rush/hurry and still manage to board the 7.03AM despite my late start although the fucker does not leave the station until 7.07AM, which will ultimately equate to yet more lateness getting into Liverpool Street. Have these National Express slimes gone on strike already?

I feel very delicate today, like my chest/stomach is full of little Lego bricks cutting my insides with their jagged corners. Am I suffering from some kind of internal bleeding?

Predictably the train pulls into Liverpool Street late at 8.06AM. Yes, they deserve a strike off the back of the great service they provide.

I get into work and into our newly decorated office. It looks fantastic, even better for having no paperwork or clutter in it as of yet. I remember how big and better my flat looked when I first viewed it for purchase, how the space appeared ample and generally it came as much nicer than the reality/horror it has mutated into.

However as the builders still fuck about with stuff elsewhere on our floor/level the big boss is still an angry boss as the work falls behind schedule.

Our boss has now moved into our office with us which is a combination of hilarity and no fun as it now means proceedings are guarded. We now have to watch our words as almost immediately comments such as “don’t you do any work?” come in.

The electricians are in and as of yet have not finished the lighting in our room which means we are now having to rely on those glorified desk lamps. That should serve to royally fuck my eyes up. When the electricians come into our room to do the work the main one looks like a thin version of Bobby George with cheeky chappy demeanour to match.

I email Chris about DJ Gram and My Shit and about getting some artwork for my failed Long Division with Remainders attempt.

My friend’s ex balks on ATP today. This is the same person that was accusing me of being a misogynist the other Saturday. I wonder if these two events are connected. Probably, that is how the world works my friend.

The passes slowly and eventually not before time lunch arrives. Feeling bloated and out of sorts I opt for the soup option and prepare myself for feeling hungry all afternoon as a result.

My afternoon is spent trying to work on the accounts while the Polish builders build our office around us. Soon this begins to resemble something from a Charlie Kaufman movie. Builder’s bums, I now feel an expert.

Just before the end of the day while we are larking with our boss the angry boss unannounced the angry boss steps into our room and gets in his final snipes, this time targeted at the IT Guy.

As I leave the restaurant I find myself being persuaded into going to the Sonisphere Festival. The persuader is the person that blew me out last weekend. Why don’t I just tell him to “fuck off”?

Eventually due to this distraction it makes me late for my train home missing the 6.20PM meaning that I have to get the 6.30PM. Annoying.

On the train tonight are two werewolf kids. Where the fuck did they come from?

Once back in Colchester obviously I pop into the olds’ place at Balkerne Heights on the way.

After a short stop off soon I head home as I have to get some writing done.

At 9.15PM Nina texts regarding Bea hugging Marcus on Big Brother. I swear I thought tonight the show started at 10PM. Nina and I watch the show texting each other our observations throughout.

Not long after it finishes I turn in for the night.

Monday, 27 July 2009

Monday 27 July 2009

8.30 and I awaken from weird dreams of music festivals being like working in an office. These things should be removed from my mind.

Thank god I am not at work today, I think I have had enough of the straight life, of dragging my arse out of bed at 6AM every morning and not getting home until past 8PM. This is no life; I’ve got better things to do. Maybe like Bill Hicks said I should sit at home all day, get stoned and learn the sitar – do something productive with my time.

Today my mission is to get a suit for my cousin’s wedding next weekend. I was supposed to do this on Friday but instead I was dragged into work because these days I am becoming a wee bit too important.

The prospect of getting measured up and fitted for a suit is something I can only imagine will equate to ritual humiliation. A couple of years ago (four years ago) I would wear a suit to work every day but off the back of London and now 18 months of working in a restaurant those old suits no longer fit me. They’re probably tatty too.

As you can imagine I have little gusto for this trip/chore so instead I get into other more interesting tasks to get up to on my day off.

Outside the weather is bleak. The drizzle is coming down and the sunburning glow of Saturday now appears long gone. I really don’t want to leave the house today.

Early on I get into writing. I avoid Jeremy Kyle at all costs and try to focus on being productive. The best thing I could probably do with this flat at this time would be to tidy it but the problem there lies in too much ownership and not enough space/room to accommodate my belongings. Take that you Socialist fucks, I own stuff! All property is theft and goods purchased at cut prices.

Also I begin looking on my hard drive for old DJ Gringo tracks and I come across nine that have all been corrupted and ruined when that god awful computer repair shop on Crouch Street failed to recover my hard drive a couple of years ago. The problem wasn’t even with my hard drive though; I seem to remember it being, as ever, the graphics card. How on earth did those fuckwits manage to spazz my files in the process? Computer people hey, useless cunts them all.

Inevitably after my first bout of writing I wind up watching something I have downloaded and at this time it is more episodes of the second season of In Treatment and the fourth episode (episode 16) with April. I can’t believe how emotional about this show and particularly this patient.

Eventually I head out in the afternoon and wind up in Moss Bros. As I walk through the store I get a smile from a woman working in the store and thinks begin to look up. Unfortunately however as I get fitted for a suit my fears are realised as the young guy measuring me is like a subtle version of The Fast Show “suits you” tailors. When I tell him it is for this weekend he acts as if I have asked him if I can sleep with his mother. He hands me some trousers he says “do you want to go in the left or right changing room?” as if this matters. Is this some vague reference to how my cock sits? This is what makes me nervous.

With trousers safely and comfortably on he measures my chest for the suit. He reckons I have a 50-inch chest. Fuck me those are UFC/WWF proportions but ultimately it is better to have a jacket that is too big rather than too small.

Quickly the fitting is over and having felt royally patronised in a smarmy manner I exit living to fight another day and now with a suit in place for the wedding on Saturday. Mission accomplished.

