Thursday 8 April 2010

Thursday 8 April 2010

Dream: my work colleagues are suddenly scouring online dating sites for options.  Needless to say with them being female, friendlier and better looking than me they immediately get responses.  From here I find myself becoming jealous as they get particularly excited over a response from a man in Bradford.

I wake this morning off the back of too little sleep.  Outside the sun is out which once more hints that summer may finally be arriving.

Needless to say I am sluggish today, yearning more sleep and immediately wondering when I will be able finally catch up on it.  Consulting my diary I think I see an opening in two and a half weeks time.

As I leave my flat the bin bag is still dumped downstairs in the entrance hall.  Does my neighbour do these things to wind me up on purpose?

Outside it is a brisk morning, which coupled with the sun, equates to perfection in my book.  Suddenly my sensory begins to look up.

I need a shave.

Yet again I manage to snag a good parking space at the station car park.  Truly why are there suddenly less people parking here?  Has it suddenly become a black spot or no go area?  Did NCP and/or National Express East Anglia hike up prices again?  I wouldn’t put that past them.

From here the train journey is quiet and lucid.

At Ingatestone some tall guy decides to sit in the spare seats near us.  As he removes his coat he steps on my own, tacking it to the ground in the process.  Wondering just who this guy is when I look at him he has a soul patch line of facial hair hung beneath his lips and above his chin.  It is weird.  It half looks like a caterpillar and equally half looks like he is dribbling.  I wonder what kind of statement he is trying to make.  Really, is there anyway you could take a person looking like this seriously in the workplace?

It is at this point by thinking of incompetence that I remember today (this week) was supposed to be about industrial action.  I guess this may be why the car park was so quiet this morning.

Upon arriving at Liverpool Street between walking from the train to the tube I spot lookalikes of Bobby Heenan, Zoe Bartlett and Tommy Steele.  This collection is then completed when I spot Bellalike on the tube platform.  It’s a strange world where I suspect that there are about twenty template human looks and we are all slightly variations of these.  I fear mine was the Corden.

The tube smells earthy and soiled this morning.  It is not pleasant.

As we pass through Great Portland Street it would appear that the train on the opposite line/platform is being evacuated.  What the fuck is going on?

I don’t enjoy seeing construction workers on the tube, they always seem dusty and ferocious.

Today I feel relieved that tomorrow is Friday and we can call this thing to an end for a couple of days.

From here the day is a slog where I don’t quite get to where I wanted to on my work.  By the end of the day I arrive at the stage I wanted to be at the end of yesterday.

Towards the end of the day the boss says we can leave a little early but this doesn’t help me as I am heading to the ICA tonight.

When I eventually leave work I change at Bond Street with view to heading across to Tottenham Court Road.  As I walk through Bond Street station I spot Mishal Husain.  It genuinely shocks me to see her, being a long time fan, and she totally clocks me recognising her, which I don’t think she is entirely enthused about.  She is a lot smaller (shorter) in the flesh than TV would suggest.

I get to Tottenham Court Road around 5.45PM comfortably ahead of the 6PM meeting time.  From here I wait by the barriers pretty sure that Racton will be along soon.

While I wait for him I indulge in one of my favourite activities: people watching.  Tonight there are some real freaks passing through Tottenham Court Road.  Additionally there are a few hotties but generally on the whole people just look insane.  I guess these people are tourists (in more than one sense of the word).  Quite frankly I am transfixed by these people, this is perhaps my favourite past time.

At this point I fuck up although this fact is not immediately apparent.  Gradually 6PM comes and goes with no sign of Racton.  Around 6.20PM I spot Sharpy heading down to catch a tube and finally I get chance to thank him in person for the On The Buses boxset he sent me.  From here we tear into conversation, of catch up.

When the time reaches 6.45PM I tell him that I’m going to have to look outside for Racton and upon emerging from the station I immediately spot him who it appears has been waiting outside the station since 6PM.  Even my flakiness disgusts me this evening as he is visibly pissed off and annoyed by my actions (fair cop).

From here we head down Charing Cross Road as he suggests I may have ruined the opportunity for food now but with blind optimism I say we have time even though I have no clue (despite working in the industry).

