Friday 4 September 2009
It hurts to get up this morning. I don’t even remember falling asleep last night. As I put in my contact lenses I see the bath I ran last night still full and untouched, I never even got into it. What a waste. What a stink.
I am late leaving the flat this morning, which ultimately means the walk to the station will be an ache as a result, laboured and clock conscious.
Today I haven’t even parked my car and I see the Alsatian Lady. Does this mean I will now be getting stuck walking behind her at the risk of a mauling from her angry and seemingly as yet untrained Nazi dogs? This is to be seen.
Despite this the morning is fresh, a distinct nod to some of the best weather we will be getting all year lying ahead. You can’t help but suck it in and smile.
As I walk on the final leg to the station I see the carny folk of Funderworld have arrived and descended on Colchester. Something wicked this way comes.
In the end I manage to catch my usual 7.03AM train pretty easily and no morning would be complete without a scowl from The Wookiee although this does appear to be a beard acknowledging scowl lending her a whole new reason to dislike me.
Elsewhere on the train the yuppie Jay-Z lookalike occasionally looks over and stares at me but this is probably down to me slightly staring back in amazement of his Shawn Carter looks.
At Witham the stinky breathed Sitcom Woman boards and I squirm at the sight of her fearing she may decide to sit next to me again today. Luckily in the end she avoids me like I am the plague (ahem!) and forces some other extra to endure her pongee gob. This is probably why National Express train staff strike so often, they have to deal day in day out with people such as she.
At Chelmsford The Bubble sits opposite me and I get a good/full view of her belly at face level when she stretches to open the window above. The belly looks prime for blowing a raspberry on but I don’t think this would be appreciated. Also at Chelmsford a fairly pretty lady boards the train but then I notice she has a Simpsons overbite straight from the pen of Matt Groening. Suddenly her prettiness loses its appeal but I bet she is pretty on the inside.
The train finally pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.04AM. Boring.
As I cross from train platform to tube platform I see the OCD Chinese Man battling with the unfolded and creased copies of The Metro at the stand. He is as redfaced and furious as ever in his attempts to bring the world back to order. Its definitely a thankless job and he IS a superhero.
While standing on the platform I sense a presence and it is the Maradona lookalike from a few weeks ago now I notice with Michael Jackson hair (the curly perm that caught on fire). He is wearing blue sunglasses and I catch him looking at me through them. Is he at the exact same moment wondering if he is sitting opposite Olof Mellberg or Mark Viduka?
A nice little incident occurs after I board the train as a middle-aged soft white guy gets into a minor words and shoving with a young hairless Asian guy that evidently fancies himself and feels tasty. It amusing to watch the soft dude gentlemanly explain his point while the mardy guy just gets all uppity, choosing to rubbing the back of his head with his middle finger aimed in the white guy’s direction. The guy then decides to sit next to me, apologising when he bumps into me.
Something occurs me this morning: why are people (mainly women) still wearing cowboy boots? They remain, as ever, fucking stupid looking.
While on the tube from Baker Street to St Johns Wood I see a Sree lookalike but for once, with his tatty clothes and crappy hair, this is one lookalike that could well be the real thing. It isn’t though.
I pull into work as one of the first as usual. With it the big boss’s door is shut which seldom happens and is usually a bad indication.
The Girl comes in around 9.15AM while I am online buying Sonic Youth and Times New Viking tickets. For a while it looks like I have failed to snag Sonic Youth tickets but eventually I find some, paying extortionate booking fees as ever in the process. With a double result under my belt though I immediately text Racton in California with the good news. Its going to be a Rocktober.
It turns out that my boss wasn’t in yesterday and the reason for this was that he collapsed outside his house on Wednesday night. This is genuinely terrifying news. No one however is saying anything which only serves to add suspicion and worst case scenarios to our imaginations and minds.
Early the consultant phones up trying to speed things up on the accounts. It becomes obvious/apparent that he has not heard about my boss’s spill and I placate him, taking his gripes on the chin in order to conceal that something major may be up.