Briefly I walk around Colchester town for a while and it feels desolate and dull as ever. If I didn’t have to work so hard for a living I could take this but I want more fruits for my labours. Living here does indeed feel like something of a compromise.

I head back to my parents and nab some dinner before heading home in the evening.

There isn’t much more to my existence on this day.

Sunday, 26 July 2009

Sunday 26 July 2009

After last night’s ridiculously late session this morning I awaken just after 8.30AM thinking that I have managed something that constitutes a lie in. I’m a bloody fool.

I am still thinking of Big Brother this morning, I want more information now, and I need my fix. Did anyone else walk yesterday/last night/this morning or was Tom it? Am I beginning to now place a wrong amount of “importance” on this trip? Is it about time that I win/wrestle back my life?

This is a no no morning.

Eventually I get up and out of bed and have a crack at some writing but it is only to diminishing returns, not enough output in return for my efforts. There is something wrong at the moment, it would say it was a block except the words but they are just not very good or well constructed. At some point I appear to have far too self conscious about my writing and with it lost the ability to judge/gauge my grammar. This is ridiculous.

Around midday I get distracted when the first ever episode of Monk appears on BBC2. This show is very underrated, Tony Shalhoub regularly puts in a great comedic performance that deserves to be applauded with more fanfare than it gets. It’s been going for years now and his combination of Rain Man and Inspector Clouseau is a perfect way to doss. I believe parts of this episode were filmed in a part of San Francisco that we visited back in 2003.

With the day not really happening eventually I head back to back where I find myself watching three episodes of Entourage back-to-back. Realistically there should be more to my Sunday experience but this will have to suffice for now.

As per routine I head to the olds for 3PM and snag some Sunday lunch which is its usual combination of fun and tense. I’m getting too old for this shit now.

On Sky there is some shitty pre-season tournament held at Wembley in which Celtic play (and beat) Spurs. They should be ashamed.

The News Of The World is classic today as it reports that Jordan has shagged some cage fighter. The MMA world could not buy that kind of press coverage. For some reason though this is the kind of couple you can imagine working, tough as nails and without two brain cells to rub together between them. I can’t imagine she will able to rub him down to a nub in the manner that she cuckolded little Petey Andre.

While at the olds I watch the final episode of The Trap. This was not the best series of documentaries that Adam Curtis ever made.

In the evening we do the old Simpsons tradition before I head home for the Sunday evening blues.

Once back I begin writing for a while but tired I soon find myself opting for some more Entourage episodes.

My night ends with watching the latest Big Brother developments and those vacuous souls taking up my TV screen.

Saturday, 25 July 2009

Saturday 25 July 2009

This morning awakening at 6.30AM there is some kind of relief in the air. The sun is out in force and I feel relaxed. Perhaps it is the manner in which the sunlight is striking and lighting my apartment but things just don’t look bad at all.

Not feeling tied into any kind of routine today (well, not a strict one at least) I finally unwrap my season two of Entourage box set and I begin the day watching that, a show that by rights should be a hell of a lot more obnoxious than it is but in earnest it is a pretty entertaining show, complete fantasy but somehow against the elements it is likeable.

I’m feeling resigned and philosophical today. Anyone that doesn’t value me (and the list is long) well it is their loss. Thinking of specific example I can’t help but shrug and write them off as terrible people, fuck circumstances you can’t act like a sociopath all your life, which they did to me. I’m feeling prickly.

As I pour my cereal today when I grab for milk out of the fridge for some reason I pull out a next to empty bottle. Why on earth did I put it back in the fridge if it was finished? Times.

Just after 9AM I head out on the Asda routine run. On the way I pop into the olds to grab a shirt for today (yup, mum is doing my washing). It is also to check on the dog and unfortunately when I turn up at Balkerne Heights the old man is walking Bobby. As I leave I do manage to see him and he is looking a lot more perkier than yesterday. He lets off an attention seeking howl at me and when I bend down to acknowledge him he gives me his equivalent of a hug. Sadly I cannot stay and hang out with him even though as I leave he watches me seemingly hoping that I am staying/coming back.

Asda is Asda is Asda. Today I am buying naff George clothes because mum wants me to get a top for dad (seems he don’t fit into L either). It’s a Private Eye fortnight so I get the latest copy of that and find Half Baked starring Dave Chappelle in the DVD sale. In this case it should not really surprise me when the bill hits me for £31.

Today is a hot day and I am slow moving with it.

Eventually I get the 12.29PM train sitting in the noisiest carriage in history. The table next to me look as if they are on their way to a sci-fi convention. This is a stark contrast to my silent morning commuter experiences. These fucking nerds drown out my iPhone.

Today I am heading to London on a Saturday in order to catch/attend the Ben And Jerry’s Sundae On The Common festival which today has SUPER FURRY ANIMALS headlining and TEENAGE FANCLUB just behind them.

As we pass through Stratford I take a couple of photos of the Olympic stadium and I swear the geeks begin taking the piss out of me for taking pictures of a building site. In a group of geeks there is always a mouthy/gobby one.

By the time the train is slowly winding into Liverpool Street my phone rings and it is my boss at work asking me about some papers on my desk. All week he had been subtly hinting/suggesting for people to come in and help him grunt desks from our makeshift office back to a normal one and without my biting now he appears to be chasing me on the phone. Seems the only other person he was able to rope in was the IT Guy.

My journey to Clapham Common is a relatively smooth one although it does involve too many middle age faux and former indie types stepping (literally) on my toes. Well done people for being so well adjusted in your Glastonbury souvenir shirts.

