Saturday 17 April 2010 – RECORD STORE DAY

 

Saturday 17 April 2010 – RECORD STORE DAY

Dream: I am in Rough Trade record shop just off Brick Lane.  I manage to find a copy of the new Blur seven inch.  I then find a copy of it on CD single.  Swiftly I buy them both amongst a pile of other records while I frantically search the store for The Cribs/The Thermals split single.

I awaken this morning slightly panicked wondering what the time is and if whether I have slept in too late.  I cannot believe how seriously I take these things sometimes (Record Store Day).  I took them too seriously when I was the right age to do so but now it is verging/bordering on some kind of joke.  My transformation into Seymour from Ghost World is almost complete.  Alarm bells are ringing.

With that in mind I pull myself together and head off for London at 7.45AM regardless.  This is a fool’s errand.  Something I do in order to fill the gaping void in my being and existence.

Ridiculously Chris Summerlin deleting me from Facebook is still resonating in my mind.  This is truly pathetic, as was the gesture.  I guess it is confusion more than anger that gripes me.  I just don’t understand these things sometimes, the social workings of certain circles, ones that I am nowhere near involving myself in anymore.  Such is the modern world.  This is exactly why I did the Facebook Cull in an effort to analyse such things.  Now after 100 days and 100 culls it would seem that I am none the wiser.  I’m just curious as to what suddenly prompted this gesture.  Looking at our remaining mutual friends there really are some flimsy links there.  Also overall this is a person with over 500 friends, which pretty much sums up the Facebook experience – nobody has 500 friends and suddenly we get back to the Dunbar’s number theory.  People have very short memories in the long run.

After putting a lot of effort into my appearance today it almost makes me late leaving Bohemian Grove for the station.  In the end I wind up on the 8.03AM train.

I ride up to town listening to episodes of The Bugle from two years ago.  This is one hell of a catch up project.  Now that’s what I call dedication.

Word comes in from Justin that up in Manchester people are already queued outside Piccadilly Records for Record Store Day.  I don’t think I’ll be getting a Blur single today.

For some reason I have put on aftershave today especially for the Record Store Day event.  Why I do this is something I am trying to fathom out.  This is without doubt going to be primarily a male affair so why would I want to do something that might enhance me to others?  I think perhaps this is a gesture of insecurity from me with view to distinguishing myself away from the real geeks and nerds of proceedings.

Eventually the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.48AM and I head straight over to Rough Trade East just around the corner from Brick Lane where I am met with the sight of an almighty huge line/queue stretched around the block waiting to get in and get at the limited edition records.  Suddenly my efforts feel futile but now I am here I figure having made the effort to arrive I should still queue and see what I can get.

Patiently I wait and finally I get allowed into the store as smug little indie kids emerge with their copies of the Blur seven inch.  Maybe I should just break from the queue and steal from these little fuckers.

I get into the shop just before 9.30AM and inside it is genuine pandemonium, this is a kind of bedlam that can seldom being associated with indie music.  Today the indie fraternity suddenly resemble crazed women attending a shoe and/or handbag sale at Next or somewhere.  I don’t stand a chance against the frenzied record collectors.  With rumours of people queuing since 3AM in order to bag the Blur single this is a passion I just cannot replicate or match.

For the longest time I find myself staggering around the store clutching only a £6 She & Him seven inch that in truth I don’t really want.  As I begin to feel like crying a set of Factory Records ten inch samplers are brought out, one of which I immediately grab just to cease/stop looking so pathetic with my sole single.

In addition to the Blur seven inch I miss out on a vinyl pressing of the Sonic Youth Starbucks compilation and the Flaming Lips version of “Dark Side Of The Moon”, which at £20 I decide I can realistically live without.  Sadly though I did really want a copy of the Male Bonding/Dum Dum Girls split single on Sub Pop which looks far beyond driven for me today.

Rubbing insult into injury I see an old guy (a collector) with about 15 copies of The Fall single and in the process I all but begin crying.

