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.