Sunday 13 September 2009
I awaken at 8.45AM this morning with a backache and tiny headache. In my bed my feet are at the end my head should be and my head is at the end my feet should be. Last night was an incredibly disturbed night. One dream saw my mother invading my flat once more and going through the most personal of places in my apartment.
The call at 1.05AM still bothers me. What the fuck was going on there? “Are you the record company? Can I come do work experience there?” spoken through the mouth of an innit kid. These innit kids, the all sound permanently off their tits to me, like they have arrived brain dead. What on earth was he thinking calling a supposed business at that time in the morning? Poor fucker must be pretty removed from reality. Perhaps I should have redirected him to a more up to date phone number for Gringo Records. Perhaps I should call 1471 and get his number and call him back. No, I will do nothing and hope he never phones again.
Slowly I murmur and get up and take a piss. Outside it is a dull day. I was led to believe that this week was going to be the last glorious week of summer but today has arrived gloomy.
The Andrew Marr show begins and as he reels off his list of guests and stories surprisingly Nick Cave is being interviewing talking about The Death Of Bunny Munro. This must be the heaviest pushed book in years, I have never known such blanket press coverage of any other book.
The interview happens and it is pretty stock. At least he smiles which is more than he did when I briefly interrogated him the other day.
Oh dear it occurs to me now who Nick Cave’s facial expressions remind me of and unfortunately it is my old manager at Texas Homecare Jason Lockwood (circa 1994 to 1996). This does not work. This may just have ruined Nick Cave for me forever.
Following is The Big Questions with Nicky Campbell and another infuriating Muslim themed set of questions that will and can only ever serve to incite any poor fucker that has decided to watch this tripe. “Does Islam encourage violence?” This should be as interesting as it is moronic.
Afterwards I heat over to a very busy Sainsburys at Stanway with view to purchasing the Sunday newspapers and a sixer of their fizzy caffeine energy drink Bolt.
Again this week, without necessity in mind, I make a point of not heading over to my parents for Sunday and actually manage to make a cut away from the usual routine. This small act of seeming defiance feels so rewarding.
I really knew what people were supposed to do on Sundays because it escapes me. There is so little to do on Sundays and equally so little energy to go with it. Looking out of my window the world appears to be dead and with it I feel my slow dying also. Soon I find myself getting bored, despite being the same way for years Sundays still kill me spiritually. I have never been able to find the key to illuminating my Sundays.
On a bright note I actually manage to sink my teeth back into Gestures in abundance today. I have been dreading picking this up for months ever since I appeared to get writers block on it back in Easter.
By late afternoon however I am bust and by way of distraction (and research – ho ho) I finally get around to watching He’s Just Not That Into You. I begin to question my own sanity and sexuality halfway through this movie – what the hell is this old claptrap? I begin to feel so depressed at the thought that there is some smug person somewhere who is racking in big money by taking this apparent intellect and turning it into an industry. The people in the movie are just so well adjusted and good looking, this film is the polar opposite reality, a movie cynically devised to press the right buttons in its intended audience (single women and female fantasists). So why the hell am I watching it? God only knows.
As the day continues and persists outside it just gives off a screaming impression of being dank. Eventually the evening arrives and soon time to turn in on the day. Sometimes I feel I am wasting my time.