Tuesday 6 April 2010
When I wake up before the alarm this morning I cannot remember if I have to go to work or not today. Eventually I remember. I do.
The sun is out today so that should at least keep me happy to some degree.
I am back on the bananas this morning, eating fruit and hoping to feel better along the way. These however were purchased on Saturday and they didn’t appear to be great then. Now, the weekend later, I can’t help but I am running close to poisoning myself. The risks I take for my wellbeing.
As I leave my flat the junker is STILL parked in my spot. This is far beyond a joke now and I am resorting to grassing on them to the clampers. This is low of me.
Arriving at the train station car park in some kind of act of retribution I manage to snag a good spot. I guess people aren’t returning from Easter yet, half from laziness and half from anticipation of the proposed industrial action this week suggesting a bad flavour for the following four days.
From here I board the 6.59AM train and end up facing the Paul Sturrock Gang. They truly are a gaggle.
The Metro today comes with a front page story reporting the latest honour killing of a pretty young girl. What is wrong with these people?
I feel inexplicably down today. There is neither clear rhyme nor reason for this state, things just feel deflated.
Not long into the journey I fire off an email to Nighthawk Security complaining about H527 GPV, asking them to “deal with” the car. I ask nicely so to clamp it surely is the least they can do for me. What happens though if/when they clamp the car and the owner returns to my nice note asking them to move it identifying my flat number. Why do the small things make life so fucking complicated?
The train is truly sparse today, echoing the spare places of the car park. With no people sitting and rubbing up against me it feels like a break from annoying people.
I have to admit that I would have put money on the weekend engineering work spilling through into our service today but to its credit the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 7.55AM per usual.
When I get to the tube platform there is already a Watford train waiting (for me). We all crunch onto/into it in great numbers which ultimately sees me standing the whole way to Baker Street. A rare annoyance on this tube/line.
For some reason today I have “Rooster” by Alice In Chains playing in my head. It is a song that suggests some kind of mental trepidation as well as possibly an urge and desire to regress back to my grunge years. This cannot be healthy.
Emerging at St Johns Wood I find myself the first person stepping into the building today as I remember that the Tuesday after Easter was my first day here two years ago. Happy anniversary.
Gradually people begin to roll in including the Filipino who is suspiciously happy and perky. On the whole vibes are positive today and with a busy, clear week’s work ahead of me I am focused and in the zone. I have to concede though that also while working hard I am also downloading the latest batch of J-Pop videos that have surfaced.
The election gets called today in what is a true Thick Of It moment. It’s happening in a month’s time, which seems crazy.
Before I realise it the day reaches lunchtime. Today I snag merguez with penne feeling desire for the better things in life without fear of carbohydrates.
After dinner if anything the afternoon flashes by in a blur faster than the morning. This is a truly positive thing.
Late into the afternoon Mark texts to suggest a drink because he is “still in town”. I respond with “which town?” It would seem he is still in Colchester.
For some reason the train home tonight is a noisy one, not least for the fucking American sat behind me. Is there anything more grating than a drawling/drooling American accent. Their big voices match their big heads.
Sitting opposite me is a well tanned (perhaps Asian) version of Jock. He looks like a complete cunt. Suddenly I am seeing Shrek before me.
Elsewhere the only other interesting thing I clock on the train is some geek reading Charlie Brooker’s book but quite frankly he doesn’t look up to it.
The train journey is a painful one, crawling most of the way because apparently, according to Information Jimmy, we are stuck behind a slow moving Witham train. This is not an excuse, tell that cunt to pull over and let us through.
It is 7.10PM by the time we are going through Chelmsford when realistically we should be pulling into Colchester at this time. In the grand scheme of things it is not too much to ask or too much to expect.
This evening I appear to be getting stared at. For once I take it as a compliment, as some kind of recognition in the right direction. My ego almost has legs again.
Why is it that these days I always get stuck on the train with a person sat behind me that loves knocking the back of my seat? At what point of a breakdown does an adult man lose the ability to sit still in their seat?
Eventually the train gets back to Colchester, which tonight feels like a miracle of an accomplishment. From here I head straight to Mark’s where I show my face to his parents before we head to the revamped Hogshead.
This pub is now freaky, too sparkling with too much wood and clientele that look too young who even make me feel old. We get a decent seat while still trying to decide whether the place/section is now for dining only or not. What is going on? The more things change…..
Conversation tonight feels fierce, almost accusatory and brimming with doublespeak. We recap recent events, acknowledging that the last time we saw each other was Crosby’s birthday. I had something of the arse then too.
As ever I get the impression that there has been a whole host/set of social events that I have no been invited which only serves to make me feel paranoid and unwanted.
Having just read the new Chris Morris book “Disgusting Bliss” over the weekend we discuss his stuff at length, most of which Mark already knows. It does however takes us down a nostalgia trip back to the 90s when Morris was at his most notorious, prominent and relevant. Invariably we wind up talking indie music from the 90s. We always end up talking about indie music from the 90s.
When I head to the toilet the bathroom has now also been made over (make sense) and now the stall proves something of a head trip as it has a full length mirror allowing me to look at and size up the visage of me having a piss. Not recommended. I suspect the mirror is a fun park reject as it makes my fella look bigger than I think it is. I hope this is not a Chuck Berry special.
Back to conversation and we discuss how we hate the sudden emergence of the word “ironical”.
Things take a bit of a dip when I remember and recount my story from a few weeks ago regarding Dani. Subsequently this launches into an uncomfortable discussion and tirade as it turns out that my deletion from Facebook by her was discussed last Christmas when my old Gringo Records cohort was down. Apparently she deleted me because my status updates were “fruity” – what on earth does that mean? Define the word fruity. Saucy? Mad? Sexual? Regardless ultimately it caused her to deem herself better than me it would seem.
From here we end up in a weird conversation where I find myself suggesting that the grammar school background of my old Gringo Record acquaintances is why in a number of cases certain people are horrifically arrogant while others lack a work ethic. I insinuate heavily how I feel these people fail to acknowledge just what a privileged position they were in and how they have blown an amazing life opportunity that not all of us get. It all gets quite tetchy as I rag on how working in a call centre is hardly the height of achievement for a person so cocksure. Fortunately the tense discussion gets put out of its misery as Mark heads off for a piss himself.
The night ends with a drunken discussion regarding status angst. We’re well into our thirties now so why aren’t we married with kids and a mortgage?
Later as I take another piss in the new toilet I spot Stan at a urinal. This is exactly the last thing I want to be seeing at this time. God is fucking with me, fucking with my head. God hates me.
We head back in our respective directions to our respective homes making plans to meet up in London over the summer (plans that I will believe when I see them).
When I get home I am fucked, irrationally drunk off the back of only three pints (and no food). The annoying car from the weekend is now gone. Did it get clamped? I doubt it, things just don’t go that way in the real world.
To make up for my lack of food this evening I scoff (down) a tub of red pepper houmous with Ryvitas. Shitty food for a shitty person.
Afterwards I find myself online and chatting to Nikki and Stevo on MSN (at separate points). Conversation is laboured and it is probably something of a good thing when AOL decides to crash and put the night out of its misery.
I then pass out.