Eventually we get to the Strand via St Martins Lane where we look for the Zizzi.  In the end we fortunately/thankfully find it by accident.  With the clock ticking we make quick decisions as we frustratingly get tucked away in a corner where the waiters cannot necessarily see us.  I order the Sofia pizza and it is the bomb.

Beyond the initial hiccup things soon being to pick up as cold drinks are taken and conversation begins to flow as we begin to win the race against time.

Halfway through the meal a young Asian couple gets sat next to us and from here I proceed to spend the remainder of the meal distracted by her like the dirty old man I am growing into.  At one point while Racton and I are discussing Josh Brolin and I mention The Goonies this is like a buzzword that prompts the Asian table to look in our direction.  Is this their favourite movie also?

After a pretty good meal we finally head to the ICA in really good time arriving well before any bands have started.

The opening band tonight is the KEN ARDLEY PLAYBOYS.  I have no idea who they are but on the whole they look old enough to be my dad, they’re an old bunch.  This looks like a band of old punks who are now literal granddads.  They make me think of people from Southend.  Their music is a kind of riffing old time garage rock blues that possesses plenty of brass and plenty of thump as their lively frontman turns out to be Bob and Roberta Smith (no, me neither).

Everyone in the band gets their opportunity to do their bit as it eventually gets revealed that the geeky looking guy playing away at the back of the stage is the aforementioned Ken Ardley.  Towards the end a large bald friend gets dragged from the audience to add vocals to a self defeating expounding a kind of “you must joking” message to proceedings that just stamps this set as being a complete lark by people who should know better.  There’s not much in the way of swing attached to the set, more precision battering of the most raucous degree.

Afterwards the changeover is rapid as within minutes the VERMIN POETS are doing their thing.  Dressed looking like angry Morris Dancers and with BILLY CHILDISH taking a backseat on bass duties their set fulfils the promise as held by their record with a garage crossed with The Who sound.

Soon they are doing “Booming Baby Bastards” with its wry dig at modern past generations.  With Neil Palmer leading proceedings the band provide something of a more rounded alternative to the usually abrasive garage offerings from CHILDISH.  Eventually my personal song of theirs “She’s Got Ears” arrives and with its sly hook I truly feel the set taking off.  This is a really fantastic little outfit, retro in a very defendable manner.  At the close of the set they remove the flowers from their hats and throw them into the audience: “thank you.”  No, thank you.

In between this set and the final news filters through that Malcolm McLaren has become the latest celebrity death I discover via Twitter (via Jonathan Ross).  I never liked that guy anyway, all puff and no substance.  A rubbish ego on rubbish wheels.  Or more bluntly as I say on Twitter/Facebook: I always though he was a pompous dickhead who wasn’t half as talented or important as he considered himself.

Tonight BILLY CHILDISH AND THE MUSICIANS OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE perform an incredibly solid set.  You get the impression now that these are a set of songs that CHILDISH has honed to perfection as his wife Julie plays bass and Wolf from the Buff Medways doubles up on drums having earlier played for THE VERMIN POETS.  You can’t help but feel that CHILDISH is in a good place as the threesome smile their way through the set.  With his wife sporting a nurse’s uniform grinning and playing in his band, here is everyman’s fantasy.

Soon they are playing “A Quick One, While He’s Away” which Racton earlier tonight educated me about for the first time.  This is The Who song from the Rushmore soundtrack and I have to say when I first heard the VERMIN POETS record it was the exact song the album made me think of.

Continuing the hot streak eventually the band enter into a stomping acapella version of “John The Revelator” which has always had a deep meaning and vast connotations for me.  Tonight however for once experiencing good times I am able to raise in celebration, clapping along with all the other buffoons.  This is a true moment of greatness.

It is with an equal amount of surprise and glee that CHILDISH then steers the band towards and through a reading of “Christmas 1979” when quite frankly we are closer to Easter than Christmas.  It feels slightly perverse but at the same time this is a song too good to waste on only being wheeled out once a year.

To counter balance and compliment “Baby Booming Bastards” by the VERMIN POETS, CHILDISH then spews out “Thatcher’s Children” with appropriate and applicable venom and bile.  There is a lesson to be learned here.

