Monday 20 July 2009

The new week begins drenched in sun. Outside there is a distinct optimism attached to proceedings even though there are showers suggested for later on today. Personally my own enthusiasm for the day is middling but at there is some hint and indication that things are going to work out and when I find a top that has been missing for a couple of weeks now omens suddenly perk up and look good.

The walk to the station is a glowing one as my morning is again soundtracked by the instrumental tracks from “Ill Communication.” When I reach the pedestrian crossing on the way a cyclist says “good morning” to me. Are people suddenly taking to me?

So generally I am in something of a better mood today. Thinking about work I should be starting on the new(ish) company today but the adjustments the consultant gave to me on Friday afternoon are just nonsense so I suspect my existing work will follow through. I actually had dreams about reconciling these accounts last night.

For some reason on the train today nobody wants to sit next to me – do I really take up THAT much space?

So many people look broken on the train this morning. Every face looks weary, half of them are asleep (or attempting) and the remainder look haggard having put little effort into their clothes or appearance. I feel a fully paid up member of this club, unfortunately.

After getting to Liverpool Street and ploughing through the tubes to get to St Johns Wood as I walk up Loudoun Road towards the office once again I see the big red Jack and Stan double decker bus. I almost cheer/applaud its existence and today I notice it is for MCC staff.

The working week begins with builders finally knocking through the entire roof of the toilet/bathroom, somewhat later than schedule. Soon afterwards in a rant reminiscent of Jamie from Thick Of It/In The Loop the big boss starts (rightfully) barking at the builders.

My boss is stressing about doing work on the new company today but I still want to dot Is and cross Ts on the existing company’s June accounts. We are supposed to be royally tearing into the new company but that is nowhere in sight.

A moment of light relief occurs when the operations manager uses the term “my shit” and I inform the room that in fact used to have a band called My Shit, which causes the whole room to laugh. Fortunately when I mention this moment on Facebook a sudden re-interest in the band occurs and a strange sense of confidence about the band exudes even to the point that the heavy metal manager offers to drum for us.

In an attempt to steer the media course bound Girl away from the Channel Five documentaries she loves so much (and appears to envisage herself working on) I try to get her to check out Adam Curtis instead and something with meat and substance. Ultimately I think my recommendation falls on her deaf ears.

The afternoon turns out to be very productive as I move onto new stuff slightly ahead of schedule. Away from work I discover the Tron soundtrack on Play.com for £3 and I begin to wonder whether this is going to be bargain.

On Facebook I discover that Adam Yauch has sadly got cancer and like a fool I say in my status “get well soon Ad-Rock” before realising five minutes later that it is MCA that has cancer. Sometimes I am truly a huge fucking idiot.

Boarding the tube at St Johns Wood I find myself nearly getting killed as some poodling old guy in front of me just gets in the way as the jaws of the carriage slam shut. This is not the first time in recent memory that this has almost happened to me. Has somebody taken a contract out on me? The old FC maybe?

When I am back home, after a brief stop off at the olds in Balkerne Heights, I watch the latest Big Brother show for the Marcus and Noirin saga. This is education right in front of our eyes. It looks like Noirin is taking great delight in using him as an emotional tampon, leading him on royally.

The night ends with BBC1 showing an English called The Gigolos. I think I was probably one of about 50 people that actually saw this movie in the cinema when I saw it in the Prince Charles in between jobs interviews at Metropolis Studios and some grotty pub owned by one of the owners of the Brixton Academy.

Set in Mayfair The Gigolos is a really strange film and not one I would expect to be seeing on BBC1. It’s a strange story of a male escort service that caters for rich old ladies, strange in how the main character (the main gigolo) actually looks like Armando Iannucci to me. It does however make London look amazing in the process and when a scene plays out with “Clevor Trevor” by Ian Dury in the background I can’t help but love the experience. In the end however there does not feel much cohesion to the plot as it becomes easy to lose track of what is occurring and the film commits a kind of cinematic suicide. I like it though.

That said before the movie ends I find I have already fallen asleep and slipped into slumber, more a bad reflection on me than the movie.