At around this point I spot a recognisable face in the form of Danny Kelly.  I am genuinely in awe because I have dug this guy’s work for years and still scour the internets to hear if he is making any new podcasts or radio shows.  I really wish he was still doing football shows with Danny Baker as they truly bring the best out in each other, snapping with real bite and avoiding the sentimental pap that the current Baker show is prone to lapsing into at the moment.  His visit appears swift and merciless as he ploughs his way through the crowds snapping up a Soft Machine vinyl before shooting off while I continue to stagger around looking for good stuff.  The man is plainly a pro when it comes to record shopping.

From here I spend too much time bouncing between the Record Store Day displays until I become paranoid that a member of security is tracing me.  Eventually I give up and join a queue that I think is headed towards the main counter but then I discover it is actually being redirected to a bespoke counter at the front of the store by the coffee bar.

While standing in the queue naturally it winds back past the seven inch displays where now I find myself scooping up any release that is remotely interesting or recognisable in order just to have something to show for my day and efforts.

Behind me in the queue is a geek and his German girlfriend.  He is a wet bastard and her accent is just annoying.  Where do these types go to hook up?  Still from here I am able to eavesdrop and garner some kind of knowledge/gossip regarding proceedings.  When however it turns out that she doesn’t know what the Shroud Of Turin is I can’t help but feel prolonged contempt and disgust for these people.

By now shop clerks are wandering around asking “anyone want a…..” and suddenly a copy of the new Fall single is offered up which I jump for and suddenly things begin to improve immeasurably.

As the queue moves slowly behind me conversation gets more moronic the closer we get to the checkout.  Eventually I close in one payment just as the guy in front of me buys a stack of vinyl that comes to £174.77.  How can people afford to pay so much in this current economic climate?    My own purchases comes to £41.44 but at least at the counter there are plenty of promo CDs to pocket.  Still £40 for a small pile of seven inches feels a hefty price to pay.

At this point the time is nearly 11AM and I have almost been in the shop for the two hours.  Looking towards the exit I spot that people are still queuing to get let into the store but I stay inside to wait around for the PULLED APART BY HORSES set.

PULLED APART BY HORSES are a band from Leeds who appear to enjoy reiterating this fact through and through.  They are a great band with a truly harsh guitar sound which is really too jagged for 11AM in the morning.  In so many worlds this is just too early to rock.  Not for these guys though, they’re animals by hook and by crook.  This noise is a proposition for only the strong at this hour.

There is something genuinely sinister about this band.  The singer looks eager to tickle the audience while the drummer appears to be covered head to toe in Russian tattoos and the guitarist really wants to talk about and show off his new shoes.  Repeat until funny.

It feels like a while now since I have come across a British band that sounds like this which as a result provides something of a bolt of enthusiasm at this time from an act sensibly selected for this kind of event.  The PULLED APART BY HORSES din is a nasty and American sounding one that sears and operates at a high level.

Eventually the main man leaps into off the stage into the audience and right next to me.  As I duck the forks of his guitar I spot a photographer grabbing close up snaps of what is probably me stood next to a musician looking like I am shitting myself.  He then begins riffling through CD racks mid set before realising this is the Japanese noise section and he doesn’t know any of those bands.

Throughout the set a security guard that looks like a big hard Chris Eubank trawls around the crowd holding up live LPs doing a really hard sell.  Enthused everyone keeps taking them from him, possibly feeling too intimidated to say “no”.

Finally the band climaxes with the singer’s shirt worn over his head like a Sand People as the new shoes guitarist jumps into the crowd and begins hugging people before hanging his still live axe uncomfortably on the shoulders of a pretty Asian girl he probably fancies (I know I did).

Afterwards I exit Rough Trade feeling genuinely elated.  It feels like a while now since I last saw a band such as this, they are a dying breed.  Once outside the store I see the queue still reaching around the corner, only without the panic and urgency of 9AM.

