Thursday, 20 August 2009

Thursday 20 August 2009

Dream: I find myself back working at Baker Street. First I meet up with James at some kind of gig held at a university and we meet in the library and he fills me in on what has happened. One of the things that shocks me most is that Zoe has in the meantime been married and divorced which suddenly hits home that it has now been almost eighteen months since I have heard from her. Amusingly the guy she married had the surname “Grunt” so her name became “Zoe Grunt”. I am in a different version of the Baker Street office. A new person has joined the company and is being welcomed into our team. The Korean is nowhere to be seen. That cunting fuck of an attempt at a manager Moriarty is there though and she makes introductions and cracks a joke about being fair provided things are done her way. Seems in the 18 months since I have been gone the woman hasn’t learned one fucking thing.

Things are lucid this morning. The forecast threatens rain but outside it is still warm and I am melting. Rain looks unlikely.

When I get to the station “our section” of the platform is empty, there is no sign of any of the regulars. What happened? Swine Flu?

Unfortunately however when the train arrives the twattish woman from yesterday reading “Behaving Like Adults” by Anna Maxted is again sat in “my seat.” That book is a fucking prop.

Later on the journey joining us is a fat version of Anthony Head who sits opposite me followed by the girl with dyed red hair which appears to have now had a fresh purple dye job.

The train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.05AM after beaching outside the station yet again. Is this now to be the consistent late time for the train? Dear National Express please stop fucking checking/scrutinising the possession/purchase of a ticket and sort this lateness out to ensure that my ticket anywhere near justifies the financial rape fee it current costs.

The sweat stain on my Gap trousers by the end of the journey is again embarrassing to the max again today. I do my best to try to hide/disguise it but to diminishing returns.

On the tube today I find a copy of the Daily Mail and pick it up for a read. As if I were not right wing enough already.

Work sails out slowly today. The day begins light and lethargic. The bank situation isn’t good and neither is attendance of management.

When I finally/eventually get going I find myself disrupted by one of our central theatre locations/sites asking me about employment law and why our usual consultants are now saying we do not have an account open with them. These I believe were cost cuts. Realistically though for employment law queries I ought to be perfect considering the manner in which some of my recent history jobs ended but unfortunately the manager of the site is not very forthcoming in/with information regarding the incident. As a result I just direct him towards the big boss in the absence of the vacationing operations manager.

Just after lunch the IT Guy comes in with horror stories regarding his family at the weekend – no wonder we haven’t seen him all week, it sounds like he has been licking his wounds.

Today feels warmer than yesterday and at lunchtime I royally fuck up when The Girl catches me uploading a couple of entries to my blog. Sneakily peering over my shoulder she proclaims that now she finally knows the name of my book (and as a result blog) and she proceeds to Google it. Royally I watch in horror before panicking and after failing in my attempts to divert her away from it she reacts like a dog with a bone and now in the possession of my apparent little secret and a key to privileged information about my world. Frustratingly I had just been thinking how good the site was now looking but as a result of this I figure I have no option other than to delete the blog in order to secure/save my job. It is maybe with a too guarded overreaction that I proceed to take down every entry since 28 February 09. Rip it up and start again. Once I am finished I fill physically sick.

My heart sinks as all the work is suddenly gone. Clocking in at around the 150K word mark with photographs to accompany the new blog this represents (represented) a major body of work suddenly all gone due to the snooping of a person generally regarded as thick with a Jordan-esqe mentality that has never done or accomplished anything creative in her life.

Unaware of what she has panicked me into doing she begins quizzing me further about the book but she’s just too well adjusted in that chav manner to understand the conceit of it. With each question I just get more and more defensive and stroppy feeling that I am being unnecessarily forced to defend my beliefs and actions. She is one of these “stop feeling sorry for yourself” type persons that acts/feels that a person should accept whatever is handed to them without responding.

The loss of the work hits me hard. This week wasn’t supposed to contain this.

Returning to my work she says to me “do you remember that game?” to which I respond loudly and abruptly “WHAT FUCKING GAME JENNA?” to which she obviously responds to with a strop. From here onwards the remainder of the day is one long atmosphere.