Emerging at Clapham Common I remember that I have run out of money and as a result I have to endure the longest ATM queue in history.

So this is Clapham Common, a part of London ordinarily too South for my liking (and comfort). It is a busy, buzzing area. The sights are interesting, with this ATM positioned next to a pub I see a genuinely eye popping sight of a tall chunky drunken goth lady in not the wisest of wardrobe choices/options. As her legs and arse resemble yoghurt in a bin liner it actually isn’t too repulsive. I blame American Apparel. As she gurns down her mobile phone I have expect her to swallow it.

Elsewhere while waiting I witness other great sights such as an Asian kid wearing a Mike Tyson t-shirt (face tattoo era Tyson, in other words post prime) with the word “supreme” emblazoned across it. Nice.

I’ve come to the conclusion that the rise in popularity of festivals is directly related to the ban on smoking indoors (at gigs) as pretty much everyone appears to be smoking today.

As big as it is would you believe that I almost have trouble finding Clapham Common and the festival. I trigger common sense and follow the noise but this only serves to lead me to the wrong corner of the site.

Eventually I trawl my way to the entrance where I find myself presented with something more resembling a corporate branded fun park as opposed to a music festival. Almost immediately I feel disorientated and with a distinct lack of phone signal confused as to how I will be able to hook up with Racton or Sharpy.

For a while I stagger around sussing the place out and sure enough there is more free ice cream here than you can shake a stick at. There are however enormous lines of people accompanying it coming away with ickle pots of Ben And Jerry’s suggesting the time spent in the queue does not quite equal the value of the returns.

Luckily I soon meet up with Racton and everyone else in tow and suddenly I have minor salvation. As some faceless/nameless act plays out on stage I find myself gagging for a drink so while the others hop a merry-go-round I do the honours.

In the distance onstage is MARINA AND THE DIAMONDS going through the motions. I have no idea who she is or what she is about, it is just good management that sees her on the bill here today. As a result we pay her little mind as we head for more free Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.

Today is a pretty good day to be out. Its not too warm but there is a delicious amount of sunshine accompanying the abundance of free mini pots of ice cream.

As more friends of Racton and Eleanor turn up we take up a spot in the middle of the field and look on at everyone else the event today. I actually see a The Family Cat t-shirt, which is something I never thought I would see.

By now onstage are KING CREOSOTE who also appear to have good management in order to wangle themselves onto this build because other than the name I don’t think I have heard anything about them before. They plough through a schmindie set of personality devoid songs. They can’t compete with our conversation or our minds. Shockingly it turns out they’re on Domino (a label with cred) when really you’d think they’d be more at home on a fake indie such as Deltasonic (a label without cred).

I AM KLOOT are really the first real band of the day and one that I have actually heard songs of/by. If I listened to them enough I feel the might sound like The Auteurs to me eventually. I pay them some attention in the knowledge that eventually they should be playing a song that I will recognise. Eventually it comes in the form of “To You” and a sudden realisation that while it is not a bad song it is neither an amazing song and that this is a band that should have been forced to hang up their instruments some time ago when the indie world’s brief flirtation of interest with them disappeared and died. In this respect they remind me of Thirteen Senses and countless other faceless “indie” bands that spent their career serving under borrowed time.

With the chaff out of the way we begin moving ourselves closer to the stage for the bands that we really came to see. Joining us now is Matthew and his girlfriend who equally find themselves stocking up on beer and ice cream in the prospect of seeing some of our indie heroes from bygone times.

When TEENAGE FANCLUB come out on stage it occurs to me that it has now been four or five years since I last saw them and fourteen years since I first saw them. With age naturally comes a heavy degree of laidback familiarity and today TEENAGE FANCLUB indeed play like a band that is being paid in ice cream.

They begin their set with a series of new songs which aren’t necessarily welcome in these festival times. Onstage Norman Blake these days looks like a combination of Ian Beale and Alan Bennett and when he jokes how his top usually costs £3 but he got it for free due to a deal with George of Asda you can’t help but believe him. Elsewhere Raymond looks like the IT guy where I work and Gerry is just looking shabby these days.

Soon with relief the hits begin to come eventually with a string of singles in the form of “Sparky’s Dream” and “Ain’t That Enough.” Surprisingly today it is the lesser known songs of their catalogue that really hit home as “About You” and “Your Love Is The Place Where I Come From” sound truly sweet in the summer sun.

Despite not being the best ever set I have seen from the band there is no argument as to quality of their material and they would really have to do something drastically wrong in order to fluff their set when there are so many riches to pick from. When “Don’t Look Back” strikes it is hard not to sing or mouth along to the most timid of sad songs before it all comes to a climax with their traditional closer of “Everything Flows” which possesses equally anthemic qualities. Despite all trends that will come and go TEENAGE FANCLUB feel like a band that will go on forever.

There is a sad element to the TEENAGE FANCLUB set as for the entire duration a group of day-trippers to our left proceed to talk their way through the music taking away from what we should be able to be enjoying on the stage. These people remind me of so many supposed well adjusted people now inhabiting music festivals in the summer because this is the thing to do. After the set a couple of them begin wackily falling about on the floor and when they bang into my legs I give off the kind of look that expresses “what are you doing?” when they field me with vague apologies. To my rejection they respond with the usual “what’s his problem?” in Noireen from Big Brother fashion/style just as I wonder whether it would really be so bad if I stomped on their heads.

Against expectations SUPER FURRY ANIMALS absolutely blow my mind. It feels like years now since they have been a true going concern and somehow I think their latter career has managed to pass me by although I think I may once have drunkenly stumbled across them at an ATP. Here today however they appear to be the British equivalent of the Flaming Lips crossed with a kind of Hawkwind sensibility with a glam stomp to power them through.