From here I go down to see the manager as he was who my boss’s wife apparently called in the absence of the other bosses being contactable. There is talk of it being a heart attack or stroke and suddenly I begin to feel pretty uneasy. All in all it makes for a worrying atmosphere.
Later the big boss leaves early having not mentioned a thing to any of us and as numerous angry suppliers phone chasing bills the posh boss fails to come into the office at all, which is bad in light of our refuse company telling us we are on hold just in time for the weekend business.
The Girl tells me that she is putting her university aspirations on hold until January. She then begins asking me where Greenland is as she decides she wants to go travelling. Greenland seems an odd (wrong) choice with her being The Girl that hates the cold so much.
Ultimately it is a weird day at work. A word from the bosses would have been helpful but it never comes.
As the afternoon plays out away from the drama I try to make plans for the evening but in the end I fail to drum anything up. I am such an afterthought to people these days. It would appear people are not turning up to bowling until 9PM which gives me four hours to kill in exchange for two hours fun. This is the rough end of any deal.
After getting out of work I wind up being one of seven people in the Apollo cinema on Regents Street watching Bruno. For the privilege I am charged £13.00 which at first I think includes complimentary hand job from Bruno in the price. Still I have nowhere better to be so I suck it up and part with my money.
Bruno is OK, less disappointing than Borat and also less subtle when realistically being a more odious and less likeable character. I like that I am genuinely shocked by some scenes and the whole silliness of the early sex scenes is almost straight out of the Benny Hill school of comedy.
As I have harped no end in recent years the only worthy kind of comedy to me now is the kind that sets out to offend in a creative and ingenuinative manner. No matter how politically correct a person can be there is no defending some of the stuff that Bruno pulls in this movie, it is just inserted to make the viewer and the victim feel uneasy.
During the scene in which Bruno visits a medium and says “goodbye” to his lover I let of a genuine guffaw of disgust when he spits in his hand and gets down to business. The guffaw is loud and rings around the theatre. It is fantastic to be made to see and feel emotions that are rare and seldom experienced and that I feel is what comedy should be about, making the gesture and creating uncommon sensation.
With his trip to Israel you can’t but think Baron-Cohen really put his life at risk for his art. In this sequence he shakes upon the current biggest taboo and with his priceless comparison/description of Osama looking like a “kind of dirty wizard or homeless Santa.”
In the end Bruno cuts it as a unique movie with so much drive. Succeeding where Borat possibly failed long after the movie I find myself considering in shocked wonder just what was going through Baron-Cohen’s mind when he pulling off these stunts. Personally I love an individual that antagonises people and goes out of his way to confront politically correct sensibilities, even if it is just by offending people and trashing their beliefs.
Afterwards as I spew out onto the streets of Haymarket I head up towards Piccadilly Circus where I catch a tube that takes me to Russell Square station.
Summer is still maintaining which means the evening is far from miserable and as I walk past the Tavistock Hotel and towards Bloomsbury Bowling I immediately spot Lee also patiently waiting for the others to turn up. They are late.
For an extended period we share some kind of stunted chat before finally the others (Michelle, Adam, Doug etc) turn up raring to go. Tonight is celebrating Michelle’s birthday and with it she is dressed up for what should be a Johnny Cash night at the alley. It is not. As we step inside she is the only person dressed like Walk The Line but it is to her credit.
Tonight Bloomsbury Bowling is rammed as it very much feels like the place to be. As we go in and walk past the movie screen at the entrance the Breakfast Club is playing above and all omens for the evening begin to look good.
At the bar I spot the Keith from The Office in what is perhaps the most impressive star spotting I have managed in a very long time. I then begin to wonder just what it is he makes a living doing now. Surely his appearance in The Office no longer funds his existence and come to mind I have not really seen him do a whole lot since. Suddenly I find this experience quite levelling, bordering on amusing and ultimately very exciting as I become the latest gaggling idiot to point at him and laugh.
