Sunday 1 November 2009

Dream: I am in central London (Leicester Square) attending some fun event being held during the daytime (it might be the London Film Festival). Around lunchtime I bump into the Nine Finger Keeper who engages me when really I don’t want to ever talk to him again as long as I live. Later we bump into eachother again in a tube station he begins pestering on what is the best route to get to Brick Lane. I just tell him to go to Liverpool Street. Briefly I find myself in a variation of Brick Lane/Spitalfields where it appears to be inhabited by spoilt stupid young girls similar to Bob Geldof’s daughter. Eventually I head back to Essex as my day in London is done. My own train journey is strange as it turns overground and then begins to splutter and falter as it turns out one of the doors hasn’t closed fully. Eventually I get back to Essex and I find myself walking along areas close to the coast such as Little Clacton and then Holland On Sea. I have ended up walking along the places where I grew up in the style of Dan Clowes story. I feel lost but also staunch. I try on my coat from the last four years and now it drowns me, I have lost weight while maintaining my frame. Physically I am at my peak but there is no one around to boast about it to.

After awaking while it was still dark eventually I murmur and pull myself out of bed around 7.45AM, which constitutes a lie in in my world. Yesterday I failed to reach/meet my goals and once again falling asleep early on a Saturday night represents something of an own goal and personal defeat.

In bed I finish off watching the Billy Childish Is Dead documentary and it really gives me an enthusiasm and thirst for his music and art.

Once up and dressed I head out and over to Sainsburys at Stanway with view to getting The Observer which this week comes with the Music Monthly magazine. There are many rumours at the moment that this newspaper is on its last legs and if it did disappear and/or they stopped doing this magazine I would sorely miss it even if its not the greatest. Also I obviously buy some treats from Sainsburys in the process of the shop, the usual Bolt energy drink, the triple choc cereal and now the large carton of Mars milkshake.

When I get back I retake the broken seat at my writing desk and hope to scrape off some work before heading over to the olds for 3PM.

Bearing in mind that I fell asleep early last night and missed The Thick Of It for a second week running I find myself persisting with the shitty BBC iPlayer in the hope of watching the latest episode.

With the words failing to flow I continue catching up on TV as I watch episodes of 30 Rock and Entourage with view to finding inspiration somewhere.

Today I find myself musing as to why ladies always get fat after they reject me. I guess karma works on some level occasionally.

Soon 3PM comes around and so I head over to my parents for the Sunday routine. For some reason today the dog is very happy to see me, I wonder just how much they torment him when I am not around.

As soon as I step through the door I find myself confronted by the sound of motorsports on the television. Few things depress me more on a Sunday than the sound of the revving engines of the most pointless “sports” in history. Why do they fill the Sunday TV schedules with this shit?

It would appear that Dad has broken AOL. As a result of this I am unable to escape to the comfy recesses of the internet instead having to deal with family chores and issues such as conversation.

On Sky the game is Birmingham v Man City. Together they play out a 0-0 snore draw. There is no way that this is the fucking future of football. I’ve said it all season, Man City can buy all the players they want but they are useless without a real manager to lead them.

Like a good son I endeavour to repair their computer and in the process I waste a couple of hours trying to sort their AOL out. When I call up the AOL helpline my heart sinks when an Asian call centre answers the line. He tells me that his name is “Jason” and it only serves to make me think he is taking the piss. Much like how Chinese people adopt an English second name now it would seem Indian call centre staff now do the same. My heart then sinks even further when it turns out he deals with billing. Billing? I need technical support and help!

It is after these two hours of toil that I then discover that mother has recently changed the phoneline away from BT and with it I reach the conclusion that that is the cause of the problem. With this knowledge in mind I give up on mending their computer allowing them to pay for their stupidity of disrupting the status quo.

Eventually I fail in the task to repair the computer. One of the few things that exasperates me in life and fills me with the desire to scream at the wall is a malfunctioning computer. I sense dad was really hoping for me to repair things but I just have to throw in the towel to maintain my sanity.

Not long afterwards I head home for another bland Sunday night getting mentally prepared to return to the rat race in the morning.

On TV tonight is a Fleetwood Mac documentary which truly sends me to sleep.