By rights they should be past their sell by date but they just aren’t as someone savvier than I sees it fit to correctly book and position them as headliners today. This most definitely is a set for the masses.

The SUPER FURRY ANIMALS pound out a set of weird sounding crowd pleasers that I get admonished for not recognising. Around us people are digging the set, even more so than the Fannies. Somehow this has become a family affair as people of my generation now scarily are bringing their kids to see their first band in the most safe of environments. Indeed as the SFA set carries on, in front of us our comedian friend finds himself faced by the sight of a baby sitting on his dad’s shoulders firing baby builder’s bum clevage straight in his face.

Eventually a song I know arrives in the form of “God, Show Me Magic” which stands out as a quick burst of energy during its mere two minute existence that gets fired into the ether.

Finally the set ends as the lo-fi Power Rangers close predictably with “The Man Don’t Give A Fuck” that seems to go on forever with its fat beats and hooks and endless message that the people are able to sing along to in a feeble last attempt and effort at being rebellious before packing up their kids’ pushchair and returning home to Saturday night TV. Ultimately it all ends in victory.

We leave Clapham Common with the night still strong and the air still possessing a warm breeze and the night light as day. The others hop aboard a bus to take them further south and some kind of stag event. I however endeavour to join the throng and masses in entering a tube station not really designed for this many people. As I waddle into the station I accidentally bump shoulders with a girl who tuts as I apologise to her. I shouldn’t have bothered.

Once away from South London eventually I wind up back at Liverpool Street and boarding the weird 9PM Lowestoft train. Tonight is the most amazing evening. Looking out of the window I find myself transfixed by the skyline of East London as it cascades with a beautiful dusk sky and slipstreams of orange and pink. This humbles me, reminding me of how vast the world is and how small and insignificant my existence is in the grand scheme of things. Not in a million years could I come up with something so perfect as this. This moment makes me feel young and excited, reminding that there are still wonders in the world, opportunities to flourish and feel happy. Nobody could ruin this for me right now, even if they tried.

That said my mind soon finds itself distracted by the whining couple sat behind me repeatedly kicking the back of my seat as they appear to do their best to upset me.

I get home just before 10PM, heading home on a still glorious Saturday evening which all ends with my watching Big Brother and Noireen’s confession to Marcus. This climax is anti.

Enthused with a current resurgence of interest in DJ Gram tonight I purchase the domain address. Hopefully I will find some time to use it.

Eventually I fall asleep watching Big Brother only to reawaken in the early hours with the TV still on to discover on the live feed that Tom is walking from the house. I’m not sure how great or important it is to be watching this unravel live as it happens but it does signify the kind of world that we now live it. I would rather take the sunset.

Friday, 24 July 2009

Friday 24 July 2009

I didn’t think I had to get up today but then I remembered I did. Welcome to another Dante Hicks Day and another of course set to “I’m not even supposed to be here today.”

I wake up feeling disillusioned today. Yesterday ultimately proved eye opening and costly in many departments and it is just so apparent now that things are working out for me they way they are.

With that in mind this really now should be the time to scratch my head consider what now needs to change. It is now less than a month until I turn 33 so really that should serve as some kind of milestone and beginning of action.

Today as the news fills with swine flu fever and panic when I awaken this morning will a different kind of headache and after my friend last night told me that this was one of the main symptoms of what she had and thought it may have been the swine flu I can’t help but feel some kind of concern.

The walk to the station is a blur, with my mind focused on other things it becomes of inconsequence.

It’s another Nick Cave morning as I think I begin to understand what the “Abattoir Blues” mean.

On the train today is a Chinese girl with luggage and rolling eyes. She has the saddest expression. She also has bags under her eyes as well as her arms. I wonder just what she is doing and what she is about. My imagination suggests she is some kind of immigrant brought over by The Triad to work in a restaurant or something but the reality is that she is just some piss poor student on the march somewhere.

At Chelmsford a weird looking bald guy reading “The Liar’s Poker” pulls out a raw carrot from his bag and begins chomping on it. Isn’t that like the most disgusting thing you could possibly ever do on a train? He has an RBS bag and wooden cane/walking stick but no wedding ring. Connection?

Luckily also at Chelmsford the Lady Gaga wannabe boards and she is much more fun to look at.

Elsewhere on the train I watch as the Chinese girl attempts to sleep standing up. This doesn’t really work out for her.

My journey from Shenfield onwards proceeds to involve some cunting woman crowding the seat next to me and nudging me in the ribs with her ample elbows all the way. In response to this I turn up my iPhone louder with the noisier selections from “Harmacy”. I truly feel like nailing this bitch with a stanch elbow in her own side but accepted social conventions tend to indicate and dictate this as being something of a faux pas.

As the train pulls into Liverpool Street I am listening to the latest live set by The Jesus Lizard that Chunklet has put up on its website. God bless Chunklet, Henry and all that sail in her. These sets are blowing my mind; there is a buzz from these performances that I have not felt from a band/music in years.

I believe the train is actually on time this morning but pulling into a different platform to usual I am unable to notice a clock as I am still more concerned/focused with the woman from Shenfield continuing to poke and prod me. I’m not supposed to be here anyway.

The tube journey is nondescript and when I pull into work it is to the deafening strains of “Then Comes Dudley” and with Nora sat on the balcony waiting for somebody to let her in.

As we trawl upstairs it is to the sight of the big boss perched at his desk and with us being the first people in he hands us each a couple of coffee he has bought for his crew. This tends to be a good omen and positive sign for the day.

