Friday, 10 July 2009

Friday 10 July 2009

At 5.40AM I wake up and my TV is still on pounding out rolling news to an unreceptive audience. Good job my bedroom window is wide open so that my entire/whole set of neighbours can benefit.

This morning again I arise thinking it is Saturday. Talk about a kick in the teeth and the balls.

There is a chill attached to today, does this mean the summer is relenting finally?

Yesterday despite the hassle I ended the day in high spirits. Here is hoping that once I am beyond the early morning exhaustion things will pick up again.

Things appear ever so slightly up/improved when the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.01. This is still not acceptable but is a step in the right direction.

Things continue to pick up when they are giving out free Frisbees at Liverpool Street in order to promote Marley & Me. Mental note: must download torrent of Marley & Me when I get home. Just kidding. This is great though, it can double up as a plate.

Today begins to resemble my day as seconds after I get on the tube platform a train arrives. I guess this is the difference that being on an (almost) on time train makes. The tube is eerily quiet this morning; do those few minutes really make such a difference? Still this does not prevent the young Gordon Brown lookalike from boarding at Kings Cross and sitting opposite me. I wonder if he does the jaw spasm also. I stare but gain no reward.

Still I trot into work in great spirits, bumping into the window cleaner on the way in and exchanging the usual nice nice.

As I sit down at my temporary desk in our temporary office the operations manager asks me if we can have XFM on the radio. The station is surprisingly good but I think this may be more to my tastes being a lot less militant these days.

Strange vibes at work today, fearful of fall out from yesterday’s tensions. This thankfully however does not come to bear.

I have to admit I do spend almost the first two hours putting up/online my ATP write up in some kind of incompetent delayed reaction.

When I finally begin work I have written out a ten point to do list which at least lends me some kind of focus to proceedings and duties.

At lunch I have couscous and king prawns. The couscous is bland and needs a far stronger sauce than the token lemon drip that is present.

For the remainder of the day I have a nice uninterrupted afternoon and a clear run at the June accounts, finally getting the bank work done in the process. Days like these feel a rare commodity.

Part of this is due to my boss being quiet today, worryingly quiet which causes me concern. As I leave I check on him to see that he is OK and he’s fine, he is just tired. Due to my check in however I get dragged into after work drinks when really I had some stuff at home planned for the evening.

As we proceed to get business drunk as he tells me about a movie he once worked on years ago I show him his IMDB entry and he is really impressed. He is officially a player. It makes his evening.

Also during the brief session I get the opportunity to speak to the new waitress about her roller derby exploits. This is too cool. She tells me that the next event is at Earls Court. Maybe that venue is a sign.

This evening Kate Moss and the dude from Scarfo are in the restaurant. I wonder how he would react if I told him how much I dug the Suzi Quatro Lives In Chelmsford record and tour (when they played with Joeyfat and Ligament). Perhaps I could have started by telling him how I always thought Placebo ripped off his shtick. Then again The Kills appears to be all about ripping off the Royal Trux shtick so ultimately what goes around comes around.

Eventually I leave around 6.20 flying home to my beloved Colchester. The tube ride from Baker Street to Liverpool Street is pretty crappy and this point it reiterated as I watch the black dude in Adidas sat opposite me slowly die in his seat. When we stop at Barbican it is reported that there is somebody on the tracks ahead. Not on a Friday, please!

By the time the train arrives at Liverpool Street the black Adidas dude is coughing like he has swine flu.

I hop aboard the 7.08 Clacton train, a train seemingly full of tourists wearing shorts. All of them have luggage and some heavily/heartily exposed tattoos that serve to display their freedom and rebellious streak. Or so they think/believe.

I’m thinking about adding a disclaimer to my blogs stating “unfortunately I have no time to proof read” as I briefly skim through the ATP entry and find myself coming across various nonchalant howlers.

There is a Stephen Merchant lookalike on the train tonight. Part of me thinks Mindy would break her fucking hips to get at some of that. Him and his sensible Bose headphones. He’s a lifter.

At Stratford a guy that looks like an evil version of Bubble gets on the train with his family and with it being already overcrowded I begin to feel uneasy. Almost his entire family looks androgynous and about to blow. Oh yeah, this train is headed to Clacton all right.

My soundtrack this evening is “You Are Free” by Cat Power and I am not really sure how wise it is. Such horrendous visuals coupled with such pained beautiful words can only ever serve to rip the disjointed glamour from both. This record is my blues; it never does anything but indulge me and drag me further down.

By the time we reach Kelvedon I am almost shouting and screaming, wanting to get away from these goobers. Then the handicapped girl suddenly sat next to me begins gurgling until the inevitable drib of spit hits my hand. Why do we have to stop at Marks Tey?

Arrival at Colchester this evening pretty much represents freedom. After a brief stop by at my parents’ place at Balkerne Heights I head home for another Friday night coupled with the TV.

On Big Brother tonight Freddie appears to have transformed into Edward Norton with his new shaved head. He is now less drippy but falsely authorative with it. That said he remains as unpopular as ever and so as ever I find myself supporting the underdog.

Tonight Kris gets evicted from the Big Brother house. It is satisfying to see the pretty boy of the house kicked out; there was a concern that the public might find itself influenced by his charm. The guy has acted like a real tool and exposed himself for the vacant and vacuous individual it was always feared he would be. I have known people in real life exactly like him that are able to swan through life off the back of their looks and bullshit.

I fall asleep watching Spy Hard.

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