Seemingly with the babysitter of their kid about to leave upstairs the band closes on a storming version of “Fire” which is everything I want to see.  Over the past six months or so this song has been a revelation to me, the finest piece of the work in the history book of rock and the CHILDISH interpretation serves both him and the song well as it displays an additional firebrand attitude to track while also further expressing just what a gifted player he is.  Then all that is left for us is to pick up jaws up off the floor.

From here we step out onto a cool April night where things suddenly appear and feel somewhat better.  Eventually I find myself at Charing Cross station where I head up to Tottenham Court Road with view to heading East on the Central Line and eventually to Liverpool Street, Colchester and home.

As I board the Central Line at Tottenham Court Road there is the usual flurry of people living the “Thursday is the new Friday” night dream/mentality.  Not least part of this is a wasted girl struggling to remain coherent.  Is it wrong that I want/hope her to throw up?  Alas it does not happen.

Once back at Liverpool Street I board the 11.18PM train that stops at all the houses on the way back to Essex.  Boarding the train tonight and sitting near me is some Jack the lad boy who spends the journey talking to a couple of Americans.  I hate how the American accent does it for me, pushes my buttons in a manner that is demeaning to anyone involved.

Not long into the journey I hear him talking about Radio One and soon he has pulled out a Radio One microphone and is doing a pretend interview with the ladies like a cheesy motherfucker.  Thankfully he exits at Chelmsford.

As the train stops at Chelmsford a strong Daniel Johnston lookalike boards and now commands my attention.  The guy is the spit.

Finally I get home after midnight still buzzing from the show while equally aching from exhaustion.  That’s life.

Wednesday 7 April 2010

Wednesday 7 April 2010

Unsurprisingly I have what resembles a hangover this morning.  As a result I am sluggish in manoeuvring.  Must not operate heavy machinery.  Too late.

Despite this I eventually pull myself together and step out the door to the sight and smell of my neighbour’s stinking fucking bin bag once again.  The shoes/trainers still remain like some kind of cheap Do Not Disturb sign/item/gesture.

Again I manage to get a good parking spot at the station once more as it would appear the world is still on Easter holiday.  Not me though.

On the train today is a lookalike hybrid of Mindy and Olive from On The Buses.  Makes sense.

Later as the train stops at Ingatestone it occurs to me that none of the people stood on the platform look like anyone or anything I see on TV.  For me it begins to beg the question as to which is real and which is believe.  What is this existence?

For some reason anybody wearing a suit on the train these days looks like a politician.  Anyone.  It is not a flattering brush to be tarred and one that does not serve these people well as my natural disdain for them heads to the surface.

As the train rolls in Liverpool Street today the clock says 7.54AM.  For once this is truly impressive stuff from National Express East Anglia.  To think that they should have all been on strike this week, what a pleasant turn of fortunes.

Entering London today comes with an element of my headache remaining.  That slight portion could build to much.

Today my journey across town is being soothed by a Five Live Football Daily podcast featuring a Stuart Hall special of classic interviews with George Best, Dixie Dean, Brian Clough and inevitably Don Revie in that case.  The most interesting and astounding interview is from Harry Gregg recalling/recounting the Munich air disaster and being one of the few survivors.  With his recollection he explores beyond himself with a truly emotional retelling of the horror.  You can hear his voice unsurprisingly quiver over the course of the interview.

Everyone looks battered these days.  And not necessarily in a positive way.

When I arrive at the restaurant it is to the sight of the Filipino waiting to be let in.  I feel so sad about having to make her wait, especially as she is sporting such a sad expression.  In exchange she brings us each in little packs of Oreo biscuits.  There is a true imbalance in this exchange.  I think she just might be my favourite person in the world these days, the one and only genuinely nice and selfless individual I know.  She deserves better, the best.

Today turns out to be another distracted state of affairs.  The highlight of my morning is when Justin phones up.  He asks me if I am good for a reference as he hires a van for their house move up in Manchester soon.  Its all gravy.

It’s a weird thing I notice today but more and more people’s profile pictures on Facebook (and to a lesser extent Twitter) are looking like CGI animations.  What is that about?