Once settled in I check my email dreading something from the consultant but luckily there is nothing.

Shortly afterwards my boss comes in says “morning” seemingly checking up on me to see that I am not in a mood and quickly I apologise for scarpering last night.

Unfortunately soon the consultant is on the phone and the expected/anticipated email hits along the lines of finishing off the work from last night.

Before this however I feel the need to send an apologetic email to Angela for last night along the lines of “it was me not you.” Later she responds in an understanding motherly manner and it gets put down to just “being one of those things.”

Soon the day reaches lunchtime and I find myself still pulling things together on the accounts. The problem is that I am not just adjusting the figures I am also trying to set up systems and controls spreadsheets on Excel.

When lunchtime arrives I choose ribs and chips with the king prawn starter in order to dip the fries into. This indulgent dish combination is a surefire indication that I am feeling sorry for myself. That said I wonder what the poor people are doing for lunch today.

As I stuff my face and put the closing adjustments onto the accounts once I have emailed them off to all the respective parties I go downstairs in an almost euphoric manner.

The afternoon sails out with me basically bracing myself for the latest queries from the consultant. I do some VAT stuff but come away relatively unscathed as it suddenly appears that with the builders finishing off our office today I will now subsequently miss the big move on Monday when I go for my suit fitting.

When 5PM arrives we exit the restaurant swiftly with view to getting home for the weekend. Tonight I see two Justin look-alikes on the tube and when I board the 5.38PM Clacton train a lookalike of Jock (Drew) from Butt Road being a transvestite sits opposite me. To imagine the guy in such a role really is not the stretch you would imagine.

Sometimes I love this train; it can be Friday evening perfection as it neglects to stop at both Shenfield and Chelmsford meaning a clear run for a large part of the journey. Also without commuters from those places it generally ensures it is a quiet and therefore lush train with sparse attendance.

On the train I watch In The Loop on my iPhone yet again. This movie never fails.

By the time I’m back in Colchester outside it is raining but I endure this on the walk from the station to my car just to reach the weekend. On the way stop by at my parents’ place at Balkerne Heights and potter with the soaps on TV which always appear to have mum transfixed.

When I get home I write a little before watching Big Brother, which tonight features more footage of Marcus getting tetchy (rightly) with Noireen who proceeds to now appear to be going after the Wookie. Soon however I fall asleep watching the second show, which is a makeshift and bespoke eviction show for the walking Ken. No fireworks.

Thursday, 23 July 2009

Thursday 23 July 2009

Dream: I am at a Los Angeles Galaxy game. They are playing against an English team, which by rights for me should be Millwall but it isn’t. To some degree I suspect it is Manchester City who we are supporting and as the LA Galaxy fans get on David Beckham’s back we use this as an opportunity to get into an anti American tirade as we begin singing songs for Beckham against the American fans even though they feel flat, laboured and uninspired. Then he scores and perversely we (the opposition fans) cheer him and the stupid Americans boo their own player. Americans are thick and just do not get it sometimes. Shortly after going a goal behind our English team then latches onto a rubbish back pass and the striker gets pulled down meaning we get a penalty. Suddenly it is time to stick it to the Americans.

With this the buzzer of my alarm clock painfully rings and into another grey day I fall.

This morning I finally find my long lost belt to put on my Gap trousers and it is terrifying to note that it barely fits me. I guess I did have it bought for me when I was a teenager. Excuses excuses.

Today feels musty and I’m not really up for it. The forecast didn’t say rain but the skies definitely suggest/threaten it.

As I arrive at the station this morning I am dragging my heels and the train is already sat in the platform. I have to rush slightly to catch/board it and definitely I fail to get a decent seat/spot.

When the train arrives at Chelmsford Mr Boring Couple sits next to me seemingly incapable of sitting in a seat properly. I take this as a personal dig/knock as to how much room I take on the seat. I feel so much like ramming/nudging my elbow into his spine, to the point I cripple him into a wheelchair. Its what he deserves. The guy looks like a jowled and deformed Paul Giamatti lookalike. He is probably younger than me but his hair is already receding in ways that mine is not and never will. This is probably because he is a cunt.

As we near London I look around and catch glimpse of a man in a black shirt seemingly looking to rock the ginger Billy Connelly look. This man is a freak, I bet he’s not even Scottish (as he apparently so wishes to exhibit).

I return to the latest Collings And Herrin podcast at which point I spookily see a Stuart Maconie lookalike who for a moment I think is the real person.

When the train begins grinding upon passing through Bethnal Green this triggers the train to beach three times before pulling into Liverpool Street. The hold up is painful and when I emerge from/off the train at 8.06 the delay has felt three times as long as that.

Returning to Liverpool Street today is the Chinese OCD Man who appears to once more be spending his time straightening the racks of The Metro free newspaper. So fucking futile.

I find myself feeling paranoid on the tube this morning of an Asian man sat opposite me that keeps looking/glancing at my iPhone. Weary I stare at his reflection in the window of the carriage keeping tabs on him and clenching my iPhone that little bit harder than usual. Does he realise how much attention I am giving him? He gets off at Euston Square muddling with his own inferior phone.

Eventually as I go up the St Johns Wood escalator over the course of the ride I see three rubbish comedy look-alikes including a sharp Jimmy Carr clone. The others I forget, perhaps they weren’t so great after all.

I arrive at work to an email from the consultant telling me he will be in at 11AM. Suddenly this adds a new sense of urgency to my work.

While in our temporary room today the operations manager makes comment about moving offices while his is being decorated referring to his stuff as “my shit.” At this point I mention that this was/is the name of my band and hilarity amongst the office ensues.

