Saturday, 26 September 2009

Saturday 26 September 2009

This morning I awaken just after 7AM disappointed at my lack of stamina last night and falling asleep before 10PM despite the promise of a great night’s TV ahead.

I awaken with a mild headache and no idea where it comes from. Yesterday ended with a real high, a real charge of fresh optimism and now this only serves to smack me back down.

Shaking it off I return to What We Do Is Secret and finish off watching the movie about The Germs. It is a truly strange interpretation of that period/movement. For some reason Darby Crash slightly resembles some kind of Jim Morrison character, surely that was not how it was. Nonetheless there is something infectious about the movie that serves as a reminder as to how exciting hardcore music of that period was and how the lifestyle has filtered through over the years via noise, grunge and whatever nasty US indie is called these days.

Perhaps I’m a bit too old to still be buying into this movement and lifestyle wholesale I do leave the house feeling charged off the back of the movie. It has to be appreciated though that to have hard and fast music in your life and have any kind of anti authority stance and opinion is something that most people grow out of and their dreams evaporate and other people take over their lives (such as with the responsibility of family). In some ways despite my misery I have it good, I have these ideas and notions in my head while still also being able to hold onto a very decent job. The notion of being individual that I hold so dear and close to me is something I thrive on and cherish.

It is with this in mind that when I head to Asda to do my routine Saturday newspaper run it is strange to see Ivan from Butt Road walking back to his car as I park up. We clock each other and I half suspect he wasn’t going to acknowledge me until I put my hand up to wave at him. At that exact moment I had been thinking “life is good” and now seeing him a timely reminder of my low times at Butt Road suddenly brings me hurtling back to some kind of reality. Such reminders keep me grounded.

I wonder what he thinks of me still driving the same car I hand when I was at Butt Road. Does this represent some kind of failure? Quite possibly in his circles. Likewise the fact I am bloated, unshaven and need a haircut could well suggest to him that I am a bit of a mess these days, floundering in the same way I was towards the end of my tenure at the company he is now a partner at. Then again here I am at 8.30AM on a Saturday morning up, out and about functioning at an early hour, surely there are kudos to be scored from that? Ultimately though he probably barely pays me any mind more thinking “oh look there’s that weirdo who wrote all those stupid things about us five years ago.” Moving on.

Somewhat frazzled by the almost meeting I stagger into Asda listening to Agoraphobic Nosebleed’s latest album “Agorapocalypse” with view to continuing the hardcore punk theme to proceedings. Heading into Asda time is already short if I am to return home and catch the beginning of the Danny Baker show in time. As I pick up the newspapers and buy another XXL v-neck (my fourth in as many weeks) I fly around the store again buying the necessities, forgetting a few needed items in the process.

What throws me inside the store is spotting another Butt Road related person: the wife of Mr Pan (I believe). I wonder now if SHE recognises me. This is so weird, so harsh. After seeing Sarah last night on the train and now these two I begin to wonder if there will ever be a point where/when working for that firm does not haunt me. I attempt to hide from her (Rachel I believe) but my efforts are laboured.

The final moment of awkwardness ends with the weekly visage of the lad at school everyone picked on, the school bottom feeder. Just as I want to grab a couple of tubs of Moroccan hummus there he is in the way putting a box of other dips out. Briefly he disappears and I dive in like a ninja to grab my slop.

Finally I get done at Asda and haul through the self service tills hoping not to bug the usual lady. Soon enough the till fails to register one of my items and I find myself having to apologise to the lady in order to get through.

Heading home things look good for catching the beginning of Danny Baker’s radio show but it also comes with the realisation that the London Film Festival tickets go on general sale to the general public today. Once inside I put away the items that need to go into the fridge and hit the BFI website.

Unsurprisingly many of the big movies are already fully booked along with the few lacklustre talks and events. This will be my fourth year running attending the London Film Festival and after the first year of personal drama for me (you’ll have to ask me about it, you will not believe) it now represents an exciting time of the year for me.

In the end I snag tickets to seven movies, those being:
The Bill Hicks Story
The Exploding Girl
44 Inch Chest
The Informant!
Fantastic Mr Fox
Double Take

I have never approached the event with as much gusto before and I am hoping my decision will not be one that suffers from overkill.

Later in the morning the reality of having forgotten to buy toilet paper hits me as after a session on my throne I run out. Thank god then for the invention of kitchen roll as a makeshift substitute.

When the post arrives it is with five packages coming through my letterbox. Unlike as usual the postman doesn’t bother to knock instead he pushes each package through the gap and every time one of them lands it sounds as if it is being delivered with contempt.

I spend the remainder of the day endeavouring to write, to catch up on blog stuff and attempting some music reviews. I experience a miniscule degree of success.

On TV today is the Mr Bean movie and its pretty funny watching Malcolm Tucker (Peter Capaldi) appearing in it. At any moment you hope he is going to tear Bean a new arsehole but of course he doesn’t.

Annoyingly Millwall go down to a 1-0 defeat at Leyton Orient today. This fucking team gets one over on us far too often.

Late afternoon I head over to the olds to watch Ipswich v Newcastle on TV which is being shown on BBC2 as Ipswich rename the Churchmans Stand the Bobby Robson stand. The whole event is one big hoo ha for the man.

The highlight of proceedings unfortunately is the hot singer (Laura Wright) that they get to sing a couple of songs. She is more entertaining than anything else the poxy club can offer.

The game itself is a joke. Three goals in quick succession helps Newcastle put Ipswich in their place both on the field and in legacy stakes. The expression on Roy Keane’s face is one of confusion. You can almost see him muttering to himself “what am I doing here?”

At halftime the singer thankfully returns to belt out another tune after a costume change. What is she doing associating with this dung?

Later Newcastle add a fourth to complete a 4-0 victory and further compound Keane’s problems. Perhaps he should have done his homework about Ipswich before going there to manage them.

After the game my parents’ neighbour turns up, the loud one that was the root cause of the email trouble earlier in the week. He apologies to the old man with a hug but this does not excuse his wording the first place. As ever a lot of hot ensues and soon I am on my way before X-Factor fever grips the nation (including my parents) and turns them into zombies (including my parents).

Back at Bohemian Grove I continue to write until late before falling asleep early. Life in the fast lane.

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