By lunchtime I am almost at the stage on the accounts where I wanted to be at the beginning of the day.  I feel so shoddy these days in the execution of these things.

At the halftime point of proceedings my head has not improved any.  What to do.

For dinner I go for penne with chicken yet again which as ever shows/displays a distinct defiance towards carbohydrates.

In the afternoon things almost begin to pick up and productivity resumes.  At some point in proceedings the Filipino and I find ourselves stating just what a loser’s name “Gary” is.  Tough break.

Again the day goes fast but I go slow.  At least this means 5.30PM arrives swiftly.

Once on the tube at Kings Cross a Scouse beggar boards the carriage and begins his spiel up and down the train holding out his little cup for pennies.  I have never felt the desire to accommodate this, more deciding to concentrate on just how unnecessarily uncomfortable these guys make my journey.

Eventually I wind up on the 6.30PM Norwich train.  As I sit waiting for it to pull away the lights flicker as it would appear that we are on a malfunctioning train carriage (not for the first time).

Soon a track-suited girl takes the seat opposite me and she completely reminds me of Waynetta from Harry Enfield in the worst possible way.  Ideally she would sit elsewhere.

Around the point of Hatfield Peverel I experience something of a moment of clarity.  What am I doing?  To some extent I now feel that I have become detached from reality in some way.  How did I get here and how can I get away?  My stock feels low and not likely to recover at this rate.

Returning to Colchester I head straight to Asda for a midweek fruit run.  Afterwards as I drive home the Manchester United v Bayern Munich game has already started and by the time I get home they are already winning 2-0.

As I step through our building’s front door this evening I notice the bin bag has been moved down from our first floor landing to our entrance hall but not quite managing to make those few extra steps to the bins.  Just how fucking lazy is this girl?

Back inside my flat I put my groceries away and take my seat to see Nani add a third for Manchester United with an exhilarating goal.  For me this is perfection, a wonderful move and culminating with breathtaking contact of the ball as he fires it into the roof of the net solid as.  From here just before halftime Bayern Munich scrape a goal back but they’re already done.

Something is wrong though.  German footballers without moustaches are like me without clothes.

Early into the second half a bad thing happens as Rafael gets sent off and then not long afterwards Wayne Rooney hobbles off causing concern about the World Cup in a two months time.  Suddenly a game that looked smooth and settled is very much in the balance.

Eventually Arjen Robben scores with an incredible volley from a corner and ruins the game for United.  By this point despite the best efforts of Nani it appears that their only other option is to bring on Berbatov.  He is not a player that you can go to in a crisis.  Briefly there is a flicker of hope when Ryan Giggs follows him onto the pitch but who the fuck are they trying to fool?  Certainly they’re not managing to intimidate anyone.

The game finishes at 3-2 and Manchester United go out of the Champions League.  Disappointment abounds as during the after match interview Alex Ferguson goes ranting on scale about “typical Germans cheating.”  I didn’t think people were allowed to say things like that anymore.

From here I head to bed half giggling.  Chumps.

Tuesday 6 April 2010

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.

Monday 5 April 2010

Monday 5 April 2010

Things feel almost back to normal now as I awaken at 6.55AM into a grey day and unnecessary early start.

I have to admit I feel slightly depressed.

On GMTV this morning they are talking about the impending election next month and to modernize their coverage they begin discussing the influence of “social media” when they wheel out their expert he looks exactly like a John Oliver character.

From here I hit my PC and begin writing from my bed as I pull together entries to put up online.  This is a truly arduous job as my PC is running horribly sluggish this morning and it takes forever just to insert a hyperlink.  Putting entries up online does not feel as rewarding as I hoped it would.  Thankfully reading back the entries though I find myself pleasantly surprised by the standard, which in the process gives my efforts something of a point and purpose.

In the background I begin the day by listening to Nine Inch Nails and their set at Woodstock 94.  Otherwise there truly is not much else in the way of music I want to listen to today.

I break from Trent Reznor to catch the episode of Frasier on Channel Four.  It’s the episode where Bulldog sleeps with Roz.  Good work fella.