I had forgotten that the outsource guy was coming in today and predictably/invariably he gets in the way.

When I head downstairs onto the restaurant floor I get a hug from one of the waitresses and I have to admit that it is very nice and amazingly well timed. One of the Albanian waiters then points out that both our Facebook statuses have both recently changed to single and he suggests that we should go out. She reacts to this by reaching for my fella but at this time it is putty so quickly I have to flinch in an effort to save blushes and tears.

The consultant trots in around midday and almost immediately begins barking requests and demands. Hello to you too.

For lunch I have chicken burger when The Girl decides to change my order from soup. This is what I imagine it is like to be married.

Over lunch I rib the females for wearing more makeup to work than usual and I suggest that it is due to the builders being around. In reaction they protest too much.

The adjustments on the accounts go long into the afternoon and with the consultant’s poodling it begins to become evident that it is going to be tight getting away at 5.30PM to meet up with Angela in Holland Park at 6.15PM.

The problem remains as ever that we are rushing things. If things were just allowed to take a natural course they would have been done by now but with the pressure on and too early deadlines being attached invariably corners get cut and mistakes are made and now we are spending just as much time, if not more, putting things right.

Coming with this now is my being dragged into work tomorrow on my day off in order to move offices when there has been NO sign of the carpet fitter today. This is not the sign of things running smoothly.

As we hit 5PM I am still putting through my final adjustments. Just at this point the consultant wants updated P&Ls that reflect the updated head office costs and non-fudged figures. This really is not the time of day to be beginning such things.

I tear through it though as the usual option/route to do the accounts fast rather than right or correct is taken. I endeavour to strike a happy medium but then on top of this the consultant comes storming in asking me the whereabouts of a figure I have never even known about. I just shrug. Putting my work aside I find it in the outsource guy’s opening balances. It is a figure that had been posted to a suspense account (or “suspence” account as the consultant likes to put it).

Eventually I wind practically begging to be allowed out of work on time because I have arrangements this evening. I feel so fucked about and angry about this, why is everything always so last minute, so fudged and rushed. It makes me look bad when really so much of this problem lies in the decisions made above. Left alone and given enough time I would be able to produce accounts that are fine but when the powers that be begin to flap all falls down and more mistakes are made that in the long run take longer to fix than if we had just given the figures enough breathing space in the first place. These people should listen to me sometimes.

I leave the restaurant seething. At Baker Street I see an Asian version of the Baker Street Midget and then I see THE Baker Street Midget himself, tonight wearing AC Milan shirt looking like a proper little hooligan. See, aggro! How does that work? Does AC Milan do midget sizes of their shirts? All in all seeing these two only bodes for bad luck this evening.

Obviously I arrive at Holland Park delayed. Fortunately she doesn’t notice when we meet up. I arrive grumpy and never really recover. Conversation and action flows in stunted manner as the events of the afternoon just play on my mind and serve to ruin our evening.

In the end we basically throw the towel in on proceedings. My time and money gets wasted just because the consultant bowled in so unfocused and unorganised, upsetting the roost in the process.

Eventually I get set free and with it my friend expresses concern and tells me to “take care of yourself.” The trudge by tube across London on the Central Line is a very sober one, bleak and morose.

On the train home I feel beat and shattered, veering on sleep in the process. Once home I return to find that Half Nelson is on TV tonight, a harsh reminder of Zoe as it was the movie we were supposed to watch the second time I fell into bed with her. That single one night was perhaps the point in which I blew my best chance of happiness, one of the moments I really need to man the fuck up and I just fell short. In the end I don’t get very far into the movie, why do I need to watch a depressing life on screen when I have one right in my face?

Wednesday, 22 July 2009

Wednesday 22 July 2009

Today I wake up tired. Thankfully the sun has returned, which helps a little.

Against what is expected it is a very quiet morning by all accounts. The roads are subdued and traffic is minimal. As I pass the field of grazing cows they seem uninterested in my existence and such is the theme of the day and where it will fit in history.

On the platform at Colchester North Station it is the usual suspects all tensely awaiting our giant chariot to das capital. Everyone seems to have a scowl today and I just feel that I can take each and everyone one of them even though I am operating off the back of just four and a half hours. Last night I saw Morrissey so today I am in touch with my touchy feeling aggressive side. This is cool.

It’s a very quiet morning in general which seems oddly complimented by my feeling very sweaty and smelly today.

The train gets in at 8AM and it is truly shocking for it to be on time for once in a blue moon. Also again with the train arriving those few minutes earlier once more it is noticeable what a difference it makes to the tube platform and how quiet it is in comparison to usual. Unfortunately when the next tube to Watford arrives as I board it smells of piss.

After a nondescript remainder of a journey I find myself the first in at work this morning. Enjoy the silence while it lasts.

On Twitter at the moment one of the rolling topics is “lame claims to fame” to which I jump in two footed as I have plenty of rubbish music anecdotes. Unfortunately my first example/instance is how I once walked in on Trevor Horn having a piss at the studio when he didn’t lock the door behind him one day. When I add, “I saw his Buggles” by the time I reach work his daughter is commenting on my post. This comes coupled with Nikki making her recurring comment of “watch your feet with all those names you’re dropping” seemingly unable/capable to sense the humour in the pathetic posts. With her being the mutual friend of myself and my American Friend, ultimately she is not the person with the most rosy of outlooks on life.

Arrival at work is to two emails from the consultant and one from the outsource guy that has made a mess of the new company. Eventually I face them but not before bracing myself for hassle and anger.