With our lane booked for us we head to a new part of the building where a whole new set of lanes have been erected. These have a distinctly different tone to the existing old school (Happy Days) ones I am used to elsewhere.
Behind the lanes An American In Paris is playing in the background which proves equally impressive as it does distracting.
Slowly I get drunk as pitcher after pitcher gets ordered. Elsewhere groups are screaming and highfiving as they ram their way to a giant score but there is no sign of that kind of gauche testosterone on our lane as we gradually swing into action and fuck up in the process although there does appear to be a couple of ringers in our midst.
I feel slightly out of sorts this evening so the ability to get drunk is a welcome one. By the time food is served I am tanked and starving, peckish beyond belief and more than happy to eat with my fingers. It’s a nice sight.
Eventually I bowl a pathetic score of 49. These lanes just don’t agree me (or so my excuse goes). The winner turns out to be Lee who nonchalantly triumphs without appearing to actually try.
During the game The Girl keeps texting me with updates regarding the Big Brother final that I am missing tonight. In the end it turns out that the pretty blonde titted idiot runs out as winner, which is fine with me as I genuinely have found her attractive this series, not that I feel she has been the best housemate by a mile. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get the opportunity to watch events evolve in the repeat tomorrow.
After the game we head upstairs where a DJ set is beginning to kick in at the start of what promises to be a long night. The tunes the guy is dropping are try classics, absolutely befitting of this environment with complete desire of pointing towards good times. Adam reminds me of the time he was badgering me to play “Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats when I DJed and he proceeds to stick in the request to the DJ of this evening.
All in all it turns out to be the most genuinely fun evening I have spent in London for a very long time as Michelle’s sister Emma turns out to be great fun also. Sadly however with a day in London ahead of me tomorrow I have to turn in easy with view to getting a decent train home. A party pooper, that is I.
I worry about me sometimes, I worry that my decisions cause me to miss out on extended/additional fun that I could easily be having.
The train ride home turns out to be a typical nondescript Friday night ride that unearths nothing new for me. When I get home TV is king and sleep my best friend.
It hurts to get up this morning. I don’t even remember falling asleep last night. As I put in my contact lenses I see the bath I ran last night still full and untouched, I never even got into it. What a waste. What a stink.
I am late leaving the flat this morning, which ultimately means the walk to the station will be an ache as a result, laboured and clock conscious.
Today I haven’t even parked my car and I see the Alsatian Lady. Does this mean I will now be getting stuck walking behind her at the risk of a mauling from her angry and seemingly as yet untrained Nazi dogs? This is to be seen.
Despite this the morning is fresh, a distinct nod to some of the best weather we will be getting all year lying ahead. You can’t help but suck it in and smile.
As I walk on the final leg to the station I see the carny folk of Funderworld have arrived and descended on Colchester. Something wicked this way comes.
In the end I manage to catch my usual 7.03AM train pretty easily and no morning would be complete without a scowl from The Wookiee although this does appear to be a beard acknowledging scowl lending her a whole new reason to dislike me.
Elsewhere on the train the yuppie Jay-Z lookalike occasionally looks over and stares at me but this is probably down to me slightly staring back in amazement of his Shawn Carter looks.
At Witham the stinky breathed Sitcom Woman boards and I squirm at the sight of her fearing she may decide to sit next to me again today. Luckily in the end she avoids me like I am the plague (ahem!) and forces some other extra to endure her pongee gob. This is probably why National Express train staff strike so often, they have to deal day in day out with people such as she.
At Chelmsford The Bubble sits opposite me and I get a good/full view of her belly at face level when she stretches to open the window above. The belly looks prime for blowing a raspberry on but I don’t think this would be appreciated. Also at Chelmsford a fairly pretty lady boards the train but then I notice she has a Simpsons overbite straight from the pen of Matt Groening. Suddenly her prettiness loses its appeal but I bet she is pretty on the inside.
The train finally pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.04AM. Boring.
