Saturday, 23 January 2010

Saturday 23 January 2010

Happily today I awaken tired but feeling well rested with the fear that I have overslept.  A quick check of my watch later and I discover that it is only 7.50AM, which is perhaps the perfect ETA for this morning.

Outside things look grim today.  The snow feels like a long time ago now, a distant memory and part of history.  Instead now we get gloomy skies and a nip in the air.  This is not necessarily preferable.

I really need to get my headache now.  Its lucky The Girl at work does not know what a mullet is otherwise she would be calling me it profusely as opposed to the vague Elvis impressions she is currently knocking in my direction.  It’s a vague comparison, she is stretching/reaching.

That said the necessity cuts deep and one of the first things I do is wash my hair with view to heading down to Colin’s this morning.  I hate washing my hair in the winter, when I emerge with my hair still wet I feel (fear) that I am going to freeze.

Soon however I am in my car tearing down to Clacton.  As ever the journey is a nostalgic one that it some ways feels unnecessary and even slightly indulgent.  When I get there yet again the place is quiet and I step right into the barber’s chair immediately.  It has been this way on my last three visits now, why is the shop so quiet these days?

With the place being quiet comes a rubbish atmosphere.  This place used to be fun to come to, an old school refuge where people remained unchanged in attitude and humour.  It really shouldn’t be such an exciting and interesting place to me but it always has been.

As ever I am almost silent, unable to speak during the haircut.  When Colin asks me what I am doing this weekend I barely register that the question is directed/aimed at me.  I respond feebly with nothing, telling him that I am still tired from last weekend and then I am at least able to jump into a conversation about Manchester.  It’s laboured and not comfortable.  Fortunately a little later someone else comes in and takes over with the conversation.

The cut is OK, not one of his best but a vast and significant improvement on what it has been.  Job done I jump back in my car and get away from Clacton as fast as possible.

After a swift drive back to Colchester as per routine I hit Asda and get provisions in, groceries and the like.  As ever my purchases are car crash and unhealthy displaying an immature mind.  Thank god for the self-service checkouts because I would be too ashamed to approach a human checkout person with a basket such as this.  The humiliation.

When I get back to Bohemian Grove I find myself feeling flat.  By midday it dawns on me that I am experiencing a horrible day, the kind in which I feel unable to function.  Perhaps this is a reaction to having so much to do, so much pressure around me but nobody actually to tell me to “get on with it.”  Is this a measure of lack of self-discipline and motivation?

For a brief break in the hope of drawing some kind of inspiration I watch an episode of SNL from a week or so ago and it provides a good degree of giggles, if revealing a bit too much about Avatar for me (its still another four weeks before we get to see it).

From here Preston v Chelsea in the FA Cup arrives on TV and with it very limited interest for me.  Away from this I try to get a couple of books together for posting to people but annoyingly I can’t fucking find the envelopes in the Bermuda Triangle of belongings that my flat has slowly become.

Just as I reach a state of total frustration of all things Police Academy 3 arrives on TV and captures my attention, serving to calm me down in the process.  What the hell is wrong with me?  Is television like my drug?  Really are bad 80s comedy movies my morphine?  Regardless these movies tend to stand up surprisingly well being much more funnier than by rights they should be.

Thankfully I accidentally discover the missing envelopes and cobble together the books for posting (why am I so disorganised when it comes to things such as this?)

From here I make moves towards the post office.  Heading into town on a Saturday afternoon is an illuminating experience, containing mixed emotions for me these days.  Everybody looks so fucked and poor these days.

When I finally get to the post office it has all changed.  Now it seems instead of queuing we now have to take a number as if it were the meat counter in a supermarket.  Nobody told me this had happened.  Invariably I press the wrong button, get the wrong ticket and find myself promptly bumped to the front of the queue for what would appear a premium service (recorded delivery postage instead of standard).  As I wrongly jump in front of everybody and head to the counter when I explain I just want standard postage the woman refuses to serve me and tells me to go back and take another number.  When did things get so Nazi at the post office?

With this system things seem to move much slower.  At least when you were part of a queue you would notice progress.  Typically just before my number is called, while I am perving over some girl wearing glasses with nice hair stood next to me some smartly dressed woman (management level) comes up to me and tells me that I can just use the automatic machine for my stamps.  Smug cunt, why didn’t bovine woman at the counter tell me this instead of making me take another number?  People hate me.

From here with this chore completed I tentatively step into town and see what else Colchester has to offer me, to get the Colchester experience.  Everyone looks poor and struggling to me these days, so many Chavs and so little finance.

I make the token visits to Waterstones and HMV before buying the new issue of The Wire magazine in order to see the Sone Institute review before deciding against getting a Starbucks (my stomach can’t handle it) and heading back to the olds.

When I step through their front door thankfully the dog has a bit more life in him today and all is almost back to normal.  I arrive to the news that Millwall have won 1-0 at Oldham through a Neil Harris penalty.  Things get better all the time.  On cue both my parents like my haircut and with this I stick around for dinner.

This evening ITV shows Tottenham v Leeds in the FA Cup from White Hart Lane (Three Point Lane).  I hate to admit it but once again Leeds are impressive.  Halfway through the first half Danny Rose wins a penalty for Spurs and sadly I appear to be the only person to notice and acknowledge the Woody Allen connection to this.  Needless to say they subsequently miss the spot kick.  Eventually Spurs take the lead but despite this Leeds plug away and Beckford scores an equalizer which heavily reminds me of Jimmy Abdou’s goal against Leeds in the plays offs last year.  Unsurprisingly Spurs take the lead, even though it is not necessarily deserved, and just as it appears the game is going the way of predictability five minutes into injury time Dawson gives away a penalty just as dad and I are commenting at just what a good player he is.  Without fear Beckford smashes the penalty home and the game ends at 2-2.

After this I fail to impress anyone by choosing/insisting to watch a Simpsons documentary but for me this is like hitting TV gold.  Then I come across Little Shop Of Horrors (the remake) on Living.  Home run!

Suddenly the realisation hits me that I am once more wasting another Saturday night lingering around at my parents’ place so I decide to head home.

As I walk from Balkerne Heights to Creffield Road (where my car is parked) yet again Colchester captivates me with its beauty and I wish I had somewhere to go and something to do with it.  This point gets reiterated when a pretty lady steps out in front of me just as I pull off in my car and suddenly I want to be going where she is going.

I return home and with Robin Ince’s Nine Lessons And Carols For Godless People (painfully renamed “Nerdstock”) being shown on BBC4 this prompts/forces me to set up my new Freeview box and quickly I have extra channels for the first time since the summer.

From here I spend the evening writing until the show comes on and it definitely proves a worthwhile effort truly being the kind of intelligent and funny event that seems/feels so weird and rare in this day and age.  All turns are great and often illuminating.  Basically the show is visibly a staggering accomplishment and suddenly I feel annoyed that I didn’t bother to make an effort to attend.

Afterwards BBC Four continues the hit rate with three comedies in a row (including Nurse Jackie and Thick Of It) that sees me up and active past midnight for the first time in a very long while.


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