Wednesday 19 August 2009
It is with a pretty good mood and frame of mind that I wake up with this morning. That said though my left eye hurts like shit when I put my contact lens in. I will not be defeated.
Today the weather is near perfect – super sunny but benefiting from a breeze. Likewise as a result the walk from the car park to the station is also a breeze.
I manage to get to the station in good time this morning and it provides the best of times as it is perfectly timed for catching a feeble middle aged businessman fight. It is hilarious, like something from a Vic Reeves sketch show.
The “fight” occurs when a woman that looks like my former Gringo Records cohort’s grumpy mum (I actually thought it was her for a minute) drops off her grey haired chunky old fucker of a spouse/partner. The car behind then hits its horn to which the grey haired guy responds by sticking up his middle finger and flying the bird. This proceeds to prompt a shouting match and suddenly (probably egged on by his old dear now getting wet) the horny guy gets out of his car. Pathetically they square up to each other as a crowd/audience stops to watch the carnival. I resist the urge to shout “fight! fight!” as plenty of shoving occurs and the grey dude does that classic businessman combat move of holding up his leather briefcase as some kind of shield cum weapon. At this point the wives get involved, now being sufficiently wet to get off – you just know secretly that they are loving it. Things then peter out as the grey haired man turns off in a huff and heads to his train like a disgruntled goat.
The incident brings us bored commuters together as the onlooking males shake their heads in faux disgust (coupled with smirks and giggles) while the ladies look on horrified. Myself I respond with a giggle followed by a comment of “cool.” Maturity is my strength.
I fail to get “my seat” on the train morning instead having to settle for the one next to it because a woman reading “Behaving Like Adults” by Anna Maxted is sitting opposite. Eventually “my seat” is taken at Chelmsford by a chubby bloke with a scary beard. In fifteen years time that might/could be me. Be careful.
Looking at Facebook today pictures emerge of Baker Street having gone on a “jolly” to Newmarket racecourse. We used to do that with Butt Road. What is it with my dodgy ex-employers attending the horseracing at Newmarket? Does it represent how gambling indicates questionable personality traits? And especially accountants, just whose money is being wagered? What does it say about their believed standing in the grand scheme of things, their understanding of their social positioning and their idea of fun? Ultimately it is the modern version of social mutton dressed up as lamb, an opportunity for the tendencies of the bourgeois desiring chav element to dress up, live out a fantasy and pretend to be wealthy. Maybe even pretend that they own of the nags.
The first time I went to Newmarket was in 2002. I had been with Butt Road barely a week and suddenly I was in the middle of an ugly ugly scene of stinking petty decadence and nasty indulgent hedonism. I ended up pairing up with Stevo for the majority of the night and when in the evening after the racing Status Quo did one of their cheesy sets he freaked out as if he had just done acid at a Verve gig (a band I ironically would be dealing with close up later in my career). Afterwards as we drove home in the mini bus people were loud and when I thought I was on the same wavelength as everyone else I joined in by cracking a joke about the office being a “sweatshop” which embarrassingly was met with reactions of shock and people whispering/murmuring “who said that?” I spent the entire duration of the journey home sat opposite the big boss (James), the guy with his name on the sign above the door. All the way I felt he was lording it acting as if he were thinking “these are my boys, my lads” with a big sloppy expression of pride on his face. It was at this point, not least after my comment, I realised that I would never really fully fit in at the firm, that kind of culture is just not for me. I do not (or at least I don’t think I do) brownnose and/or flatter to deceive.
The following year when we trawled up to Newmarket only one boss (Melchett) came along and as our crowd got drunker and drunker, verbally the boss took more and more abuse from the bus, mainly the future underage partner and the hard nut receptionist. It was amusing to watch.
In 2004 the trip to Newmarket turned out to be even messier when even less people headed up and I ended up having quite a heated argument with the future partner. Our night’s misery was then compounded by the failure of a minibus to come and collect (save) us from Newmarket. This was definitely one of the moments that became the beginning of the end at Butt Road.
So now looking at the photos on Facebook I consider with curiosity just how horrible an equivalent trip with the Baker Street people would have been. I think I escaped lightly.