As I cross from train platform to tube platform I see the OCD Chinese Man battling with the unfolded and creased copies of The Metro at the stand. He is as redfaced and furious as ever in his attempts to bring the world back to order. Its definitely a thankless job and he IS a superhero.
While standing on the platform I sense a presence and it is the Maradona lookalike from a few weeks ago now I notice with Michael Jackson hair (the curly perm that caught on fire). He is wearing blue sunglasses and I catch him looking at me through them. Is he at the exact same moment wondering if he is sitting opposite Olof Mellberg or Mark Viduka?
A nice little incident occurs after I board the train as a middle-aged soft white guy gets into a minor words and shoving with a young hairless Asian guy that evidently fancies himself and feels tasty. It amusing to watch the soft dude gentlemanly explain his point while the mardy guy just gets all uppity, choosing to rubbing the back of his head with his middle finger aimed in the white guy’s direction. The guy then decides to sit next to me, apologising when he bumps into me.
Something occurs me this morning: why are people (mainly women) still wearing cowboy boots? They remain, as ever, fucking stupid looking.
While on the tube from Baker Street to St Johns Wood I see a Sree lookalike but for once, with his tatty clothes and crappy hair, this is one lookalike that could well be the real thing. It isn’t though.
I pull into work as one of the first as usual. With it the big boss’s door is shut which seldom happens and is usually a bad indication.
The Girl comes in around 9.15AM while I am online buying Sonic Youth and Times New Viking tickets. For a while it looks like I have failed to snag Sonic Youth tickets but eventually I find some, paying extortionate booking fees as ever in the process. With a double result under my belt though I immediately text Racton in California with the good news. Its going to be a Rocktober.
It turns out that my boss wasn’t in yesterday and the reason for this was that he collapsed outside his house on Wednesday night. This is genuinely terrifying news. No one however is saying anything which only serves to add suspicion and worst case scenarios to our imaginations and minds.
Early the consultant phones up trying to speed things up on the accounts. It becomes obvious/apparent that he has not heard about my boss’s spill and I placate him, taking his gripes on the chin in order to conceal that something major may be up.
From here I go down to see the manager as he was who my boss’s wife apparently called in the absence of the other bosses being contactable. There is talk of it being a heart attack or stroke and suddenly I begin to feel pretty uneasy. All in all it makes for a worrying atmosphere.
Later the big boss leaves early having not mentioned a thing to any of us and as numerous angry suppliers phone chasing bills the posh boss fails to come into the office at all, which is bad in light of our refuse company telling us we are on hold just in time for the weekend business.
The Girl tells me that she is putting her university aspirations on hold until January. She then begins asking me where Greenland is as she decides she wants to go travelling. Greenland seems an odd (wrong) choice with her being The Girl that hates the cold so much.
Ultimately it is a weird day at work. A word from the bosses would have been helpful but it never comes.
As the afternoon plays out away from the drama I try to make plans for the evening but in the end I fail to drum anything up. I am such an afterthought to people these days. It would appear people are not turning up to bowling until 9PM which gives me four hours to kill in exchange for two hours fun. This is the rough end of any deal.
After getting out of work I wind up being one of seven people in the Apollo cinema on Regents Street watching Bruno. For the privilege I am charged £13.00 which at first I think includes complimentary hand job from Bruno in the price. Still I have nowhere better to be so I suck it up and part with my money.
Bruno is OK, less disappointing than Borat and also less subtle when realistically being a more odious and less likeable character. I like that I am genuinely shocked by some scenes and the whole silliness of the early sex scenes is almost straight out of the Benny Hill school of comedy.
As I have harped no end in recent years the only worthy kind of comedy to me now is the kind that sets out to offend in a creative and ingenuinative manner. No matter how politically correct a person can be there is no defending some of the stuff that Bruno pulls in this movie, it is just inserted to make the viewer and the victim feel uneasy.
During the scene in which Bruno visits a medium and says “goodbye” to his lover I let of a genuine guffaw of disgust when he spits in his hand and gets down to business. The guffaw is loud and rings around the theatre. It is fantastic to be made to see and feel emotions that are rare and seldom experienced and that I feel is what comedy should be about, making the gesture and creating uncommon sensation.