As it turns out the plan is to move back into our normal office on Friday and like a fool, despite having the day booked off to hire a suit, I offer to come in.

For lunch I have penne with merguez. The usual cavalier sign and indication that I don’t really care today.

In the early afternoon the consultant makes some barbed comments towards me as he requests I do three months (the first quarter) on the new company ahead of the head office/subsidiaries costs for the June accounts of the existing company. I pick up the new company accounts but the VAT rate still fixed on it at 17.5% my confidence in the figures and content is not great. This doubt is subsequently realised when the opening figures on the main intercompany accounts do not match.

To start the first quarter of these accounts (Apr 09 to June 09) at this time is bloody ridiculous. The consultant’s man (the outsource guy and other Chuckle Brother) has made an absolute balls up and poor excuse of a job on the accounts. The period to March 09 really really needs looking at before we can even contemplate starting a new financial year. Part of me suspects the consultant realises this and if by rushing things he is able to create even more work by once more going back over old stuff that is wrong he can no only further sink his claws into the figures/accounts but he can also run up a tidy and lengthy bill/invoice with it. This guy, he knows what he’s doing.

In addition to this he is also asking me to fax over copy bank statements to his phone number. By this point I am all but convinced he is fucking me about on purpose.

Towards the end of the day our boss offers to let us go early not realising the apparent urgency of the requests made of me by the consultant. Nonplussed I take the opportunity to leave early.

As I change tube lines at Baker Street I see Parrot Face from Baker Street. She doesn’t acknowledge me but probably didn’t see me anyway. I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. That said any time I see one of those Stepford accountants its gonna serve to bring me down.

Ultimately I actually find myself feeling pretty low as I head home tonight. This reservation is realised when I jump aboard a 6PM Norwich train and straight onto a cattle truck scenario. When did National Express begin taking its cues from India?

Standing up I watch an episode of In Treatment on my iPhone followed by an episode of Tim And Eric Awesome Show and finally the Chunklet recording of The Jesus Lizard show from Nashville. God bless you Chunklet.

As the train approaches Colchester two minutes from the station the heavens open up creating a horrible drenched walk to Balkerne Heights.

When I step through the door of my parents’ apartment I find myself met with the eternal and inevitable question: “is it raining?” It is fucking obvious that it is. At least the dog is happy to see me.

I remain at the olds until 8PM when I head home in an effort to squeeze in some writing.

Against all odds I manage to get the Andy Nice album review done and uploaded so at least there is some productivity to proceedings.

Happy with that accomplished I dig out a present for Holland Park (a Nick Broomfield documentary) and begin to head towards bed and tomorrow.

Big Brother is dull this evening with Siavash now hitting on Noirin as Marcus appears to be reaching the acceptance phase/part of “denial, anger, acceptance.”

As the night passes 10PM I am still drinking Relentless, which is a pretty kamikaze gesture, but my twitching legs are not matched by a twitching brain so with productivity now spent I pack in for the night and hit the sack.

Tuesday, 21 July 2009

Tuesday 21 July 2009

When the alarm rings/buzzes this morning outside it still looks like nighttime. The rain is back, the sun is gone and with it comes an air of defeat and premature winter blues.

I am slow moving this morning, scraping the barrel of things/chores/duties I need to do/perform. When I finally get some breakfast I actually find myself having to turn on the light in my kitchen it is so dark. Summer is officially over.

Despite rolling out of bed late things are soon moving per schedule. With the rain drizzling down miserably outside I have to grab my green American Apparel hoodie. This eventually turns out to be a mistake as it is long overdue a wash. Whoops.

With hindsight this rainy weather is the perfect weather for Morrissey. This is everyday like Sunday.

Boarding the train it is will an element of excitement, of knowing that I am going to see Morrissey tonight and no one around me is likely to be. In preparation I give “Years Of Refusal” another run through on my iPhone. This is a great album/record and was the deciding point in why I bought tickets for the show tonight.

Today at Shenfield once more the creepy old Harry Potter reader gets on in his Warhol wig like head of hair and pervert mack. Surely he realises his wrongs.

As the train sits stranded outside Liverpool Street I just muse – one day it won’t be like this. Eventually we arrive into the platform at 8.04. Late.

Boarding the tube this morning I get a pretty decent seat. Then a hot Asian girl decides to squeeze in next to me when really there is not enough room for the pair of us. This is not necessarily unpleasant. She sits with her back to me in pure and total declaration of rejection. Ordinarily I would enjoy/love having this girl squeezed in next to me but today I have no time or truck for such prick tease gestures. Her iPod is loud and annoying so with any luck she will be deaf by the time she is married. To counteract this I put on “No Pussy Blues” by Grinderman and as it hits its piercing shriek I think it serves it’s purpose to scare her off, not that is stops her own music from drowning out mine. I check my watch and look at her now eating chocolate. This is my world, not hers.

Stepping into the restaurant I bump into the IT Guy who is making coffees and I stumble into conversation in exchange for a cup.

For some reason The Girl annoys me today and when off the back of a random stationery company offering us a discount rate she proceeds to phone up our existing stationery supplier (that we push to legal action for payment) what kind of discount they are going to offer us. Perhaps if we paid them on time instead of rough three months after the purchase they might be a bit more accommodating. When she makes the call I comment that she is “thick” as I feel that she is jeopardising an already stretched and delicate business relationship as it is. Obviously my comment doesn’t go down well and it kicks off a day of tension between us that unfortunately drags in anyone else unfortunate enough to be around.

Early in the day the consultant sends me an email requesting information on balance sheet accounts. These are almost exactly the same areas that I worked on yesterday so thankfully I am able to respond to him well prepared for a change. Impressive use of foresight that.