Easter egg for breakfast is on the menu this morning.  This only happens once a year.

It is almost 10AM by the time I finish preparing entries to put up online.  This really is time consuming and needs to be done on a decent PC if it is to prove efficient.

Eventually I murmur out of bed and get dressed.  Looking around the flat today it is carnage, this place needs serious work.  Instead however I hit my writing desk and choose to churn out this shit.

Unlike Friday (Good Friday) today actually feels like Easter due, if nothing else, to Channel Four bothering to be festive and showing The Greatest Story Ever Told.  Last year at this time I got suckered into this stuff but not this time.

As I stagger around my home looking elsewhere for entertainment I discover that my piece of shit Goodmans Freeview box has stopped working again.  It is only a matter of days before I toss this against the wall or out of the window.

Apart from taking a break to watch the first episode of the new season of South Park (complete with Tiger Woods video game) and some Wilfred today I rack up a solid session of writing, accomplishing around the region of what I was hoping from Friday (and the entire weekend).  I wonder if my efforts are worth it.

Nina sends me a text message to see if I am going to the Robots In Disguise gig at the Colchester Arts Centre tonight but for £9 that really does not equate to value for money.  I do however want to go because Big In Albania is making a rare appearance in support but I’ll be fucked if I’m paying that much money for something so throwaway.  I tell her this in so many words.

Eventually I head over to the olds for the 3PM dinner with their old neighbours.  As I leave Bohemian Grove the junker is STILL parked in my space.  By now this is really past a joke.  I wonder who it is?

In the end I just about get to Balkerne Heights on time.  As I step through the door everyone has already arrived but despite this dinner is being delayed due to others not paying much mind to the stipulated dinner hour.  Do I sound grumpy about this?  I guess so considering this now means there was no need for me to rush over after all.

For a while we hang out until they take the dog for a walk.  I don’t join them, I don’t value fresh or walking the dog quite as much as those guys.  Go figure.  Feeling slightly despondent by my weekend I linger at the flat instead.

At this point I remember that Millwall playing at Colchester kicked off at lunchtime and by now the game will have finished.  ‘Wall have won 2-1.  Unfortunately every fucker around them in the division (Leeds and Swindon) are also winning which naturally serves to stunt our progress.

Bored I head into town in search of people and/or retail therapy.  In Waterstones I buy a World Cup guide.  It’s only a matter of weeks now.

As I get back to my parents the others are just returning from their walk.  Eventually we kick into dinner and it’s a really nice meal, very basic and English for our foreign friends.  I feel lazy to be served on and also the poor relation (son) in comparison to our guests.

The South African begins pottering with the old man’s computer, trying to speed up the download speed in order to get Inglourious Basterds and Sherlock Holmes download before they leave.

While I potter around the place Doug texts to ask if I am going to the Robots In Disguise gig tonight.  To my discredit I don’t even bother responding.

Eventually more neighbours turn up at my parents’ place and it all begins to get noisy.  These people aren’t much fun, I would rather watch TV than listen to them.  In a way I sense the South African feels the same as we briefly get into a strange conversation about an apparent drug den on Denmark Street followed by recollections of an experience on Mephedrone.

As things begin to get late the others leave and I soon follow, heading back to Bohemian Grove to see out what remains of my Easter.  When I get home unsurprisingly the junker is still parked in my place but by now that shit heap’s presence was more than expected.

Once home I briefly attempt to write before heading to bed just as Caddyshack arrives on ITV.  TV perfection.

Sunday 4 April 2010 – EASTER SUNDAY

Sunday 4 April 2010 – EASTER SUNDAY

This morning I awaken past 9AM, a real rarity for me.  Things feel good today, long weekends agree with me it would seem.

Today is unsurprisingly slow moving.  Obviously there are things I want to get done today but the necessity doesn’t come with the kind of pressure I usually attach to these things.

Soon I am up though and beginning today’s session of writing.  After briefly scratching the surface of Gestures on Friday, today I tentatively go over it a bit more but yet again I find the prospect troublesome and icky.  I guess I am just not in the right frame of mind to be addressing these issues right now.

TV is death today and so as a result it proves little in the way of distraction, which ultimately serves me well.

