Tuesday, 8 September 2009

Tuesday 8 September 2009

Today I wake from disturbed dreams having not remembered to set my alarm clock last night. As a result when I think and fear it is 8AM it is only actually just before 6AM (as per routine).

The pages and screens of the media are flooded with images of Abdulla Ahmed Ali, Assad Sarwar and Tanvir Hussain as these people are now being written into history as the people responsible for us no longer being able to take liquids aboard a plane. For that you cannot help but hate and despise these people alone. That said though to up the story it is said their intended atrocities were planned to be worse than 9/11, that hyped video game that the world has now managed to desensitised itself to. The case has come up in timely fashion as the world braces itself for the anniversary of 9/11 and people’s emotions are running high. This without is engineered as a deliberately timed case looking to remind people that the fear and threat of the modern Darth Vader has not gone away and that we should keep our faith and trust remained firmly in the hands of the powers that be.

Again I find myself leaving home early this morning. Why is there a sudden exuberance and energy attached to my morning movements?

At Witham the stinky breathed Sitcom Woman teases me again as she comes in close to sitting in the seat next to me before she changes her mind and fortunately sits elsewhere. She has got my number.

Eventually I troll into work optimistic after what was a very good day yesterday. And likewise today I wind up having another very productive and fruitful day tearing into the August accounts of our existing company (meanwhile with the new companies accounts in the hands of our consultant they remain very much in limbo and stuck at a draft of June and complete mess of March accounts that the outsource guy fucked up truly and properly).

On the radio today is James Corden in banter with Chris Moyles. The sound of this is truly sickening, too pandering and eager to please. Happily elsewhere on the wireless Mini Viva are sending out signals of being this year’s Booty Luv. Good stuff.

After work I head down to Piccadilly and the Waterstones bookshop there for the Nick Cave book signing. The session is set to begin at 6PM and as I arrive a few minutes after that time I notice the queue stretching outside the shop and people already with their copies of The Death Of Bunny Munro. Nothing like being prepared.

I see a security man and I ask him if I have to buy the book first in order to join the queue and with a broad/strong Eastern European talking the brickhouse shithouse says to me “you won’t get it signed.” Flustered thinking that he is taking personal prejudice against me I ask “why?” and he promptly points out the queue behind the pair of us lining around the block. The guy was in fact doing me a favour and saving me time and further disappointment. As I trudge off feeling like a loser I actually thank him for his raw honesty.

As I trudge up Piccadilly feeling defeated, feeling sorry for myself and how everything like this always goes wrong for me I head towards to Charing Cross Road to buy a copy of the book elsewhere. If I’m not going to get it signed at Waterstones, they’re not going to get my money.

I end up in Foyles and when I find a copy of the book it is £17. I begin to feel sick even more. In the end I head across the road to Borders where I discover the book with a £3 off sticker on it. Feeling it necessary I at least go home with a copy of the book today I pay more than I want to.

After jumping on the tube at Tottenham Court Road I eventually find myself on a Norwich train home to Colchester where I open up the book in my seat and beginning reading while being distracted by a well dressed chubby lady sat in my eye view. Here language and voice so scarily echoes Zoe.

Over the course of the journey I get through the first 40 pages of the book and it is very good, much better than And The Ass Saw The Angel.

Tonight are the Mercury Awards and as usual the shortlist is a stinky collective of major label finds and manicured to the point of manufactured acts. That said Speech Debelle is on the list and her record has been a true revelation for me this year so I suddenly I am hopeful that she might win the award and it goes to somebody fresh and original for a change. In the end my prediction proves correct as I begin to curse not looking further into placing a bet on her this morning. Oh well.

Not long after this I pass out.

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