Monday 9 November 2009
My lack of interest in proceedings carries through into the new week. The damage of Thursday still looms large in my mind.
Away from this however this is a busy week for me with events and tickets arranged for every night except Wednesday. By the end of this week I expect to be exhausted.
By the time I am at the station this morning platform arrangements are subject to change, which is always a bad sign. As it gets announced that the 7.03AM is heading my way in fact the 6.59AM pulls into our station a little late, a little tardy. Welcome to Monday.
Today is very nippy and the first day I feel a hoodie alone does not suffice as my choice of outerwear. Now I need a coat.
Once arrived at London by the time I am at Baker Street I find myself muttering “fucking walk straight” at an extra staggering in front of me. I have no patience for these people at this time. My time is short, my life is brief and by messing me around and holding me up they are just proving ugly obstacles in the way of my progression and existence. I apply too much weight to the small things sometimes.
Upon arrival at St Johns Wood the down escalator is broken and out of order. As I watch the people bob down it towards their own platform destination I quake at the idea of it being out when I have to head down it tonight. With things not working, welcome to Monday.
It’s a fucking rubbish atmosphere in the office again today. I have no heart for work as the powers that be act as if nothing is up when the triple whammy of curtailing menus, kicking off about phones and allowing the manager to wind our boss up to the point of sending stupid drunk text messages all leaves a bad taste attached hanging in the air. None of this is being addressed when really I would like it all to be addressed and fast.
The Girl then stomps in complaining about the text she received on Friday night not realising that we all received it (The Lady included). Thankfully she soon realises that it wasn’t me that opened my big mouth and suddenly curses towards the manager are being made. Strangely subsequently our boss acts as if he doesn’t even know/realise he sent the messages in the first place. These people.
Staggering through the early part of the working week I get very little done and before I realise it the day has already reached 11AM. Today is about tying up the loose ends that I should have got done on Friday. In the end I get the old company finished off just as I tuck into penne with chicken for lunch.
In the afternoon I continue to stagger through proceedings, now on the new company’s account but then I lose gusto when at the 11th hour my boss begins picking holes in the head office costs. Perhaps if I were given more time do go through them more thoroughly (properly) they would not look so shoddy. Again work grounds to a near halt as in my mind the accounts were now to be considered done and dusted. I am getting the hump far too easily at work these days.
At five minutes to 5PM our boss lets us go early. There are some perks to being pissed off I guess.
Out of work I head straight down to Bond Street and check out the Christmas lights along Oxford Street. They do look great but also feel very Disney branded and as a result tainted. Also with numerous people dawdling and bumping into me along Oxford Street the moment is soon reduced from being special to something more temper testing.
The plan for tonight is to catch a movie at Prince Charles Cinema before catching REGINALD D. HUNTER and on my way I cut down Berwick Street and head to Sister Ray record shop. The place is fucking dead in the most depressing way. These are most definitely the dying days of the record shop. Tragedy.
After I collect my ticket from the Soho Theatre I quickly pop into Fopp where in the absence of any Billy Childish or Thee Headcoats records I instead buy a very battered copy of his book My Fault for £2. This does not suggest being a very fun read.
Heading to Leicester Square tonight is to the sight of a movie premiere occurring. I’m not quite sure what is being opened but there certainly are enough people in attendance to make it of interest but unfortunately I do not have the time to enquire further as I just about manage to get to the Prince Charles Cinema on time.
When I purchase my ticket for some reason it costs £9.50. The Prince Charles Cinema has a longstanding reputation for being the cheap as chips venue in the West End to see films but now for some reason it would seem it costs full whack to see movies upstairs in its new, smaller screen. Go figure. Regardless it doesn’t stop me from handing over my money.
Once sat down in my seat a few people slowly amble their way in and for some reason despite the theatre being about a quarter full a couple decide to sit right next to me. Later a lady sits to my right and all mention attention diverts to her. What is her story?
(500) Days Of Summer turns out to be a really great film like a cross between Annie Hall and Down To You with a touch of Stranger Than Fiction attached all wrapped up in a lightweight indie manner and package. The movie causes me to pine for dating, for being around a person that I have feelings for even if the emotions are not necessarily reciprocated. Countless times throughout the film I find myself reminded of moments and incidents from past experience.
