Tuesday 14 July 2009

Wake up OK, relatively fairly comfortable.

As I leave my flat this morning I finally get around to questioning why it is that I have to leave by 6.41 – why is it not 6.40?

I feel uncomfortable in my clothes today, they feel tight and unflattering as if they do not fit me and will not cover my rim. This looks bad.

The day begins with finally listening to the Collings And Herrin podcast covering Richard Herring having had his iPhone stolen out of his hand in Shepherd’s Bush. It was funny last week watching/reading the whole event unwind through his Twitter postings. Also it has served as a timely reminder as to how easily these things are snatched and now as a result I am stomping around London extra paranoid of someone nicking my iPhone so I am now holding onto it harder than I do my cock. The timing of this story/tale is so poorly timed as it has coincided with my final switch from old iPod Shuffle to iPhone as my main listening device in order to block out the sounds (and abuse) of the outside world while I stagger around it. No teenagers will ever mock or verbally take the piss out of me ever again as long as I am drowning them out with my iPod. If a tree falls in the forest and there is not a teenager there to take the piss out of it did it ever exist in the first place (or something).

At Kelvedon however my attention is drawn to a woman that boards the train with hair looking as if she has been dragged through a bush backwards (possibly her own bush, which I suspect to be quite a crater itself). And not a little, a lot! This hair is huge! Obviously she decides to sit opposite me, I’m a real magnet for these kind of freaks and with the benefit of a closer inspection I begin to wonder (worry) if her hair is going to adopt an existence all of its own and leap off her head and begin killing my fellow commuters. That would be cool, lending a bit of excitement to the morning and making life a little more lively.

When the train stops at Chelmsford and a herd of extras board the guy that decides to sit next to me appears to spend the entire journey intent on prodding me in the side (where my ribs should be) while reading his free newspaper (The Metro) very closely and intently as if all the words are very big. Snuggled. When I notice how crap his suit is I tolerate him a little more, he plainly does not have much of a life to cling on to.

Later at Shenfield a badly suited man that looks like a drunk Barry Humphries in a Warhol wig boards and stands reading a Harry Potter book ironically just as those movies are being discussed on the Collings And Herrin podcast I am listening to. The guy is very creepy though, I wonder if he got the book from the kid he killed.

Meanwhile the blonde redhead sat opposite continues playing footsy with me. Then she begins kicking me. Who the fuck sits cross-legged on a train anyway? At this point I make a conscious decision to step on her foot when I get off the train at Liverpool Street. Suffer.

The train actually manages to get into Liverpool Street by 8AM this morning. It is a sweet rarity and as I exit the train there is a skip of victory in my step even if I don’t manage to inflict too much pain or annoyance onto the woman sat opposite me.

Just as we pull into Liverpool Street my boss forwards a text from The Girl to me informing us that she won’t be in again today. That one needs wrapping up in cotton wool she is so fucking delicate. Wrapping up in cotton wool and then throwing off a cliff.

As a result of her absence I get to choose the radio station again today and once more we are back on XFM and finally today they play a Nirvana song with “Lithium”, not before time. Elsewhere on the station they play “What’s The Story (Morning Glory)” by Oasis and it still sounds like a Dinosaur Jr song to me (musically and not vocally of course).

Today is a quiet day. Not being hassled I find myself able to tear into the June accounts even though they are now past deadline. However without pressure I find myself more productive than otherwise.

For lunch I have linguini but this is disrupted by the Brazilian/Mexican/Albanian chef bringing in another Brazilian (waiter) from another sight with a query on his wages and why he has not received his pay for the past two weeks. A quick enquiry shows his bank details were wrong when his starter form was completed and the money has flown into a bank account that none of us recognise. The waiter can barely speak English so the chef in affect serves as an interpreter as we try to resolve things in a manner other than “tough luck.” Eventually a cash advance gets approved although usually we have to wait for the money to get returned/bounced back to our account. This comes about from the chef’s interference and leaning on our department for a quick resolution.

Don’t get me wrong (a high risk with this following point) but I can never understand why people like this come to our country to work. Surely there are enough restaurants in Brazil for him to work in/at. This job is hardly the stuff of dreams or the height of career goals. Also surely if you want to thrive at your occupation common sense might kind of suggest that you learn to speak the language of your customers and the people you work with. Just a thought and suggestion.

The afternoon turns out to be very productive but after procrastinating with the wage floaters unfortunately this means I do not get the figures completed/finished by the end of play.

It is very warm on the tube tonight and with it I actually struggle to breath. As I stare at my reflection in the window it does not look good.

On the tube I also find myself in a “is she pregnant or is she fat” dilemma. As ever I play safe and err on the conclusion of the latter. My attention however is then distracted when a man with a “daddy’s the bruiser” tattoo on his arm boards the train. I guess I would offer up my seat to/for him. Really what kind of message am I supposed to take away from that tattoo though?

When I finally get to Liverpool Street it is earlier than usual so I hop aboard the 7.08PM train to Clacton. Immediately I sense that I have made a mistake as if feels like a sauna. Sitting to my right is a real suntanned slag of a female who I watch pull funny faces as someone decides to sit in the seat her handbag was sitting in.

Soon the clock hits 7.10PM and we haven’t even moved and suddenly my mistake at choosing this train is confirmed.

Eventually though after too much of my life being wasted sat on a non-moving train I get home and passing through my parents’ place on the way. At least the dog cheers me up and helps me get over the misery caused by the shoddy service delivered by my train.

When I finally get back to Bohemian Grove tonight on TV is a topical drama called Freefall about the credit crunch over zealous mortgage lending that has brought the country to its knees (and many families with it). It fails to deliver.

Elsewhere on TV is the second episode of You Have Been Watching with Charlie Brooker which instead does indeed deliver before my night ends with falling asleep to the horrible sight of the movie London To Brighton. I remember Catherine from the BBC really being interested in seeing this film when I briefly spent time with her and eventually I saw it at the Prince Charles Cinema just off Leicester Square on the day of the infamous Hold Steady gig at the Borderline. A more grim movie I could struggle to envisage.