At this point my phone beeps and it is Mark asking me what my plan for today is.  Promptly I give him a call and soon plans are hatched to get some lunch.

From here I grab a Starbucks and head to Liverpool Street to meet up with Mark just as I begin to experience battery panic on my iPhone.  When he turns up we head back to Rough Trade to see the sight and scene with the queue still around the corner.  Peaking inside we can hear Caribou playing and sounding surprisingly good.

At this point some girl walks past who Mark knows and it actually turns out to be the lady that designed Lady Gaga’s sunglasses in the “Telephone” video.  No shit.

With it not looking likely to get back inside the shop we head to Spitalfields where we grab some lunch at Gourmet Burger as we bundle through conversation about the impending election.  After the food we hang around Spitalfields in the sun while wondering just what the fuck to do with our day (with our lives).

The sun has really brought out the families and it is weird to see them in such an urban setting.  The concrete jungle just does not feel the right place to bring your family on such a day as they search out the few scraps of green that the city has to offer.  There is one particular yummy mummy who makes me pine for an adult existence as such.

With this in mind (and my iPhone supplying battery panic) I throw the towel in on proceedings and wind up catching the 2.30PM train home.

After a boring Saturday afternoon train ride home (near death by boredom) I get back to Colchester just under an hour later where I decide to brave Asda on a Saturday afternoon.  This is a fool’s errand.  Eventually I get home around 4PM at which point I endeavour to kick into writing.

From here writing carries me into the evening before all falls apart and I fall asleep in front of the TV in the evening.

Friday 16 April 2010

Friday 16 April 2010

Dream: my boss keeps interrupting me while I am trying to order something online.

Impressively I avoid a hangover this morning.  Slowly I get up and murmur only to hear my neighbour slam her door at 6.20AM as she exits.  If the building wasn’t awake already it sure is now.

Today is a great looking morning, glowing, fresh and Friday.

There is currently no food in the flat.  This means for the first time in longer than I can remember I am heading to work without eating any breakfast.  I never ran out of food when I was having cereal for breakfast but now this damn fruit shit is really betraying me.

The drive to the station mirrors such smoothness and within minutes I am on the platform.  From here today’s commute comes without complexities, nobody sits near me and thus nobody crushes me.

Once again the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 7.54AM.  High five.

At the station there is a lady handing out free samples of Yakult.  This is the first free stuff they have given away in ages.  Despite Chris’ dad’s eternal theory that this is the best way to distribute Anthrax I grab a little bottle in the hope of satisfying my breakfast desires a little.  With no one looking, once on the tube I tear the little bottle open and as I down it it feels like dropping Cyanide.  Nice.

I am first into work today and it is a truly pleasant feeling.  Having not had breakfast yet again I indulge in more orange juice from the bar.  Vitamin C will see me through.

Is Dappy the stage name of Alfie Patten?

From here my Friday is a decent one.  A couple of times last night takes me to the toilet but at least I am not hangover (or so I keep telling myself).

I now have three To Do lists that I am working on/from.  These are my hymn sheets.  Thankfully there is some crossover but ultimately it only suggests that I am not getting things done/finished this week.

As a result of this degree of focus I find myself having a relatively decent morning of work, just about more than scratching the surface.

In the afternoon I find myself on the Holy Terror Records website buying the new Charles Manson seven inch single.  I can’t help but feel/think that this is bad for karma.

Towards the end of the day I text Racton and in reply he happens to note and ask me why Chris Summerlin has culled me on Facebook.  To the best of my knowledge he hasn’t but when I check my friend list it appears that he indeed has.  I have to admit I am genuinely surprised by this, to the point that I even have to check that my friend list number has definitely dropped from 138 to 137.  It has.  Why?

From here it niggles and worries me.  Now I know this website is the pit of trivial pleasures and Chris Summerlin is somebody that I saw just twice last year (ATP and then Ross’ birthday eight months ago) but I still go through the denial anger acceptance thing except I don’t reach acceptance.