My journey today is soundtracked by The Guardian Football Weekly podcast which with its great digs at Norwich City (very applicable to Ipswich Town also) and accurate snipes at Prince Naseem is still by a long mile one of the best podcasts out there and almost definitely the king of football shows.
We beach twice outside Liverpool Street resulting in an arrival time of 8.05AM at which point they have the fucking gall to get heavy at the gates forensically checking everybody’s ticket individually.
Today I have a spring in my step akin to the “I Think I See The Light” scene/moment in Harold And Maude. Let’s see how long this lasts.
As I board the Jubilee Line train at Baker Street I see a guy get off wearing a Game Over t-shirt. Was he a fan of my short-lived band that never really actually lived?
I manage to walk into work still with a skip in my step as the apparent prosperity of my day appears to maintain.
The Girl is in a positive u-turn mood today. Then eventually my mood goes tits up when the Brazilian/Mexican/Albanian returns from holiday and starts/begins his old tricks (and name calling). Congratulations fucko. I guess to some degree this is karma as when he pulls into the car park playing his stupid fucking ethnic music excessively loudly from his car stereo I once more took the opportunity to point out how much he looks like Ponch.
Enthused by the win that was Ricky Gervais last night excited again by comedy today I also buy tickets to see Louis CK and Reginald D Hunter. Times.
For lunch I have swordfish steak. It is very salty but next level for a working lunch. While eating Fritzl comes in and jokingly (in his mind) rips on us for what we are eating. More names get thrown in my direction. When I respond with evils I think he gets the message. What is this, have a pop at Jason day? It had started so well.
Bono is on Radio One today being “interviewed” by Edith Bowman which is a real fucking meeting of the minds. Generally the words go in one ear and out the other but when he mentions Kurt Cobain suddenly my ears prick up and I begin to feel defensive. Now paying attention to the words Bono says it appears once more he is rewriting the history of his band claiming that their roots were in punk. I always thought their early stuff sounded like Ultravox and various other new wave chancers. In the green room you suspect that Satan is waiting patiently to get his pecker sucked one more time. Go make them yum yum noises now!
The manager looks pretty freaked when as I head down he informs me that earlier a customer had a heart attack in the restaurant. He was sorted out royally by all around it would seem but the manager seems truly/genuinely spooked. It is commented that it was the Brazilian/Mexican/Albanian’s food that brought the attack on. Maybe.
I realise today that Kerry Jo has deleted me from her Facebook (almost without doubt off the back of that day a few weeks ago). Annoyingly this concerns/worries me, for some reason I seem to care what she thinks about me and what her perception of me actually is. I know life is too short but it beats me up all the same.
Additional to this I also note that the pretty Indian girl from New Zealand at the studio that was hairy and useless has deleted me also. What is this kill off Jason day?
Elsewhere I retouch base with Alice today. Its all pleasant and phoney, nice nice and nothing more.
To prove a point I find myself on my American Friend’s blog this afternoon showing people The Teeth and just what a weird looking fucker that guy she is with looks. Then however I notice he has an iPhone. I bet his iPhone hasn’t got a busted screen. Motherfucker, now I have two reasons to feel jealous.
Today feels like the warmest day of the year to date. As a result it is tough to get into doing work. Fortunately by the end of proceedings I have managed to pull the day out of the bag.
On the train home tonight (the 6.02PM to Ipswich) while standing I see another man, another grown adult, a businessman reading a fucking Harry Potter book. Let alone hold down a career, I begin to wonder how the man even dresses himself in the morning if this is his apparent level of intellect.
After there is an exodus from the train at Chelmsford I manage to snag a seat.
Arriving at the olds tonight the package of Alli has arrived. This is our generation’s equivalent of Magic Beans. What a waste of money.
At home tonight the old man is griping about this Terry Sutton guy again and how he has not supplied him with a copy of the latest set of Balkerne Heights accounts he has requested.
Soon after I cut the visit short/brief I head home where I do some writing while also drowning in the mass of retail consumption that is awaiting me in my apartment. Today I return home to In Bruges on DVD, a Male Bonding seven inch and a Big Pink seven inch on 4AD.
Before I know it the time is 10PM. Where does the time go?