With his trip to Israel you can’t but think Baron-Cohen really put his life at risk for his art. In this sequence he shakes upon the current biggest taboo and with his priceless comparison/description of Osama looking like a “kind of dirty wizard or homeless Santa.”
In the end Bruno cuts it as a unique movie with so much drive. Succeeding where Borat possibly failed long after the movie I find myself considering in shocked wonder just what was going through Baron-Cohen’s mind when he pulling off these stunts. Personally I love an individual that antagonises people and goes out of his way to confront politically correct sensibilities, even if it is just by offending people and trashing their beliefs.
Afterwards as I spew out onto the streets of Haymarket I head up towards Piccadilly Circus where I catch a tube that takes me to Russell Square station.
Summer is still maintaining which means the evening is far from miserable and as I walk past the Tavistock Hotel and towards Bloomsbury Bowling I immediately spot Lee also patiently waiting for the others to turn up. They are late.
For an extended period we share some kind of stunted chat before finally the others (Michelle, Adam, Doug etc) turn up raring to go. Tonight is celebrating Michelle’s birthday and with it she is dressed up for what should be a Johnny Cash night at the alley. It is not. As we step inside she is the only person dressed like Walk The Line but it is to her credit.
Tonight Bloomsbury Bowling is rammed as it very much feels like the place to be. As we go in and walk past the movie screen at the entrance the Breakfast Club is playing above and all omens for the evening begin to look good.
At the bar I spot the Keith from The Office in what is perhaps the most impressive star spotting I have managed in a very long time. I then begin to wonder just what it is he makes a living doing now. Surely his appearance in The Office no longer funds his existence and come to mind I have not really seen him do a whole lot since. Suddenly I find this experience quite levelling, bordering on amusing and ultimately very exciting as I become the latest gaggling idiot to point at him and laugh.
With our lane booked for us we head to a new part of the building where a whole new set of lanes have been erected. These have a distinctly different tone to the existing old school (Happy Days) ones I am used to elsewhere.
Behind the lanes An American In Paris is playing in the background which proves equally impressive as it does distracting.
Slowly I get drunk as pitcher after pitcher gets ordered. Elsewhere groups are screaming and highfiving as they ram their way to a giant score but there is no sign of that kind of gauche testosterone on our lane as we gradually swing into action and fuck up in the process although there does appear to be a couple of ringers in our midst.
I feel slightly out of sorts this evening so the ability to get drunk is a welcome one. By the time food is served I am tanked and starving, peckish beyond belief and more than happy to eat with my fingers. It’s a nice sight.
Eventually I bowl a pathetic score of 49. These lanes just don’t agree me (or so my excuse goes). The winner turns out to be Lee who nonchalantly triumphs without appearing to actually try.
During the game The Girl keeps texting me with updates regarding the Big Brother final that I am missing tonight. In the end it turns out that the pretty blonde titted idiot runs out as winner, which is fine with me as I genuinely have found her attractive this series, not that I feel she has been the best housemate by a mile. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get the opportunity to watch events evolve in the repeat tomorrow.
After the game we head upstairs where a DJ set is beginning to kick in at the start of what promises to be a long night. The tunes the guy is dropping are try classics, absolutely befitting of this environment with complete desire of pointing towards good times. Adam reminds me of the time he was badgering me to play “Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats when I DJed and he proceeds to stick in the request to the DJ of this evening.
All in all it turns out to be the most genuinely fun evening I have spent in London for a very long time as Michelle’s sister Emma turns out to be great fun also. Sadly however with a day in London ahead of me tomorrow I have to turn in easy with view to getting a decent train home. A party pooper, that is I.
I worry about me sometimes, I worry that my decisions cause me to miss out on extended/additional fun that I could easily be having.
The train ride home turns out to be a typical nondescript Friday night ride that unearths nothing new for me. When I get home TV is king and sleep my best friend.
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