In a way it is flattering to think that I am still even on his radar but ultimately it is just weird.  Citation needed.

Things get worse when just as I am one foot out of the door the IT Guy begins hitting me with accounting queries.  He always does this, hits me with these questions at home time on a Friday.  Does he not reconcile this as being my escape for the weekend?  Seems not.

Eventually after I manage to wriggle away it just results in me stomping out of work in a hump for the second Friday running.  As I change tubes at Baker Street and board the Metropolitan Line the tube carriage is filled with some of the most annoying cunts in London.

I rush to get on the 6PM train to Norwich, which then proceeds to be slow in pulling off and finally beaches fifteen minutes into the journey at Chadwell Heath.  God hates me.

It is just past 7PM when the train pulls into Colchester.  With this I hop into my car and head to Balkerne Heights to watch Millwall v Huddersfield on Sky.

As ever when I turn up the dog is initially happy to see me before he cools/calms right done.  It turns out that another dog attacked him earlier this week and he has a few tiny wounds to show for it.  Dad says he punted the offending dog with a big kick.  The old man is vicious like that.

The Huddersfield v Millwall game turns out to be something of a duff game.  Early on Shaun Batt goes off injured and he only gets replaced with crap in the form of Obika and his thug life tattoos.  From here Huddersfield have most of the play and inevitably take control of the game, pinning ‘Wall back but not necessarily making the most of their advantage until they inevitably take the lead.

When Neil Harris eventually comes on he brings a bit of life to the game as the best Millwall opportunity comes when Obika heads the ball against the bar.  Towards the end of the game Gary Alexander comes on as a substitute sporting a new beard.  It’s a good look and great to see him back.

Then at one point it even looks like Huddersfield are warming up their mascot to bring him on as a substitute.  Now that’s northern desperation.

In the end the game finishes at 1-0 with Huddersfield quite frankly looking the better team.  Tonight winds up feeling like a true missed opportunity.

Not long after the game finishes I head straight home, festering in a hump.

Thursday 15 April 2010

Thursday 15 April 2010

Tired again.

On GMTV this morning they feature a man that has lost 25 stone and is now running the London Marathon in a few weeks.  This is not news!  However this does prove some kind of precursor to my day as just half an hour later I appear to be sitting next to his (before) Asian twin on the train.

Just before leaving the flat I find myself having some kind of strange Bella flashback and thinking of the Friday night, which culminated in her aunt’s front room and me telling her that we could not see each other again.  I wish I knew what was going through her head at that time.  That was one mystery I never did around to solving.  As to why I am having these thoughts at this time I can only link it into the longing suite and my current concerns that are festering more and more by the day.

I have another banana breakfast this morning, almost retching on them in the process.  This fucking fruit lark resembles more junk food than any fast food.  Is this the healthy eating option because it makes you shit your weight off?

From here I drag myself to the station and off to London and work.  Today I find myself having one of those mornings where/when I look around at the other extras and begin to wonder if I am seeing myself in twenty or twenty five years time.  Is a quarter of a century of commuting really what lies ahead of me?

So yeah, as I said above today I board the train and wind up sat next to a bovine brown man who at least makes me look relatively normal sized in the process.  The whole country is getting bigger though, it’s the next step in genetics and evolution for the developed world.  I can’t lose weight, there is just not a healthy lifestyle or plan in place for me.  If I am going to have to dedicate two thirds of my waking life to work and travel there is no way I am going to be able to crowbar anything so laborious into my schedule.  God hates me.

Why is Twitter over capacity at 7.05AM?

At Witham some guy in a red England football shirt sits opposite me.  This is nerd patriotism ahoy.  He looks like Scooter from the Muppet Show.

Again today the Paul Sturrock gang inhabit their corner of the train and talk the whole journey.  I wonder what they do?  Where they go?

Today the Fading Blonde from Chelmsford sits in my row.  She doesn’t speak to her friend this morning suggesting trouble in their world, some kind of femme conflict.  Or monthly visit.