I actually find myself listening to 7 Day Sunday live on air today, something I have never done before despite having listened to every episode so far (via podcast).  It sees me through to midday.

In our building Easter Sunday appears to represent for some getting drunk and playing “Wild World” by Maxi Priest (and not Cat Stevens) over and over and over and singing along with the chorus.  This guy is a true freak and the mere trigger of Maxi Priest to me serves to remind me of that idiot Danny Devito from the studio and his little publishing company.  I am almost ashamed when after I stomp on the floor of my apartment (the ceiling of theirs) that shortly afterwards they switch their music off.  I am such a killjoy and truly a nightmare neighbour.

Undaunted by this I take a break from writing to watch the first episode of season 2 of Mad Men in a vain attempt to catch up with everyone else.  By the end of the episode it is suddenly beginning to occur to me that I have already watched this episode twice.  What am I doing?

As usual I head over to the olds for 3PM, even Easter cannot kill routine.  Leaving my flat I spot that the rogue car is still parked in my allocated/designated space.  I paid for that you know.  Peeved I write a note out on a pad and politely leave it on the junker. The note uses the words “please” and “thanks”, surely that’s not being unreasonable.  My impulse really is to grab the golf club in the boot of my car and swing it into the side of the car but already being covered in dents part of me suspects that the owner might not notice this gesture.

I arrive slightly late for lunch, with the other two (my parents) having already polished off their dinner.  In response to this I just look the dog in the face as if to say “you allowed this?”  He now wants in on my action.

On Sky today is Everton v West Ham, a game where all the sensible heads are hoping for Everton to stuff West Ham and sink them into more relegation trouble.  And it all begins well as Everton take the lead, which is soon followed by West Ham ballsing up a penalty.  How can any team hope to survive relegation with Mido being their hope up front.  As ever Tim Cahill rules and owns the field.  Annoyingly West Ham equalise.  Happily towards the end Everton regain the lead but West Ham promptly take the ball down the other end and score another equalizer to fight another day.  Just fucking lie down.

From here I linger around the olds’ crib.  Staring out of the window we laugh as some Asian dude illegally parks his car as his dumb stupid fucking kid leaves the back door wide open when they head inside their flat.  For the longest time we wonder what we might be able to do with the car as a result.

Chris tries to iPhone a couple of times, leaving a voicemail message saying that he stopped by my flat earlier.  I send him a text in the hope of arranging something for this evening but I don’t get a reply.

Returning to the Chris Morris book I reach the stage and learn about his Richard Geefe articles in depth for the first time.  It sounds insane stuff.

Today TV is barren and unhealthily we wind up watching Holiday On The Buses on ITV4 or something.  It would seem that these movies are now on a weekly loop, being shown almost permanently on one ITV station or other.

I head home just before 8PM on a brilliant early summer evening feeling down that I haven’t heard back from Chris.

With Jonathan Creek playing out in the background it reminds me of the David Renwick talk earlier this year when we were given a brief glimpse of this episode.  From here I tear back into writing.

Just after 10.30PM this evening I pass the half million word mark for this blog.  How did I reach this stage?  Without doubt this makes this my most dedicated blog to date, the one with most effort and production put into it.

Eventually I head to bed where I begin watching my Harlem Globetrotters DVD.

Saturday 3 April 2010

Saturday 3 April 2010

Despite the late night and early hours I still awaken around 8.30AM today, just like a fool.  What on earth was up with me last night?  I was even still awake when my neighbour trudged in at 3AM.

From here as per routine I head over to Asda just before 9AM where I find myself confronted by the usual shit.  This journey feels unnecessary today but I do it all the same.

Being the end of the month the new issue of Uncut is out and it features an old beardy photo of a young(ish) Neil Young on the cover.  Basically he looks like Wilfred on it, a dog.  It is also a Private Eye week so before I have even reached the food portion of my shopping I am already over £10.

I stagger around the aisles as usual trying not to make eye contact with anyone around me for fear that they might start on me.  Again I am buying fruit, bananas and apples but avoiding grapes today as they just don’t feel like value for money.

