Sunday 7 February 2010 – SUPERBOWL SUNDAY

The weather has taken a turn for the worse today as outside the drabness of the season returns and with it something of a mini headache.

When I eventually flip on the TV the first thing I find myself paying attention to is Alastair Campbell appearing on Andrew Marr hawking his book.  At first it all goes nicely as the book is in focus and it all sounds hunky dory until Marr’s questioning abruptly switches to the topic of the Iraq war and grilling which appears to catch Campbell on the hop as he takes a large gulp and swallows something hard and jagged.  Campbell appears almost on the verge of tears as he requests that Marr give him a moment to reflect and consider his answer in a reaction that does look horribly staged considered this man is a prize spin doctor and who Malcolm Tucker was supposedly based.  This appears to be a genius stroke as the following piffle that follows is now somewhat distracted from his reaction and what he says fails to resonate as the audience finds itself still considering how upset the man appears to be.  He is a fucking genius, this is some Paul McKenna stuff without the fluff or finger clicking.  Hats off.

After such shocking scenes I eventually murmur, get out of bed and begin work on some writing.  Unfortunately once more TV proves something of a distraction around midday as ITV shows On The Buses the movie yet again.  Is there something in their agreement that stipulates they have to show this movie every six months?  I’m note complaining though, it’s a bloody good film detailing better times.  It’s awesome every time.  That said when Stan and Jack drug the ladies’ drinks you can’t help but think surely they would get arrested for doing such things today.

In early afternoon I down a can of Relentless and wait for it to kick in.  Eventually it does so and I begin to fly churning out lots of words in the process.  I find myself getting quite excited and nostalgic about the band Bis, particularly the song “Kandy Pop.”  It still sounds surprisingly fresh and inventive, very exciting in a way that a 33 year old man should no longer get or be.

As per routine I head to my parents for 3PM and Sunday lunch.  Leaving my flat the discarded yoghurt pot lid is still sitting on our landing.  What is it with the girl (Caroline Geary) being too fucking lazy to pick up after herself?  What a pig.

When I arrive at Balkerne Heights unsurprisingly there is nowhere to park, such is life on a complex with only two visitors spaces in the main courtyard.  Sprinkled everywhere are cars parked supposedly illegally in places where they would have previously been hit with parking tickets.  These days however it seems parking is something that is not being policed by the managing agents (PMS) and now the residents are going hog wild along with friends of friends who are probably exploiting this fact as they head to town with consumerism on their mind.  It might be nice to live here otherwise.

In the end hypocritically I join the illegally parked majority in a place that makes me feel vulnerable and uneasy.

As I step inside their apartment (condo?) on cue the dog goes bollo and it is thrilling as ever to conjure excitement in someone at least, even if he is just a dog.  From here we settled down to lunch and in pigeon English we discuss our respective weeks.

On Sky is Birmingham v Wolves for some reason.  Really, what neutral has any kind of interest in this fixture?  This is a match for Brummies, one onto which they would like to place importance but years ago, even though being some kind of derby, this would have been a second tier fixture.  Towards the end Birmingham score a later winner through Kevin Phillips to win 2-1.  Not that I was watching or anything.

The big news of the moment seems to be how dad’s friend Santa’s daughter has asked him if he will go to the Grand Canyon with her old man.  This is actually an idea that is appealing to dad and he asks me if he can borrow a grand.  Mum however is keeping schtum (mum even).  Blatantly she hates this idea.

The main game of the day on Sky is Chelsea v Arsenal with the whole John Terry saga looming over proceedings.  Sadly in the end nothing matches up to the hype (it never does in football) and boringly Drogba scores twice in the first half which sets them up for a 2-0 win in the most boring of fashions.  What happened to Arsenal?  I remember when they appeared invincible and for this they were hated.  Now they are soft and flouncy, slipping to the Liverpool level of being a has been club.

Afterwards I linger unsubtly hinting for some dinner so that I can head home for my Sunday night mental preparation.  In the meantime however my parents seem all too happy to tease and tantalise the dog instead.  Eventually I get my wish.

Where the fuck is The Simpsons on Sky these days?  The 6PM Sunday evening slot was always there, it was tradition, something truly reassuring with view to getting through Sunday night.

Finally I head home around 7PM.  When I get back the neighbour’s bike is still in the way and the mess is still on the landing.  This is not good enough.

Stepping inside the Sunday evening gloom quickly takes hold as the realisation dawns that it is back to work tomorrow.

I bath then pass out as the Superbowl XLIV build up plays out on TV in the background.  I don’t even make it to kick off.