Distracted and engrossed I manage to ignore the train stopping at Ingatestone and Shenfield meaning the journey feels shorter and lessened.  It would be good if it was like this everyday.

As we get off the train at Liverpool Street I allow the Fading Blonde to exit in front of me which prompts her to thank me.  Seems she might be nice after all.

Upon arrival into London my knee goes.  Suddenly I feel like I am walking on rubber band joints as I begin to fear the possibility of it going from beneath me at any moment.  What the fuck is happening here?

Fortunately I keep it together and it gets me across town.  Exiting at St Johns Wood I see what is probably going to be the best thing I see all day: a scraggy dog wrestling its owner by tugging violently at its lead.  Its classic stuff.  It’s all downhill from here.

This morning I find myself weighing up the option of trying out Wordpress (moving over from Blogspot).  I don’t know, Wordpress strikes me as cumbersome.  I can’t definitely see websites where it fits in with the template (such as with Diskant) but I’m not convinced that it’s for me.  It would appear that I already have a couple of Wordpress blogs set up but they don’t look good.

The big news of the day is the volcano in Iceland and the subsequent clouds of dust now grounding planes/flights all across Europe.  First it is Scotland cancelling flights which sees our Glasgow lawyer stranded in London.  Soon afterwards Racton texts me from Cannes saying that his flight is now cancelled as disruption spreads down the country to cancelling flights to and from English airports.  The early word from his end is that he maybe looking at being stranded in France for four days.

Things take a dip as a supplier called Independent Safes begins shouting at me down the phone for not paying invoices that we have not received.  He expects me to call him back to confirm things that I cannot promise.  I just shrug in response.  Professionally this is wrong of me but by entering into our miniscule negotiation by shouting at me I have already switched off to him by this point.  Now when Independent Safes receives payment it will take even longer.  At some point one of us will need to begin actually behaving professionally.  In a way this helps me snap out of my funk although I do find calling him back to be deeply unpleasant in the most unnecessary fashion.

As lunch arrives I find myself in full swing.  Dinner actually cuts into my action.  With eating out tonight in mind I go for the chargrilled salmon with new potatoes and Hollandaise sauce option.  Today the slab of salmon is huge (a double helping), much to the chagrin of the angry boss.

My afternoon continues the morning’s momentum until my boss calls me in to help him out with getting a refund from Easyjet for our Scottish lawyer’s flight.

Luckily I get back into the groove of thing as I put in my best day of the week, perhaps producing as much work as the previous three days combined.

At 5.30PM I leave the restaurant with a skip in my step.  When I board the tube at St Johns Wood I spot Charles Shaar Murray and Anna Chen on the carriage.  I love my low level celebrity spots.

I switch to the Central Line at Bond Street and soon I am emerging at Oxford Circus and waiting for people on Argyll Street.  Eventually Mark turns up just as people watching begins to get good.  He looks shattered arriving off the back of just finishing one project only to move straight onto two more.  Such is life.

Not long after he turns up Sharpy arrives and we have a gang.  We head towards Soho where we wind up in the Old Coffee House on Beak Street.  I have the fondest memories of this place having seen Pappy’s Fun Club do so many great sets here.

Tonight conversation flows as we have a great session which has been a long time coming.  Generally all sounds busy but well in our respective lives.  Chat comes with a degree of weariness but with some success also.

Early on I find myself tearing into Cemetery Junction as I expound my disappointment after seeing it last night.  Everyone is an expert on Ricky Gervais it would seem.  From here we wind up talking about football (mainly playing) as the other two are currently active in various kickabouts and suddenly they make it sound as if they were gifted prospects at school.  Naturally talk reverts back to school days, an area that always appears to get indulged in when grammar school kids get together.  With my own school experience not being the greatest I begin to drink quicker and begin to glaze over.

With three pints behind us we head to the Golden Day restaurant on Shaftesbury Avenue, which boasts apparently the spiciest Chinese food in London.  Music to my ears.