For lunch I have soup again today. Heading downstairs I see the roller derby girl and she tells me she is still aching from the games on Saturday.

In the afternoon The Girl thankfully comes around and the tense atmosphere clears and we begin to have fun again. Its too much hard work to keep this shit up forever.

I email my friend in Holland Park with view to meeting up.

When he arrives the consultant looms in with his usual cloud of misery and actually when I respond to his requests he gets a bit arsey with me, which obviously I am not impressed by. As a result of this I wind up working late and leaving late.

Despite this I still get to Brixton first and as ever the place fucking terrifies me. It is loud, intimidating and always hectic as fuck. It is obvious a lot of work has been put into making the place right but it will never it lose its reputation.

Eventually Racton turns up and it appears that Eleanor has been waiting at another part of the station all the time. We head to a pub around the corner called The Prince that is opposite The Ritzy where we get a seat easily as we weight up eating options.

Perversely we wind up in KFC while some kind of amateur gospel group sings for freedom outside. As the busy black stereotype of loving fried chicken is exhibited I order as much bird as my pound can get me. I genuinely cannot recall the last time I was lucky enough to find myself within the confines of the Colonel’s house.

As we sit chomping and extending our conversation coincidentally my cousin and his dad step into the place also and soon we clock each other. This is my cousin that is getting married in a couple of weeks’ time. Tonight he is exhibiting the expected nerves as it turns out that he and Racton have worked on mutual stuff with the BBC. I make comment that its cool that his dad is heading out to Morrissey as my own old man probably wouldn’t be seen/caught dead at the gig. My uncle then points out that he is about ten years younger than my dad. Whoops, no offence intended.

As you would expect tonight the Brixton Academy is heaving. This is not my favourite London venue but you have to give it credit for its sloping floor that assists in getting a good view of performance and proceedings.

The vibe tonight feels very different to the last time I saw Morrissey (at the Camden Roundhouse). That was an event filled with personal horror and turmoil but ultimately ending with some kind of false optimism.

Upon arrival we are greeted with the view of old New York Dolls footage playing out on a screen behind the stage followed by more video of a blonde Lou Reed then weird sixties pop in go-go boots.

Suddenly the screen rises and the backdrop of an apparent sixties gangster pointing an accusatory finger at the audience is revealed. With this MORRISSEY and his band take to the stage to a rapturous response. With his band dressed like barbers crossed with Louis Farrakhan in their strange bowties the band launches into a more efficient version of “This Charming Man” than Marr ever felt willing to muster.

Within the first six songs three of them are Smiths songs and early on it feels very much like a crowd-pleasing set. As the band tear into “How Soon Is Now” suddenly it feels as if they are able to do it justice as they nail it in the fashion in which it was originally intended.

From here onwards the set turns out to be pretty much a review of latter day MORRISSEY releases which serves as somewhat of a disappointment considering just what a powerful album “Years Of Refusal” has been this year, definitely in my opinion his best since his “comeback.”

The set bellows in shirt ripping style as “I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris” screams out in raucous fashion with a loving gesture behind the delivery even if the message is one of contentment in rejection.

“Girlfriend In A Coma” returns the set to some kind of nostalgia trip as MORRISSEY slips about the stage in a gesture that I feel sees him taking the piss out of all parties (all stakeholders) involved in proceedings. Its clumsy and sarcastic, a very fun moment that manages to keep the crowd warm as the set launches into a dark section as “When Last I Spoke To Carol” pre-empts juddering displays with “The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores” and a truly horrific and depressing “Life Is A Pigsty” as the misery in the world of MORRISSEY remain long, strong and true. As the spotlight follows him around the stage and he eventually collapses in front of the drums a kind of James Brown broken man euphoria attaches itself to proceedings.

Thankfully the set reaches a rousing conclusion as “I’m OK By Myself” proves another perfect set closer as the sentiments of being individual and alone in a sea of happy clones serves to empower an audience of difficult, awkward and troubled people. This is an anthem that has singalong capabilities and displays just why “Years Of Refusal” was such a strong release.

With the opportunity to rip his shirt open just one more time MORRISSEY returns for an encore of “First Of The Gang To Die” and suddenly it once more becomes just apparent how fantastic, amazing and valuable his return to the fold has been, how much of a treasure this artist is in time of such safe and bland persons in opposition.

As ever leaving the Brixton Academy turns out to be testing and frustrating. Miraculously after losing Racton and Eleanor we once more bump into each other outside.

From here onwards comes the long journey home. As I get the Northern Line up to the Central Line the change at Oxford Circus comes coupled with a crazy man standing on the platform shouting at the Oxford Circus tube sign. Obviously he follows us onto our train where he really smells of piss, to the extent that people have to hold their noses. All through the journey he continues to haggle, shouting as if in argument with his reflection in the carriage window. He has his belongings with him but it doesn’t look like he has anything good in his bags. At one point it even looks like he going to pull out his knob and have a slash on the train. What is his story? Where is he going? I would put good money on him getting off at Liverpool Street when I do. Eventually indeed he does get off at Liverpool Street with the remainder of us exiting the train running to avoid him and his stench.

For the journey home I was hoping to bump into my cousin and uncle with view to celebrating the victorious gig but unfortunately they are nowhere to be seen as I board the 11.18PM train to Colchester.

Eventually when I get home BBC1 has been showing Broken Flowers and I arrive just in time to see the heartbreaking climax detailing torrential lose and the sense of feeling helpless. Very people can do pained the way that Bill Murray does in this moment. The emotions that come with viewing this feel fit to close out a night that was spent with Morrissey.