Saturday, 3 October 2009

Saturday 3 October 2009


Today I awaken just after 7AM not really quite sure what the actual time is. Last night was another caffeine burn fuelled by white tea and fizzy energy drinks with ultimately saw me with Jimmy Leg come the witching hour. Later when I next checked my watch the time read 2.25AM and then I really knew I was in trouble.

Fortunately I enter today feeling relatively fresh and very exuberant. I feel I have plans for this Saturday and that something should get accomplished. I wake well.

After screwing around on the internet for a while, checking in overnight developments and suddenly possessing an urge to listen to the more popular portions of the Afghan Whigs back catalogue I eventually decide to check into some early morning episodes of Entourage (season four).

Just before 8AM there is a knock at my door. Who the fuck knocks on a door at 7.50AM on a Saturday morning. This can only be trouble. Immediately I turn the television down and for a few moments I await a second knock but it doesn’t happen. Instead I hear the sound of our entrance hall door slamming shut as I look out of the window to see who is outside.

Realistically I always knew it could only ever be Royal Mail, it wasn’t going to be anything or anyone heavy. I begin to pray that the guy has left the package at my door and he has. These are my shoes from eBay.

As I take the box inside I am pleasantly surprised by the care taken in wrapping them for postage. These shoes were a fucking steal and now the only question is the quality. Taking the footwear out of the box I find myself faced with a new pair of Camo BAPE shoes and they are great. There are a couple of scuffs but nothing to ruin the look of the shoe. I take a whiff in and they smell great. This was a truly awesome purchase. These shoes are sick.

With “the Perfect Hour” hitting I pull myself out of bed and begin dragging myself together. Outside the day still resembles something grey but there is hope and optimism attached to it pulling something out of the bag also.

I need to get my haircut, it has now been two months (rollerderby at Earls Court day) and with that in mind I get ready for a trip down to Holland via Clacton. By the end of the day I should be looking swank.

With hindsight such momentum was always going to be difficult to maintain. After a drive to Holland for the second time running when I arrive at Colin’s there is a sign/notice declaring he is away on holiday and will not be back until the 13th. This makes me feel like such a schmuck.

Having messed up again I turn around and head straight back up to Colchester feeling scruffy calculating in my mind just how many social events I will be attending between now and when I finally get my haircut, how many times I will fail to make an impression.

After the drive home I pop into Asda and do the usual shop as per routine. Today I am very conscious that my hair has puffed up into my Anglo-Saxon afro.

Once all groceried up I head back to Bohm Grove where I settle down to listening to the radio.

This week I have been alerted of a new website that caters for….”needs” and as the day passes into the afternoon I agonise over telephoning a person in Colchester I discover on the website. After much huffing and puffing eventually I do so. This is the weirdest call, what are you say to a person in such circumstances? It is weird. Eventually I stumble through though and arrange to meet up tomorrow morning.

From here onwards I spend the early part of the afternoon writing, albeit in a distracted manner. Around 3PM I begin pulling myself together as the necessity to get a cheque banked hits me and I head towards town to do the deed.

Town is it’s usual depressing Saturday afternoon self with its consumerism vultures lowering down on its consumerism zombies neither of whom have any money in this day and age. This is straight out of George Romero movie crossed with chav language.

After the bank I pop into Gap and buy some new combats as my current pair appear to be falling apart after only a couple of month’s wear. They have gone up £5 since I last purchased but at the checkout it appears the good people of gap are still making the 2.5% reduction for the VAT reduction of last December.

With the taste for buying I then hit HMV where I snap up Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas and Outlaw on DVD. They’re only £3 a piece so worth the pop. I already have the Criterion version of Fear And Loathing but not a Region 2 copy. This will be my copy for my parents’ gaff. The Outlaw purchase is based solely on this week’s revelation of the director’s commentary by Danny Dyer and Nick Love that is being compared to a non-ironic Derek And Clive. Dyer is a dying breed all by himself.

Finally as I flick through the books at Waterstones skimming through books that I will later purchase cheaper online I come across a book about On The Buses. This turns out to be an amazing tome, the sort of pointless thing I had hoped to once have the time to write. What later thrills me is how it has been put out by a publisher in Clacton. Go fucking figure. Those were most definitely better times.

Back at the olds I have dinner with them before watching It Felt Like A Kiss by Adam Curtis that I recently downloaded. It blows my mind as a quality mish mash and collage of images all fuelled by fear of the bomb. I had never seen the footage of Khrushchev in a ten gallon cowboy hat verbally running circles around Nixon before. It is genuinely amazing stuff, if only people were so upfront these days in both their contempt and primal arrogance. You can see that Nixon was already ahead of the game sporting a shit eating grin while blinking S.O.S. in Morse code to anyone that would listen. You half sense he only pushed on with his career in order to save face and exact revenge after this televised humiliation. Also in the documentary I learn that Lou Reed once had electro shock therapy in order to cure his homosexual urges. Really? As the strains of “The End Of The World” by Skeeter Davis rain out my mum suddenly takes interest as it is one of her favourite songs, one that surprisingly doesn’t quite have the legacy it probably deserves even though I can’t stand it.

On cue I head home before X-Factor begins and mediocrity threatens to suck me in but this is not before I mishear the name of a contest called Daniel Johnson and being Daniel Johnston. Daniel Johnston on X-Factor would be amazing. If SuBo can do Daniel could do it. At least he writes his own fucking songs.

Back home I write some into Saturday evening. Surely there is more to life than this, surely this cannot be healthy for me as I endeavour to secure my future.

Tonight on BBC2 is the Ghandi documentary with Mishal Husain who is a major TV news crush of mine although I suspect she isn’t a very nice person.

My night ends with the Monty Python documentary where the various members border on telling the truth and almost slagging each other of.

I pass out.

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