Upon arrival the restaurant is verging on heaving but after a short wait they manage to squeeze us into a booth by the window sat opposite the Curzon as our view of outside (Soho and Shaftesbury Avenue) takes on Edward Hopper proportions with my beer goggles.

By this point I am quite sufficiently drunk and continuing to glaze over, eager to cease wetting my beak and proceed to chow down.

The food turns out to be very good, living up to its boast with abundance.  Despite being drunk (and getting drunker) my chopstick prowess is silently impressive.  Then halfway through the mean I discover that I am using them the wrong way round John Bonham style.  This is the secret.

Eventually we get done with our mouths burning and on fire.  Hours from now we will most definitely be regretting this but for now it is an exhilarating eating experience.

From here we head up to Tottenham Court Road through Soho on a surprisingly unswinging Thursday night.  This is the credit crunch.  Swiftly we head across town and soon I am on the 11.18PM train home to Colchester.  Tonight it is a long and arduous journey during which a couple of times I pass out.  One day they will rob me.

Once home the world is still subtly spinning as I take precautions with green tea and headache pills.  From here I watch a couple of episodes of How To Make It In America before passing out.  Again.

Wednesday 14 April 2010

 

Wednesday 14 April 2010

Dream: Millwall are in the play offs but rather than going into the ground and watching the game I linger around outside the stadium seemingly for fear of jinxing proceedings.  Eventually I wander off and find a deserted pub in the sticks where all the fans have been beforehand (before the game) and where they have left all their stuff.

Things are grey again today but that’s OK, it doesn’t affect me badly.  Against this, events runs smoothly and on cue.

Today will probably be remembered in history as “Paedo Bikini” day according to the front page of The Sun.  Things really are grey.

Entering the train station I spot Disney Face and later both Kym Marsh lookalikes, which is something of a rare happening these days.  Such is repetition and the reassurance that it brings to my commuting experience.

On cue I board the 6.59AM with The Metro in hand and as I flick through it I am disheartened and depressed by the number of advertisements from credit rating agencies that deal in scoring.  In a civilised society this really is something that we shouldn’t be having to use, a service that is disgusting in concept.  Companies such as Experian and CreditExpert are truly vultures just playing on the fears and paranoia of the vulnerable (the poor).  What a decadent concept, one designed to keep people down and away from being lent the spirit of being socially mobile.  These organisations serve no purpose; their necessity has just been invented for the modern world. 

Again the train journey is another quiet one, lacking in personalities and lookalikes.  There is definitely something to be said for that.

Upon arrival at Liverpool Street all goes wild and insane as I discover a tiny midget lady bumping into my knees just as I spot (and stare at) a rubbish Bunk from The Wire doppelganger.

From here the trot into work is so so.  I see no more midgets or The Wire lookalikes in the process so I am safe.  Once again I find myself first into the building so I treat myself to an orange and lemonade with view to clearing my head.

The day rolls OK.  Still I cannot build/muster up any momentum.  These accounts are such a mess from all the various restructural dealings, nothing and nobody is on the same page.

Humpday is deflated.  The Filipino looks bored and I can’t blame her, so am I.

As ever before we realise it the time is lunch.  Today I have penne with merguez.  It has most of the food groups and the sausage is one of my five meats a day.

The afternoon plays out in an equally unspectacular fashion.  If I’m being truthful I can’t be bothered to deal with this mess, as it is not necessarily my doing.

Out of boredom I even respond to a Craigslist advert for an Oriental girl seeking marriage and a passport.  What the fuck am I playing at?

Eventually glumness turns into grumpiness as thoughts begin to turn to dusting off 1000 Hurts.

Finally 5.30PM arrives and with it moves towards Leicester Square to see CEMETERY JUNCTION on release day.  Obviously with anything Gervais related thoughts are drawn to you know who.

Straight from work I get out at Green Park and head along Piccadilly.  Upon arriving at the Vue on Leicester Square I find myself confronted by a large queue.  Now is this for the latest Ricky Gervais movie or the fact that it is Orange Wednesday.  You decide.

