Wednesday 18 November 2009
Dream: I am in a confab at work. The Girl harps on about how she reads my blog.
I am back to awaking in pitch darkness again this morning. As I emerge it is with a headache and a feeling of loss.
Today is one of those days where every traffic light is on red when I arrive at it. Despite leaving home a little late I smoothly board the 6.59AM, seeing the scowling Disney Face in the process.
The train obviously gets delayed on its way into London but unlike the 7.03AM I do not get squashed and sat on riding this train.
My hair is currently out of control at the moment. I have no idea why I can’t do anything with it. Luckily from one angle it sometimes looks like Jimmy McNulty’s.
Eventually I stroll into work uninterrupted. The place is unlocked and open but I can’t see any evidence of anyone being about. That’s not good.
As people slowly filter in the ones in the know respond to me with “you got through yesterday then.” I smile and respond victoriously.
Back at work today it is a struggle to get into the groove of things but fortunately by the end of the day I manage to grab some kind of momentum.
Originally I was supposed to be meeting up with Justin and Racton this evening but unfortunately it falls through as Justin’s work changes his plans. This is a real drag as I had been really looking forward to meeting up tonight. These things are a rare treat these days.
Today I want to do stuff and as I return to the Southbank Centre website I discover a non-nosebleed seat Henry Rollins ticket has been returned. Good times. Immediately I snap it up. At lunchtime I also buy a ticket to see Mark Thomas at the Soho Theatre next Monday. I’ve never seen him live before.
Late in the afternoon it gets mentioned that the managers and upper echelon of the company are heading to Bloomsbury Bowling tomorrow night and the invitation gets extended to us finance sorts. After a little hesitation we figure it is a good thing to show our faces, to get to meet all the site managers we speak to on the phone.
Towards the end of the day the consultant phones to say that he will be coming in tomorrow. The accounts aren’t really yet at a stage for him to be looking at but I enjoy dragging him in regardless.
At the en of the day after a nondescript ride across town back to Liverpool Street I hop aboard the 6.20PM train to Norwich but soon after leaving London the fucker dies. Shortly afterwards Information Jimmy announces that this is down to signalling problems at Maryland. What the US state that The Wire is set in?
Tonight the guy sat opposite me on the train has Jimmy Leg which periodically bangs into my own. After one too many times doing so I begin to give him evils and subtly kicking him back.
Eventually we get back to Colchester and I head to the olds with view to having another crack at their computer (to repair the internet) before the France v Ireland game is on Sky.
Upon arrival Bobby is crazy happy to see me as both mum and dad splutter colds and flu everywhere. I bet those guys drive the dog fucking loopy when I am not around.
Worryingly dad has gone to town on the computer and when I get there it has been totally pulled apart. I scratch my head not really feeling inclined to putting it back together but keen to get it up and running again dad happily puts it back together even though his cold is making him suffer.
As the pair of them compare their flu to me they also watch a bunch of awful modern pop acts on TV covering Carpenters songs by way of some kind of tribute. The host of the show is Ronan Keating, its nice to see shilling for the corporate pound is easing his pain over Stephen Gately’s passing. Will Stephen Gately one day get his own tribute TV show much in the same manner as this one for Karen Carpenter despite the irony that one singer died from too much swallowing while the other died from not enough swallowing. Elsewhere on the show Jamie Cullen just looks like a squished troll, what the fuck has happened to him? Then the once gorgeous Beverley Knight follows now just looking like some old bag down the pub.
This evening comes the latest anti friend rant from mother as she bemoans about her neighbours and their attitudes since dad has ceased being a director on the residents company. Now he has lost what little sway he had before mum now perceives people’s attitudes as having deserted dad revealing their apparent friendships as just being individuals using him.
As dad makes hard work out of rewiring the computer eventually when I get the opportunity to give it a go but fail in my efforts to repair it yet again. I really don’t know what has happened to it. For starters I can’t even tell if it is due to the change in phone line or if the PC has indeed been hit by a virus.
With The Carpenters farce on TV out of the way dad flips on Sky Sports where Ireland are playing at France in the second leg of the World Cup qualifier play off.
Much to our surprise the game turns out to be a more open and exciting encounter than we had been expecting. For me Ireland display a fight and spirit that is essentially missing from when England play. Unfortunately though there is a distinct lack of skill in comparison, just raw blunt passion. As the game plays out I am ashamed to admit that I do not know or recognise the majority of the Ireland team.
At this point I begin to think of Steven Reid and when I look up his current whereabouts online it turns out that he has just signed with QPR on loan today. Immediately I text Thom (my QPR supporter) to find out if this is true and if he is excited. Never has there been a footballer to look more like David Blaine.
Tonight France are again wearing shirts that appear to feature what seems to be shoulder holsters attached. Is this a motif designed to intimidate their opponents? This would not prove not to be so when against expectations (but not rugged determination) Robbie Keane actually manages to score an equalizer, which suddenly transforms the game from an exciting game into a very exciting game.
Eventually the game goes to extra time where Ireland more than hold their own while playing against the odds, against expectations. The inevitable however happens when Thierry Henry does a double handball on the way to crashing the ball into the net. The Irish dispute the goal but its pretty futile, there is no way that the officials are going upset the status quo of world football. Who is going to generate more revenue at the world cup next summer: France or Ireland?
From here I watch the game play out while dad takes the dog for a walk and by the time he returns the French have won and Ireland have gone out. I can make as many remarks about it being Henry’s audition for the NBA ultimately it’s just a small-scale Hand Of God incident and nothing is going change.
By now the time is getting late and I need to head off home. As I pull away out of the visitors parking space I roll my car over a mini boulder that is sitting on the corner of the boundary garden to stop people driving on it and it wedges itself beneath my car, grounding me. I guess that was the intention. Some how I find myself well and truly fucked unable to get the rock from beneath me without wrecking the underside of my Focus.
As I have been doing this the old man has been watching and he comes along to try and yank the boulder from underneath but by now it is well and truly bedded. Typically as such an embarrassing scene ensues people walk past and today’s gawping bystander turns out to be Stan of all people, pretty much my hate figure for the latter half of 2000. These days things are less tense between us and he laughs at me be24 Sep 2012fore laughing at his inability to help as he steps inside his own apartment.
I slowly move the car out as dad yanks at the rock, all with the fear that I may be about to run over my 64 year old father. Similarly typically as my car rolls out a couple of cars come along that want to get through where my car is stuck. As they shout out “are you moving?” I make a hand gesture as to tell them to go around the other direction of the courtyard/square but now with them being a two car convoy this is easier said than done.
The rock eventually budges but with it dad goes flying and falls on his arse. With the pressure of the waiting cars behind us I wave to him whether he is ok and he waves back so I drive off. What a shitty son. When I get home the first thing I do is phone them to make sure that dad is ok and not currently laid out in a pool of his own blood with a broken back. Seems all is well.
Now back to hating Thierry Henry.