I feel the movie succeeds in spite of its cast. Joseph Gordon-Levitt really is not convincing in his role, he still just looks like a kid. Zooey Deschanel however once again succeeds as the kookily pretty and interesting girl that the viewer as a result wants to date. In the end though her Summer character proves too all consuming, the individual of the piece that winds up holding all the cards and making harsh decisions with it. As the end movie ends in something of a predictable manner it all painfully resonates by wholly convincing and as I leave it is reassuring when I hear one lady say to another “Summer was a bitch.”
As I emerge onto Leicester Square I walk up Lisle Street past the sight of Dan from Eastenders (Craig Fairbrass) stood outside the premiere of something that is occurring at the square.
Heading to Soho Theatre tonight the night is still early so there is no rush and as I head up Firth Street Soho looks genuinely beautiful at this time as the opportunity arises to smell the roses from this neighbourhood of seed.
Once inside the Soho Theatre I snag a Grolsch and take a seat until doors open. Just before time the man himself (REGINALD D. HUNTER) steps into the bar area with the most amazing looking blonde Asian lady in tow. Who she? Hats off.
In the end REGINALD D. HUNTER puts out a funny set although it does feel kind of straight and not as edgy as I was expecting. On the whole his set feels as if he is playing it relatively safe as he screws out the American perceptions of our country and the culture clash that comes with. With his mile wide smile it all appears to occur to him like some positive shock. At least he isn’t describing our country as being like the alternative world in Back To The Future 2 as certain American acquaintances of mine have said in the past.
Tonight it soon becomes obvious that this REGINALD D. HUNTER isn’t the same as the one that we see on TV. Firstly even though the laidback calm and smoothness is present initially the slickness isn’t, although this is somewhat hindered when his Madonna cum call centre head mic begins to fail and cut out. At first you think it is part of the bit but soon it just reveals itself as technological incompetence. Also physically he just looks so different. It is a monster of a man, looking damn near seven feet tall and wide with it. Also now he has dreadlocks and a headscarf, basically he looks like a black pirate having a good time.
Once the sound issues are out of the way he tears into other areas, expanding onto subjects wholesale such as losing his sexual confidence. With such admissions and confessions you begin to question/wonder “what, this guy? Never” and come to the kind of conclusion that if he is struggling then we are all doomed. Quite frankly the guy sounds like Barry White’s better looking little brother, that is just bullshit.
I have to concede that during his set I do find myself distracted somewhat when it occurs to me that he looks facially a hell of a lot like Lenny Henry (even his act is bipolar in comparison). It is then with some degree of relief when HUNTER himself acknowledges the similarity, working on it as a hindrance but not a handicap. This display of self awareness and what to do with transcends his faux naïve exterior, the guy is genuinely sharp. The goofy element of his act only goes so far as you begin to suspect that he could actually take you (or any other member of the audience) apart at the drop of a hat.
After a late bout of anecdotes regarding shenanigans and escapades (with fingers up arses in the name of retrieving hats) at the hour mark he announces that he has “fulfilled my contractual obligation” (a strong hour as he might say) and that it is “going home, good night.” It is just the most blunt way to end a show, truly ballsy in a most assertive and disconnecting way. I have true admiration.
From here we all get spewed back out onto the streets of Soho and its low end fondness.
Tonight the tube ride across London back to Liverpool Street is filled with glaring expressions. I have no time for these people. As ever there is always a smartly dressed lady close to tears on these trains. God I love the capital.
When I get to Liverpool Street I miss the 11PM by 30 seconds (something I had predicted/expected). To reconcile myself I get a Burger King dirty burger.
Once in the midst of slurry I check my phone to discover that Millwall have eventually beaten AFC Wimbledon 4-1. Never worried.
On the late train home tonight there is a dude clipping his nails. Am I being prudish in being totally revolted and disgusted by this? The guy sat opposite him is wasted, too drunk to complain beyond throwing shocked and harmed expressions at the man obliviously clipping away at his toes. Myself, I’m just too pussy to express any kind of external emotion towards the matter.