This week turns out to be a week where I spot The Crab.  I wonder if he recognises me the way that I recognise him.  His routine is almost as frightening as mine.

Annoying there is no Gherkin relish this week.  Where has it gone all of a sudden?  Was that bottle I bought a one off?  Is it a taste I am now never to sample ever again?

When I eventually reach the self service checkouts it is somewhat disheartening how the lady in charge of them recognises me and smiles in a warm gesture of acknowledgement.  I wonder if she thinks I am pathetic, the way that I trawl through this routine every Saturday morning, buying the same shitty products and never improving with/for it.  Maybe she pities.

Somehow despite buying next to fuck all my bill comes to £25.  I look back into my bag and there really is little in the way of food inside it.  Harsh times.

When I get back it is now well past 9AM and I need to get going on the day.  Danny Baker is not on the radio this week so I get a break from routine there and once I have packed my shopping away I soon find myself tearing into writing.

At 11AM I change stations and find myself listening to Adam Buxton and Liza Tarbuck who are in from Jonathan Ross on Radio 2.  That Tarbuck gene, always reminding me of Mr James.

Soon I find myself heading to the olds where today Manchester United are playing Chelsea on Sky in a game that will potentially decide this season’s Premier League.  As I leave my flat I bump into the neighbour from downstairs.  Last time I saw her she had bed head as I was attempting to kick our building’s front entrance door in the other Wednesday.  Again I apologise profusely, which prompts harsh words from her in the direction of my personal trainer neighbour.  As ever I’m too diplomatic, not getting as wound up externally as I do internally.  From here she begins telling me that I owe her an Easter egg.  Is this some kind of weird hybrid of flirting?

Around this point typically the personal trainer emerges from the building too, just as we are bemoaning her.  Were her ears burning?  As my other neighbour trots off into the distance with her dog I say “hi” to the personal trainer when really I would like to be pointing out to her that she is a “fucking cunt.”

Eventually I hit the road to Balkerne Heights and when I arrive at my parents place it is empty.  Did something happen I do not know about?  Even the dog is gone.  With their old neighbours heading along today I half suspect they have all gone out for lunch without inviting me.  Fiends.

Soon dad returns with the dog and it turns out that everyone hasn’t gone out with me after all.  Not long afterwards mum comes back from town and finally their old neighbours arrive.  I haven’t seen the wife for a couple of years now and it is really nice to have everyone back to how it used to be.

From here I head into town where I buy the new book about Chris Morris called Disgusting Bliss.  Once I open it up I find it a really interesting read and tonight I get halfway though it in one foul swoop.

Back at my parents I blag some dinner and while the world is watching the new Dr Who we find ourselves watching Cardiff v Swansea on Sky.  Well, its on in the background, I don’t think anyone outside of Wales is actually watching the game.  As a result for the life of me I couldn’t tell you the final score.

Afterwards as I scour the Sky channels I come across Broadway Danny Rose on TCM.  This is an amazing find, I love this movie.  I think this one of the movies where Woody Allen best balances slapstick and serious comedy.  In amongst all the silly stuff there are some truly gut wrenching moments as the lovable loser Danny Rose never appears able to catch a break while at the same time running into all kinds of trouble.  I watch the majority of the movie before realise that yet again I appear to be spending (wasting) my Saturday night at my parents’ home.

As I leave to head home around 8PM the parking situation at Balkerne Heights this evening is more obscene than ever.

When I get back to Bohemian Grove it is with the intention of writing.  Annoyingly as I pull into our complex there is a junker heap of a car parked in my space.  I seem to remember the almost exact same thing happening last Easter.

At 9PM Chris calls my iPhone but I ignore it, for me this is not a time to be heading out.

I continue writing until late when I head to bed and I strangely decide to watch the Frost/Nixon Watergate interview DVD that Lovefilm sent me.  It is awful.  The modern day introduction to screen by David Frost is so achingly cringe worthy, the guy is an idiot, Al Jazeera can fucking have him.

Needless to say the DVD quickly sends me to sleep.

