Thursday 29 October 2009
“How can you reach the age of 30 without having own a car?”
Its very bright this morning, glorious from the off.
Driving to the station car park there is an eerie abundance of good parking spots available. What is going on? Is this due to the rapist parking prices NCP and National Express charge the working man?
With view to getting another slight head start on proceedings I decide to catch the earlier 6.59AM train again this morning. Typically the fucker is late.
On page 17 of The Metro today is a fuzzy apparent recent photo of Osama Bin Laden. The picture is actually the spit of Warren Ellis of the Dirty Three.
At Chelmsford a man that looks like a crap Alistair Darling sits next to me. A few stops down the line just as he is reading about Barbara Windsor leaving Eastenders he explodes with excitement and drops his coffee cup over me. Thankfully it is empty baring a few speckles but nonetheless it is annoying and he is an idiot. Damn me though how come I get handed on a plate a legitimate opportunity to be angry and I just don’t take it. I’m mellowing out too much.
Upon arrival at Liverpool Street today it marks the return of Chinese OCD Man straightening the copies of The Metro. I wonder where he has been. This is generally a good sign and positive omen for any day ahead.
The tubes feel fucked today. Rammed and spluttering, they are not usually this bad.
The Girl comes in all dressed up for a family meal this evening. I hate how this suddenly makes me nice to her. Do I think I am suddenly going to get in there or something? The male brain does get outwrestled by its penis sometimes.
Despite this she does take great delight in pointing out the emerging spot on the end of my nose and how red it makes it look. Scarily she is able to see this from across the other side of the room telling me just how red it is. The word Rudolph gets uttered more than a dozen times.
All in all work is a nightmare today. Yesterday was supposed to have nailed the work but as I am already snowed under and working my bollocks off my boss seems to think that it is nothing to dump the VAT return on me also. Now, when we complete the VAT return last quarter I found myself being pulled of it before I had had the opportunity to put it right on Sage and thus it was submitted incorrectly with a set of figures on our accounts program that do not quite tie in with what we submitted. It feels as if I never get afforded the time to correctly finish off things ever.
In the end I pull together a crappy, error littered first draft of the accounts and send it over/off to the consultant to appease the posh boss. For now the VAT can wait.
At the end of the day I leave work with the hairdresser waitress getting the tube together just as Mark sends me a text message to say that he is running late. We all know what I think/feel about the rudeness of poor timekeeping.
I get off the tube at Bond Street just as some guy in front of me lays down A4 sleeves with documents and a DVD inside on every spare seat on the carriage. Briefly we look at the guy freaked out and as I step off the carriage I look down at the heading on the sheet which headed up says “the truth about pandemic flu.”
This is awful. For a moment a follow the man to see what he is about as he just changes platforms and decides to board a North bound Jubilee Line train back towards Baker Street it would seem. What on earth is he doing and looking to achieve by strategically placing such fear inciting propaganda on the trains? What does he know that I do not? Does he really believe that swine flu has been invented with view to taking people down?
As I exit Bond Street station I hear a ringing and buzzing that at first does not alarm me but as I approach street level I notice people stood at the top of entrance not walking down into the station. Behind me I see a flashing “EMERGENCY. DO NOT ENTER” sign and suddenly a brief panic hits me that the crazy guy with the literature has done something crazy. Alas the panic is only mild it would seem and nothing real has occurred.
Stumbling through and along Oxford Street as ever I find myself mentally and physically battered by gallons of tourists all waddling around in a lost manner. With our meeting place set for Argyl Street as ever it takes longer than it should to interrogate my way across town.
Slowly Mark and Sharpy turn up and we head to Newburgh Street via Carnaby Street where we grab some drinks at the White Horse. It is really great to be catching up and hanging out with old friends quite casually again. My day improves tenfold when Sharpy pulls out a Russ Meyer DVD box set to give to me which was a Christmas present last year that never made its way to me. It goes without question to say that I am like a pig in shit with this in my hands. So many great movies and so many I have never seen including Mud Honey shockingly. This is a total and utter WIN. And then like icing on top of the cake he has included some other discs from his company including the new version of King Of New York including the Schoolly D interview in the extras. Hell yeah!
With the pub being at an expected Thursday night (new Friday night) rammed rate we head over to Chinatown to get some dinner and as ever we find ourselves at the Special 1979 which is fast becoming our regular Chinese restaurant haunt. Tonight I have a real jones on for lemon chicken and when they supply the largest plate possible yellow chicken goodness it tastes so sweet.
Conversation flows as we all appear to be living interesting lives at the moment and have fallen into exciting and successful careers. Sharpy always has great stories about the TV and movie industry in the same way that Mark has great tales about the videogame industry. I truly have great friends. Amongst other things this I feel I have London to thank for.
We call it a night relatively early around 10PM with Mark and I heading towards Tottenham Court Road. As we board the Central Line it turns out to be a fucking nightmare. As ever I find myself astonished at how busy this line can get, even to crushing point at this time of night. On the ride Eastwards I suck it in and pray through the misery while I look over at Mark who equally hates it. What is it about the Central Line that beckons idiots?
Thankfully I don’t die before Liverpool Street, although the mini group of people that crush on at Bank make one final valiant attempt to do me in. Leaving the train I nod out a “good night” and clamber for air, even the dank underground of the tubes tastes better right now.
With a little space between my train leaving I head directly over to WH Smith where I buy this fortnight’s Private Eye which completely solidifies this as a great night.
Eventually I get the 10.18PM train to Clacton. Not one of the best. On the train home I watch as a couple of old ladies (possibly old mother and old daughter) bring a dog on the train. Everyone makes a fuss of it even though it looks like a rubbish dog to me. Eventually a pissed up salaryman sits on the seat opposite me and he begins making a fuss of the dog, even speaking to the owners. Is he trying it on with them? I watch as he speaks on his phone to people about the dog as its owners' nervously smile. He then takes a mobile phone picture of the dog, perhaps angling it so it includes their aged cleverages. He tells them how he has one of those dogs himself at home before they begin ragging on West Highland Terriers amongst other breeds. I almost chip in to say that my West Highland Terrier is the best dog in the world but I step back not wanting to be no better than the drunk guy, instead putting my nose back into my copy of Private Eye. Luckily he gets off at Shenfield and peace resumes.
Depressingly as soon as the train pull into Colchester only a few minutes later the 10.30PM Norwich train does also. That twelve minute head start that involved the moronic dog patter ultimately served to count for nothing.
Tonight it is very misty when I get back to Essex. This can only bode badly for tomorrow.
When I get back to Bohemian Grove it is to the discovery that my post has once more only been placed next to my door rather than through the letterbox. Today this is extra annoying because one of the envelopes contained a new credit card. Useless fucking scabs.
My night ends with falling asleep with Paul Merton’s Alfred Hitchcock documentary playing out in the background. Its almost soothing.