Tuesday 11 August 2009

Dream: I am at the Edinburgh Festival with friends staying in a house with Racton, Pauly and Pappy’s Fun Club who are now veterans of the events and its traditions/conventions. I’m just a hanger on to proceedings, the Turtle of the group staying in a cramped, over populated house/apartment. Next Dad is at the festival dressed in his wedding garb from last weekend gearing up (and trying too hard) to do a standup comedy show. Naturally he is old school in style and just by nature a different brand of comedy/comedian. I’m half excited and half sensing embarrassment.

This morning I wake up with a headache, a mini hangover. Outside the climate/environment remains muggy and very stifling being heat combined with a threat of rain – the worst of both worlds.

Off the back of mum’s criticism I am now fearful and self conscious that I might have been gobby last night when I met up with Ross and Fiona. As a result if this is the case then it won’t make for me being much fun to be around. Additionally I don’t think the gift of the Luke Haines book when down very well.

Today is the day they announce the names (and therefore profiles and history) of the Baby P killers. A witch-hunt will now ensue as the parents of the world, especially the mothers, will go into some kind of media driven frenzy. The powers that be at GMTV will be the leading the way. These people are fucked on arrival.

I am in one of my XXL tops today and it is worryingly snug. I need to detox, to escape the restaurant and concentrate on getting well before it is too late.

The boss isn’t in for part of today but I can’t remember if it is scheduled for the morning or the afternoon.

On the train I manage to get “my seat”. At Witham unfortunately some man decides to sit in the one next to me and cuddle up against me. As he lodges his armpit into my side things become squishy and disgustingly uncomfortable as I begin to feel borderline indecently assaulted. I look at the guy and he is tall and lanky so I guess for him now life is about taking what he can get, especially off the back of having such a prematurely receding hairline. Trapped in my seat I just become his bit of rough for the morning.

The journey feels long and arduous this morning but ironically the train manages to pull into Liverpool Street at 8.01AM, a little less late than the usual now clockwork late. What happened?

Later on the tube I spend the entire duration of that journey sat opposite a bald David from Big Brother lookalike. He is fucking terrifying.

Thankfully Nora is back in work today. It’s been hell without her.

Elsewhere there is no word from the consultant today. Thank God.

Likewise there is no word from the old studio types as our vague plans to meet up are not acted upon but to be honest I am too tired to approach meeting up with any real gusto.

The day is spent further ploughing through more new company stuff. The job is coming on slowly because the starting point, where I have attempted to pick it up from the outsource guy, is extremely poor.

For lunch I have penne with chicken. Afterwards it sits heavy.

During the afternoon I continue to plough through the figures and finally they begin to take shape but they don’t look good.

While I am doing this The Girl is hassling me into buying the office treats but I don’t bite. First thing they’re hassling you for treats, the next they’re hassling you for god knows what.

As a substitute we sample the sweet booze that Nora brought back from Tunisia and it is strong stuff. Basically I end the day FUCKED!

The end of the day eventually arrives and I opt out of Millwall and decide to head straight home. On the tube to Liverpool Street a rough as fuck family boards the train. They look straight from Haringey.

I wind up on the 6.20PM Norwich train well ahead of time to the degree that I could have caught the 6.08PM Clacton train.

For some reason no one appears to want to sit next to me tonight. Eventually some fierce bloke with a busted arm takes the seat. He has a heavy bag that I put in the holdall above for him. See, I’m a nice guy really.

As the yuppie wannabe yaks on his mobile phone for the majority of the journey I watch as the broken arm man scribbles some notes on his napkin. The handwriting is fucked which clearly suggests he isn’t using his correct hand and the one in the sling is his natural side of leaning. The notes include:

“Hardcore corporate street fighter

Forensic accountancy

Basket case

Property assets

Shit load of money”

It would appear evident that he hates the yuppie just as much as I do. In the process he just might be my new hero. I then take another look at the state of him and swiftly retrain my decision and mind. I do wonder though, this reaction, is it representative of some kind of breakdown he is experiencing?

Later when broken arm gets up to go to the toilet he apologises for being a bad passenger but he doesn’t know half of what I have to put up with on a daily basis. He begins telling me how he broke his arm. It was in Belgium. I don’t really want to get into conversation at this time, etiquette and conventions generally ensure that after a soul destroying and crushing day at work commuter trains are generally the realms of silent contemplation. He asks me where I am getting off and if I will get his bag down for him when I get off. I’m happy to help but weirded out by the request and general stranger conversation. My demeanour will only ever be awkward and standoffish when faces by such matters.

I exit the train at Colchester giving the guy the thumbs up as I get his luggage down from the holdall above.

Back at the olds at Balkerne Heights things are sedate. Something is up but I don’t want to jinx things too soon.

Not long afterwards I am back home at Bohemian Grove. This is a perfect evening and I wish I were somewhere else at this time. I can envisage in my mind the perfect place and the perfect person to be around. For a while back there I almost had, almost found myself ahead in the game winning and living the life that I always wanted to and dreamt about. It would be good for me to be in London right now, a place where life seems to step up a gear for me and makes me move faster and generally up my pace and perform as a much better person.

Tonight I am listening to Radio Five and a show hosted by Mark Chapman reminiscing about the 1990 World Cup in Italy. Guesting on the show are Paul Parker and Tony Cascarino and I hold the fondest memories of that World Cup as we were holidaying in Mallorca for the beginning of the tournament and I remember so many fun nights spent as a kid watching all the games in various bars.

While writing a HUGE bug flies into my apartment. It’s like a cross between a cockroach and a killer wasp. In the end I get it with my hoover Ghostbusters style to which Allen later points out on Facebook is likely to now ferment eggs in the hoover bag and help it expand/multiply. Immediately upon hearing this I fill with pest paranoia.

Big Brother is troubling tonight when it appears Freddie’s breakdown/meltdown reaches full fruition and completion at the hands of Bea. Girls called B, tut.

Afterwards You Have Been Watching is pretty good but I do come to the conclusion that Frankie Boyle now appears to think that his beard has given him the wit and execution of Daniel Kitson. I would disagree.

Eventually I pass out watching The Wire.