Eventually the day comes to an end and with it a sigh of relief. From here I get the tube down to Bond Street where I see the Irish girl from Baker Street – this is a truly bad omen to experience/witness at the end of the day. These fucking ghosts.

Out of Bond Street I head towards tourist Oxford Street where I am met by the usual tourist apocalypse. If there is anything more likely to send a shot of anger and fear into the heart of a London local/native it is Oxford Street filled with out of towners. I avoid Gap and barely do HMV where I am depressed to find that the seven inch singles section has finally been dispensed of. Defeated I head back to Oxford Circus to discover that the Oxford Street Borders has already been closed. I had heard the rumours it was shutting but not as swift and merciless as this. During my pained tenure at Baker Street more mornings than not that store was my refuge. It was only a shop but it will be missed.

When I see the carnage that is peak time Oxford Circus tube station I immediately turnaround and decide to walk to Euston and Bloomsbury this evening.

There are definitely worse places to walk in London.

Eventually I find myself typing/writing this drivel into my iPhone in a Starbucks on Goodge Street. Tonight I have little, if any, enthusiasm for RICKY GERVAIS and I don’t even know if this will find it’s way online at all.

Getting over myself I finally saunter over to Bloomsbury Theatre where I step upstairs to realise that my ticket is standing only. This ticket was cheap for a reason.

Again RICHARD MORRIS provides support and does almost exactly the same set as Tuesday night. That is the sign of a true professional. Again I love the joke where he steps on the cat’s tail where it goes “me owe” to which he responds “me sorry.”

Likewise RICKY GERVAIS does his thing and delivers a similar set to Tuesday night albeit with a few chops and changes here and there. Again he opens with some kind of declaration of his feats followed by rolling onto and promptly off the stage via Segue.

Tonight he opens once more by declaring his intentions to go on Britain’s Got Talent now that he has accomplished so much and proved himself to be in possession of so much talent.

The performance and set tonight is very similar to that of Tuesday as he goes through the process of tell the tale again of the lady rubbing herself during the Ken Dodd performance which then leads to a harsh critique of other subhumans in the form of autograph hunters.

Eventually the science portion of the show begins and again it culminates in his dismantling the religious ideas as expressed via the Dove childrens book about the Noah story. Again GERVAIS takes the tale apart with the proficiency of a tutor holding a lecture and once more it is very convincing.

Returning to the set tonight is a barrage of fat jokes which for me tainted the Fame set a few years ago. To me these seem mean and unnecessarily hurtful but then again if I were of one of the other minorities he was taking aim at I might feel aggrieved by those jokes also, jokes such as the “reach round” demonstration.

Again though he rolls out his justification spiel about context being the key to certain elements of his material before leading into the joke from the dinner party about the daughter telling her dad how she was almost molested.

Tonight he cuts out the clitoris joke, which perhaps proved too close to the bone for some but personally I feel slightly cheated and definitely less invigorated as the show suddenly feels less edgy and dangerous, no longer taking Lenny Bruce-esqe risks. With this in comparison the set ends with a whimper.

Afterwards I stomp to Euston Square where typically the train is not moving. As we wait there is the sound of liquid splashing against the floor and summing/capping my day a girl vomits in the carriage. As the stink begins to overwhelm I make the sensible decision to jump off this carriage and onto the next one. A number of other people echo my assertive act.

When the tube finally reaches Liverpool Street I run to catch the 9.30PM Norwich train, which I just about catch. On the train I bump into Paul Ryan in a bicycle helmet. Very metal. I say “hi” and he doesn’t acknowledge me so I pat him and scream “hi” into his ear to hopefully get a reaction. Why don’t people give me the time of day anymore? What happened?

On the train home I spot the spit of Andy from the restaurant, even to the point that for a while I think it is actually him. He certainly has the front and definitely the jowls. When the train finally gets back to Colchester I head straight home where I flick/flip around the TV channels before quickly falling asleep with a chuckle.

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