Wednesday 31 March
2010
Dream: the angry boss
knocks on my office door which is now also my bedroom door and he pops his head
in and tells me to wake up and transfer/cancel the divert on the
telephones. The wakeup transfers itself
into real life.
Thankfully I do not
have a headache this morning. I do
however awaken to the news that Wayne Rooney limped off in
the Manchester
United game against Bayern Munich
last
night. Suddenly our World Cup chances look fucked.
For breakfast I opt
for cereal, not really being in the mood for bananas. That little fad didn’t take long to evaporate.
In the end I trot out
of my flat with a skip in my
step. As I pass my neighbour’s door there is
a different set of trainers outside the door compared to yesterday. Does this represent/indicate she slept with
a different person last night?
The drive to the
station this morning is another excruciating one. Basically cars are just driving too slowly.
It is raining again.
This morning National
Express East Anglia decide to put out a shorter than usual train with it
only being eight carriages long. Now in
the long run this will equate to it being more crammed and uncomfortable as the
journey nears London. This feels like contempt for the customer.
Later at Kelvedon the
train slows down and all but stops at the station/platform and just as people
reach for the door suddenly the train pulls away doing that old cruel wanker
trick/stunt that teenagers do when they get their first car (usually a Ford Fiesta) and pick up their
mates.
Today there is some
fucking annoying man sat to my right typing things out into his
phone/Blackberry. He is annoying
because he hasn’t bothered to switch off his touchpad sounds so full the early
part of the journey he just sits there beeping away like a fucking shit robot.
Elsewhere on the train
a chubby blonde girl sat opposite me marks homework before getting off at Ingatestone. No wonder kids are fucking stupid these days
if their teachers are doing their own homework (marking) on the train. At Ingatestone too.
A little later the
train beaches at Romford and
our misery is almost complete.
Eventually the train pulls into Liverpool
Street after 8AM and late. I guess eight days of slacking ahead of them
have kicked in early (prematurely).
When I finally get to
work today turns out to be another stunted one. Bless her heart though the Filipino brings in hot cross buns for us and
the day gets off to a good start. From
here I scrape though the day doting Is, crossing Ts and not much else.
Soon we reach
lunchtime where today I have sausage, beans and mash. So much for my new healthy eating regime, instead I appear intent
on digression.
In the afternoon the
consultant finally makes his first appearance of the week. From here the PM sails out in distracted
fashion.
Eventually 5.30PM
comes around. Again tonight the tube is
a nightmare, which ultimately sees me on the 6.30PM instead of the 6.20PM once
more. Fail.
On the train home I
listen to the new episode of Doubling Up
podcast which features an old telephone interview with Bill Hicks
that has never been aired before.
Tonight this train
gets delayed. Things are falling apart.
When I eventually get
home Arsenal
v Barcelona is on TV. From here I proceed to spend my evening
flicking from watching this to watching Wrestlemania 26.
In the football Arsenal stand stoic and
make it to the halftime without falling behind thanks to some wonder saves from
Almunia.
Meanwhile Wrestlemania
26 is proving impressive stuff. This
current crop of wrestlers is generally not a classic batch but the effort in
polishing them up is efficient and admirable.
Back to the football
and within 25 seconds of the restart Almunia returns to form as he fucks up and
Barcelona lob him to take the lead. Not
long after this Barcelona add a second and suddenly the lights are out on
Arsenal.
By now on my
Wrestlemania 26 download it has reached the Bret
Hart v Vince McMahon
fight. This is why I have spent the
week downloading a 2.2GB file at work; this is thirteen years in the
making. Unfortunately it turns out to
be the worst match in WWF history.
Where to begin with this? The
plot is paper thin. McMahon adds extra
drama by working some kind of double cross into the story, which is hard to
believe in the first place. This is
then followed by an even more ridiculous double double cross. Once all this nonsense is out of the way and
the fight begins it never really starts.
Bret Hart has not come to the event to wrestle it would seem. Perhaps he can’t wrestle anymore; perhaps
his body won’t let him. Surely he has a
few chops remaining but this showing fails to display any possibility of
this. Instead he pretend pounds McMahon
with a chair as he bloodies himself all in a spectacle that could be something
from a Saw
movie. When all is sad and done it is
fucking rubbish.
Returning to the
football and on TV I spot Theo
Walcott coming onto the field as substitute and swiftly pulling a goal back
for Arsenal. Later they then get an
unexpected equaliser from a penalty kick and a hard earned 2-2 draw against
Barcelona, much against many people’s expectations.
From here I head to
bed, again falling asleep to my Frost/Nixon
DVD. I am beginning to wonder if it is
any good after all.