In the end I pay £12.15 for a cinema ticket and yet again feel like a total mark.  In six months time the DVD will cost half this price and in a year it will probably be less than a third.  Madness.

Leicester Square is heaving this evening.  What is it with so many walking slowly?  Is this a reflection of people’s pulses grinding to a halt?  Where is the London hustle I’ve become acclimatised to over the past five years?

I decide to get a Starbucks on Shaftesbury Avenue and with the purchase dinner is served.  With time to kill I take a wander down to Trafalgar Square, which is always a sight that never fails to impress or blow away.

As I head back to the cinema I pass a band (or rather their crew) packing out of Capital Radio.  Looking at the flight cases I spot the word Ash.  So I get to see their equipment but not them themselves.  Surely this still counts as a star spot though.

Finally I take my seat in Screen 4 of the cinema.  This is a little one.  What, the new UK blockbuster is not showing on the main screen?  FAIL.

CEMETERY JUNCTION turns out to be a fairly fun but truly frustrating and agonising experience.  The good intentions and messages are there but the execution just isn’t.  Throughout the movie I struggle to harbour much in the way of empathy for the characters, as at times it plays out as subtle as a sledgehammer.

Perhaps it isn’t helped that the setting fails to reconcile with small-town existence.  This town looks too rural to the point it looks like a village from a lost golden age.  The England being portrayed physically looks more like the forties as opposed to the sixties.

The first solid laughs arrive when Brian Gittins turns up as the café owner at the railway station.  I’d like to think that this guy is going places but he is just still too weird for most people’s tastes I fear.

In the end for me the big problem is that the main characters just aren’t convincing or likeable, indeed Tom Hughes is just an American style anti-hero, the kind we just don’t tend to do or get behind (root for) in this country.  You can’t help but feel the casting has been executed in a Hollywood method (bloody Americans).  And why not, people aren’t going to go for a young version of Ricky Gervais as much as they will some vacant pretty boy.

CEMETERY JUNCTION gets A for effort but much like The Invention Of Lying fails to nail what blatantly are great ideas and concepts (not least with the Billy Liar type situation).  Perhaps two hours is just not long enough anymore in order to develop such supposedly complex characters, backgrounds and storylines.  With HBO being so amazing there is now a desire to cover areas with much more depth in addition to there being a new found interest in peripheral characters that is always going to be impossible to squeeze into a two hour movie.

It all pans out in predictable manner, which should really derive some kind of euphoria but ultimately does not necessarily work that way.  If I’m honest, I wanted the characters to fail.

In addition to this once more my enjoyment of a movie is blighted by external forces.  Throughout the movie I feel the back of my seat being kicked as the dickhead that sat behind me seconds before the beginning of the movie persists in tapping my chair all the way through.  Is he bored or just an arsehole?  Probably both.  What is it about supposedly adult people who find it impossible to just sit still for the duration of a movie?  Then in an ultimate kick in the balls after the movie ends he comments “we should have gone to see The Letter.”  Idiot.

Also, I said earlier, anything with Ricky Gervais comes the baggage of my American friend as it all reminds me of a person I met through being a fan of the guy who turned out to be rubbish and depressing.

Afterwards I emerge from the cinema following the guy that was sat behind me ruining my evening, I just have to see which kind of dick represents the ruling class these days.  He is just some skinny Strokes wannabe, a guy with a look that will always serve to get him laid more times than I could ever dream of.  Sadness accrues.

Eventually I wind up on the 9.30PM train, a comfy Norwich proposition.  In many ways this is the ideal train, almost quiet and calming.

When I get home the time is around 10.30PM and the night is almost done.  With no time to squeeze in anything useful or productive I soon turn in.

Tuesday 13 April 2010

 

Tuesday 13 April 2010

Today I wake up ahead of time.  I need a piss.  Having taken my watch off last night I have no idea just what the time actually is but with the sun already out in force I can’t imagine it is far from 6AM.