Friday 2 April 2010 – GOOD FRIDAY

Friday 2 April 2010 – GOOD FRIDAY

Dream: recently I have been having a recurring dream whereby I am a substitute teacher who leaves office work at lunchtime to take in class in the afternoon.  Pays the bills I guess.  There’s no real teaching involved as it appears to be an act/gesture of crowd control as I front a classroom and try not to be affected by the abuse that comes my way.  Today as I head to the school I find myself lugging lots of bags of belongings with my as the time reaches 12.15PM.  From here I find myself buying lunch in a small Sainsburys and stressing about reaching class on time.  Fortunately I encounter another teacher who informs me that luckily class begins at 2PM instead of 1PM.  With this in mind I offload my belongings and take a leisurely stroll through the school, which resembles my school in Frinton when growing up.  Walking through the lunch hall it is as I remember, loud and resembling carnage.  Suddenly I realise the time is closing in on 2PM and I have no idea where the classroom I am teaching in actually is.  Eventually I arrive at it late.  I’m cool though.  From here I find myself at some kind of outdoor festival similar to a lo-fi Latitude.  Did I just take the kids on a field trip?  There is comedy and roller derby and from here I spot the roller girl with tattoos that used to work at our restaurant (who I fancied).  I approach her and as usual I babble and act goofy in her presence.  She says that they (the roller derby girls) are appearing with We Are Klang and that I should go along and watch them.  When the show begins unfortunately I find myself unable to get into the event but I can still hear it from outside.  Listening in I memorise a couple of great jokes from the show (including one about stamps) and when I later repeat them to other people they think that I have made the jokes up myself and that I am hilarious.  At this point my friend Pauly turns up with the two roller derby girls that used to work at our restaurant.  From here we head into a stage tent and huddle (cuddle) up in a corner.  The others head off with the blonde girl leaving me with the girl with tattoos (the one I fancy).  She says to me “shall we try having one more date?” (we’ve had dates?) before starting to kiss me passionately.  I think this is a green light.

When I wake up unsurprisingly I am in a good mood.  Soon I find myself writing, getting into the groove of proceedings and really enjoying Easter from the off.

Before long I find myself watching Whip It, which turns out to be much better than I was expecting.  For what could have been a cheesy chick flick with a “hear me roar” agenda it’s surprisingly tastefully done.  It’s also nice to see Maeby from Arrested Development in the movie (in something else).

I find myself listening to Radio 4 today because the David Sedaris show that we saw recorded back in November is finally being aired.  Beforehand there is a Douglas Adams documentary about the Doctor Who episodes he wrote and its all great stuff.

The David Sedaris show (Meet David Sedaris) turns out to be a blast, just as funny as I recall.  I do not recognise the stories from the recording but I fear that I hear my own laugh.  Sedaris is a genius wit, dry and most subtly bitchy.

With this I soon find myself distracted and wandering towards TV where I come across The Love Bug on Film4, which I enjoy much more than I should do.  I’ll never forget when dad hired this movie out of the video for me one Saturday night but I kicked up a stink because I wanted something like Chuck Norris.  I was a horrible fucking kid.  Regardless San Francisco looks amazing in this movie.  Better times.

In the end from here I do not leave the house all day.  Instead I endeavour to dedicate myself to writing to varying degrees of return.

At 3PM I check in on Radio London to see if Danny Baker is doing a show but sadly no dice so I return to my desk and resume my writing efforts.

Eventually I wind up watching W after scouring my video files.  I have had this absolutely ages and never before felt inclined to watch it, to be honest I barely want to today.  Happily though the movie flies by and proves a lot more interesting and illuminating than I expected it to be.

By now I find myself well into Friday night as it plays out accordingly.  Disappointingly even though it is a holiday there is nothing on telly so soon I head to bed.

I fall asleep relatively early which then means I wake up in the early hours and promptly find myself unable to get back to sleep.  A weak kind of insomnia takes hold as I remain awake until 4AM, hearing my neighbours return noisily at 3AM in the process.

Awkwardly during my awake time I happen across Flash Gordon on ITV with the signing person distracting all the way through.  This movie gets more camp every time I see it and Ornella Muti gets hotter with each view.  I didn’t realise she survives until the end.  Go figure.

Thankfully I finally fall asleep but it is too late and too early all at the same time.