Tuesday 3 November 2009

Dream: I restart kickboxing and its more of a cult than ever with videos, sinister persuasion and not being allowed to leave the venue.

This morning I wake up to eight torrents having completed over night that include a bunch of new Entourage episodes and all the remaining Eastbound And Down episodes. Why prompted that sudden bought of efficiency?

The McCanns are on GMTV for the Nth time this morning. Enough already.

Outside it’s a drizzly day. It is truly rubbish.

Again I board the 6.59AM. This is my new train now, these are my new people, my new extras.

I’m not on good form today, my chest feels tight and generally I am wheezy. Am I now really so unhealthy?

At 7.55AM Information Jimmy announces an upcoming delay due to a broken down train outside Liverpool Street. What’s the deal with the train? It was supposed to be my new efficient daily option. Eventually the train pulls into the station at the same time the 7.03AM generally staggers in late anyway as it becomes increasingly evident that my train line is turning to shit.

A brief bout of Lookalike Poker with Tom sees me scoring high as I suddenly realise that I am sat opposite Mike Skinner from The Streets and Garry Hobbs from Eastenders. In the real world this would be a likely combination.

By the time I arrive into work it is with me in a shit mood. Off the back of such a shoddy ride into work all signs for the day do not suggest much to prosper.

Soon after getting in I check my email only to discover some frustrating requests from the consultant. From here onwards I decide to be grumpy today, to live up to my surroundings.

With the consultant threatening to be in at midday suddenly I have to do a shit load of balance sheet work fast as a result of his impending arrival.

In the afternoon while perusing Facebook I notice that one of the more normal people from Facebook has deleted me from her friends list. I wonder what prompted that decision. I would like to say that it doesn’t bother me but it really does. Again I find myself worrying about what other people’s perception of me is. Oh well ultimately it just serves to prove you just can’t trust anybody.

The consultant comes in around 3.30PM. By this point I have got a lot done by not as much as desired. The Pandora’s Box that is unearthed comes in the form of the directors loan accounts. In many ways this is an issue I have engineered to bring home the point that I am not being given enough time each month with which to complete my balance sheet work.

Eventually I get out of work and head down towards the Southbank Centre for tonight’s JAMES ELLROY event.

I hate the underlying sorrow that resonates in everything I do now.

Back at the Southbank once more I am on my own as now I have accepted that this is just how it is now to be.

Once inside the Queen Elizabeth Hall I am excited to be attending the JAMES ELLROY session. Eventually I take my seat and it gets announced that Mark Lawson will be doing the hosting duties this evening. Bonus.

It all opens very well as the pair of them trot out happily before JAMES ELLROY takes to the podium and launches into an impressive oratory display, delivery massive spiel seemingly off the cuff and top of his head before also screaming the first chapter of “Blood’s A Rover” seemingly from memory. Gosh he must be bored by this passage now.

Sporting a poppy (a very nice touch) he sits down and proceeds to shoot the shit with Lawson who delves impressively into the background behind his work and the machinations of his writing. On the contrary ELLROY accommodates to a point but when he feels the necessity to deliver a one line curt answer he does not shy away from this either.

JAMES ELLROY is a very tough and contradictory individual. He is fiercely serious on the subjects he addresses and writes about and as a result you feel he also lacks a sense of humour about him and the world both around him and in the past.

Belligerent in a boring way, his ego seems to give him bigger stature than his answers would suggests he deserves. He appears to have this contrived persona that rejects the modern world as he postures about having no mobile phone, no computer, no TV and even to not reading newspapers. Against this though somehow he is not ill informed. He claims to have knowledge on the Obamas but then only comments that they look like a couple that is bored of each other. He also claims to know who has the biggest and smallest dicks in Hollywood (it is Liam Neeson that has the largest apparently).

By the time the event reaches the audience for questions his enthusiasm appears to have run dry. Where as he was previously sat with his leg crossed in the “American style” no he is slouched back in his seat with his hands on his head and his legs spread out seemingly arched ready to trip Lawson up on the way out. Initially nobody seems to want to ask questions for fear of castigation but eventually they slowly dribble out before ELLROY smacks them out of the building with often short and rude responses. Lawson does his best to liven up proceedings but ELLROY appears to have completely lost interest in proceedings which just manifests itself into even more monosyllabic responses.

Ultimately JAMES ELLROY reminds me of the dad of your friend that is humourless and you can never do right by, the guy that fails to entertain the notion of any other generation. This is typified by the patches on the elbows of his sweater.

As things wind up I already have purchased my copy of the new book so I stick around for the signing and after waiting a decent length of time and my moment comes I get a handshake out of him and little else. I ask him to write the inscription to “Jason” and then that is it, whereas others had got a brief chat I got nothing. Afterwards I can barely be bothered to look at the signature inside the book.

I head home disappointed, served and unimpressed. As ever the brief ride from Waterloo to Liverpool Street via London Bridge feels longer than if I had actually just got up and walked. Why is the Jubilee Line so shonky?

While on the last leg of my journey on the Northern Line to Moorgate at Bank some Asian dude and his mate wheels as practice amp onto the carriage before hooking it up to an MP3 player and pulling out a saxophone to accompany it as he tears into some ethnic horn action. The acoustics of an underground train do not compliment this kind of playing and the din easily drowns out my listening and enjoyment of the Gene Page “Blacula” soundtrack. With the pair of them blurting out in my face it is a genuine relief as I am able to exit the train at the next stop while he is still going hell for leather while expressions of disgust emerge on the faces of my fellow passengers as their conversations get interrupted.

Once back at Liverpool Street I am able to board the 10PM train to Ipswich. Not long before it pulls off some drunk fat bovine state of a salaryman decides to plonk himself sat opposite me. He immediately rubs me up the wrong was as he throws his umbrella to the floor and it hits my foot. In hand he has a McDonalds meal bag which he proceeds to begin disgustingly scoffing while I look on envious and hateful. In comparison this guy makes me look downright svelte, buff and handsome. Soon I decide I want to kill him pushing a pin into his belly and make him deflate. I notice that he is wearing a wedding ring. How does something like this find a wife and get married? Truly bottom feeding to the max.

As the journey plays out I watch him as he slowly begins to nod off and the trains motion causes him to rock. I begin to will him to fall off his seat and knock his head on the floor, truly it begins to look inevitable. Tonight I feel a lesson has to be learned here.

With the journey now beginning to feel and resemble like a ride that is never going to end fear shoots to the pit of my soul as he picks up his thickshake and almost immediately drops it on the floor, just where my newly acquired autographed copy of Blood’s A Rover is housed. Covered in McDonalds shake this book will surely have a lower eBay value.

Eventually I get back to Colchester and escape from the tubby bitch. Back home I arrive to find three sarcastic Facebook comments from three lacklustre individuals one of whom chooses to remind me of the Burger King bag incident two years ago. I seem to remember him thinking it was hilarious at the time but now I guess he correctly uses it to nullify my point. Why does it take this to cause him to take the opportunity to contact me for the first time in about a year? I’ll be fucked if I know how his mind works. It niggles me.

I pass out.