Monday, 24 August 2009

Monday 24 August 2009

No day (or week) is ever going to begin well when you go to take a swig of the final milk only to have lumps trickle down your throat. It is a weird sensation that I do not wish to relive.

Not too happy today.

Grudgingly I have breakfast, dress myself, wash, drive to the car park, walk to the station, board the train. All with a scowl, such is my routine.

At Shenfield the weird Warhol-Humphries groomer hybrid guy decides to sit next to me much to my chagrin. I just feel the must hopping off him and landing on me. He is no longer reading Harry Potter, instead he is now reading a truly dog eared copy of Where Eagles Dare that should probably be in a museum although I suspect he probably bought it from a charity shop along with his suit while getting his haircut by the council.

The train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.04AM after beaching and I am truly relieved to get off it. I would complain but who’d listen?

After an ill tempered nondescript walk to the restaurant I settle into a day of misery. The Girl doesn’t bother to come in which only serves to compound my sour disposition, genuinely depressing me and making me wonder why I bother to put the time and effort into any of this shit (life) when other people appear to be able to just coast through existence always landing on their feet with the help of schmucks and suckers hanging around to catch them when they fall. Thirty three years old does not seem to be agreeing with me.

Obviously I can’t maintain such levels of misery and as people slowly saunter into the office they immediately bring me round. When they ask me if I “had a nice birthday” I respond with positivity and gratitude for their wishes and messages. I do not say that this is not where I want to be at the age of thirty three.

My working day is so so. The consultant is quiet, almost silent, which gives me breathing space with which to get on with things and complete the July accounts uninterrupted and unhindered. Last week was actually pretty/very productive in the end and now it is time to tidy up and polish this turd of a set of accounts.

Tonight I am supposed to be going to see DEERHUNTER and HEALTH at the Koko with Stevo and a few others including The Pope. Checking my phone last night he had attempted to call me but I wasn’t indulging in calls at that time, instead choosing to fester in my contrived and constructed misery. Surely I can get some jokes from feeling so crappy? Anyway, as a result of missing the call plans for tonight are still hanging in the air and in this mindset I am in no real mood to push to make things happen. I do not even know if he has got me a ticket. Eventually however the call happens and vague plans get hatched but all in all this means that this evening is on.

Around lunchtime The Girl calls the office and finally we have an explanation as to just where the fuck she is. It turns out her brother hurt his foot/toe and as a result had a fit and now she is in the hospital with him and his family (kids). She tells me that she text messaged me about this first thing but it turns out that her phone has been blocked because she hasn’t been paying the bills. She asks me to apologise to our boss and tell him that she will be back tomorrow. Oh great, I’m to be the messenger and I’m to be the one that gets shot. Forget that.

The remainder of the working day pans out with no real drama and soon I am heading to Mornington Crescent and the Koko.

Things begin badly as I see the Baker Street Midget. Shortly afterwards I realise that I have left the Six By Seven CD at work. Typical.

I get to Camden well ahead of time and rather than hit and sit in a pub on my own I go into the Costa opposite the Koko where we went before GZA a few years ago.

The meeting place that Stevo wants to hit is Belushi’s. I really don’t like that pub much but I humour him and after picking up some quick dinner in the Sainsburys I head towards the pub where he should be. At this point the phone rings and it is him unsurprisingly telling me that he is going to be late. Against my instincts though I still head there and get a drink.

When Stevo turns about 45 minutes later it turns out that his phone has been playing up and that he hasn’t actually told The Pope or his Camden mate about meet up details either. Suddenly it is evident that it is going to be a long night.

Soon he pulls out his freshly acquired iPhone, which in comparison to my own aged tatty cracked handset makes me feel jealous and slightly inferior. He shows me the app that streams live MLB baseball on his phone and it is truly impressive. If only I still liked baseball, if I had had this when I was younger I would have probably exploded with glee.

Eventually The Pope turns up followed by Stevo’s doctor friend from Camden. The Doc proceeds to buy us rounds as we sit down to watch the Liverpool v Aston Villa game on the pub’s TV rather than head over to the Koko to catch the HEALTH support slot, which to be honest I would find preferable.

By the time we are wandering to the venue I have a busy buzz on. These days I am such a lightweight that only a few jars will serve to make me wobbly. Inside as we pitch up at one of the Koko’s middle levels The Doc buys another round and I notice the bar is serving that weird Pussy energy/caffeine drink.

Swiftly DEERHUNTER come onstage and it isn’t to fireworks. Unfortunately I never did click with the Microcastle album and likewise tonight once more only serves to make me question their appeal. Early into the set they do “Little Kids” which was one of the outstanding tracks from said record but tonight it just gets lost in the mix.

The sad reality is that DEERHUNTER don’t really have any songs. Onstage they may have mastered the Pavement stance and pose but against that they lack the humour and fun of Malkmus et al. Musically at other moments they appear to endeavour to be My Bloody Valentine but ultimately they fail to hurt and eventually they thud melt into some kind of shoegazing nightmare.

DEERHUNTER do not thrive in these confines. They look lost at sea without a beacon of hope or any major device for capturing an individual’s attention.

The sad reality comes when the highlight of the evening for me occurs in the human touch of comedically being trapped in the corner of the Koko’s labyrinth toilet while some guy fronts his ability to piss for longer than me. This surely must hold in the meaning of the music of DEERHUNTER, the ultimate metaphor for their music and general reason for existence (this I believe I typed into my iPhone while very drunk).

Partway through the set my iPhone rings. It is not a number that I recognise but I find myself intrigued. Did I recently give my number to a pretty lady? I respond to the number by text with “Best text. Who are you?” The number responds with “You no me” which totally suggests it is a female messaging, have you ever noticed how it is mainly the fairer text that uses text speak. Cheekily (and drunkenly) I respond, “I probably really like you” to which I get back “I like u too darling.” Suddenly this is worrying, this is terminology not usually used by females I come across. There is some strange irony in the usage of “u” instead of “you” but the accomplishment of correctly using “too”. Undaunted though I replay “Good. So how can I be of assistance?” in the vague hope there may be some poonani at the other. Here however the texting ends.

As does the DEERHUNTER that closes with a whimper and apologies from Stevo that are unnecessary. I don’t think any of us thought the band were any good so to make amends immediately we begin hatching a plan to catch Mudhoney here at the Koko in a few months.

Staggering out of the venue I spot Thom flyering for his On The Beach club. I leap on him with a big drunken bearhug (beerhug). Sounds like he’ll be out later in the week so I guess best speak then when I am sober.

Stevo the star as ever drives us home dropping the Pope off somewhere in North London (via Finsbury Park). Originally a kebab had been promised but with working days ahead of us tomorrow sensibly he doesn’t make good on this promise.

Eventually we get back to Colchester at 1AM where Stevo drops me off at the Embassy Suite. I wave him off thanking eternally for the lift home.

When I get back Bohemian Grove I set about flicking through my old phone to see who the mystery phone number is attached to. Rather than being who I had hoped it would be I cringe in horror as it turns out to be an old work colleague from Ghana called Victoria. Was I really text flirting with a lady pushing 60 earlier? Yuck!

Elsewhere things pick up when I check my post to discover BOS have accepted my credit card application and I should now be able to slap my annual Travelcard renewal onto that at a 0% rate for nine months. Why is it nine months these days? Is it purposely related to the period between conception and birth?

With the night fast approaching 2AM I go to bed feeling sick passing out while the Big Brother live feed plays out on TV. I’ll have a heavy head tomorrow.

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