Eventually I murmur and the time is 5.56AM, which feels like some kind of kick in the balls by nature.  From here I flip on the TV and brace myself for the latest spew of news for morons.

GMTV picks up today as Clare the weathergirl resembles a honey again (former glories).  Maybe things are starting to trend upwards.

I leave the flat slightly late this morning and I do so wearing my coat in full realisation that by the time I reach London the sun will probably be out and this garment will be rendered unnecessary.

The train ride this morning turns out to be a relatively quiet one, none of the fun and games of yesterday, only bliss and no sign of plate crowders within the ranks of the extras.  Likewise when the train reaches London the tube ride across town from Liverpool Street to St Johns Wood turns out to be another smooth, eventless journey offering a relaxing voyage and lack of stress to take into the office with me.

As I step into the restaurant and up the stairs into the office things pick up further as the angry boss hands me a cup of coffee for being “first in.” 

Thankfully this morning the computer network is still up as I arrive.  Makes a change.

In general work runs a bit better today although there are a few wages queries that get in my way, issues The Girl would ordinarily deal with.  Slowly I begin to polish off yesterday’s To Do list just as another for today begins to come together.

For lunch I opt to the sausage, beans and mash option.  Yes, I am eating from the children’s menu.  This meal comes coupled with helping my boss deal with internet logins and the Easyjet website in general.  Cheap airline websites aren’t the most user friendly of sites.  I defy you to find a contact telephone number or email within them.

Today I find myself on the Millwall website again coming very close to paying £370 for a season ticket.  In the grand scheme of things it is not an obscene amount of money.  I balk though, what if they don’t go up?

Eventually the afternoon gets going and with it more distracted productivity.  For some reason our office is caked in static these days and often when we touch stuff (metal stuff) we get small electric shocks.

In the end I find some kind of groove only to realise that there is just an hour left in the working day.  There is very little that I can do with this.

Late in the day I come across a letter reproduced online from my old Gringo Records cohort from his job (real job).  It displays a level of professionalism in him that I never encountered in our “working” relationship with the label.  Maybe he has changed.  Then again leopards don’t change their spots.  Is it really seven years now since the California holiday?

By the time 5.30PM arrives I am almost flying but still I down tools at the close of the contractually obligated time.  Never accuse me of being a salaryman.

Tonight I am heading to The Lyric in Hammersmith to see GHOST STORIES so as a result I am in no rush to leave the office considering that curtain time is 8PM.

From here I potter for a while, doing some personal writing while trying to kill time.  Eventually I leave the restaurant around 6.45PM and head for Hammersmith.  As I walk to St Johns Wood station I spot Vanessa Feltz waddling coming up towards me seemingly being carried (held up) by two young girls.  Relatives I guess.

I get to Hammersmith in good time and after a brief bearings hiccup I easily find The Lyric.  Hammersmith is an area that is still slightly foreign to me.  I think I could grow to like it if only it wasn’t so arduous to get to on the tube, the journey feels as if it takes forever.

Quickly after purchasing a Lipton ice tea I find myself inside the theatre taking my seat.  The setting is excitedly eerie with the walls littered with cobwebs and graffiti and the only sound being piped from the PA being something Kranky or Constellation would have happily released a few years ago when hip people were suckered into thinking that it was all the rage.

As people slowly filter in as ever there is the sound of a camp gay person sat behind me whining about work in conversation.  It’s a theatre thing I guess.  Elsewhere while I wait for the show to begin I spot Paul Gambaccini in the audience.

In the end I find myself sat between a disco tart WAG wannabe and an old mummy.  This makes for a tough decision as to whom I’ll be hugging out to when the fear begins.

GHOST STORIES begins with screams and a sheet of white noise.  With this opening a ghost expert (Andy Nyman) takes to the stage, accidentally dropping his pen in the process and begins giving a lecture, expressing his doubts regarding the existence of the paranormal, writing it off as the impressionable aspects of the human mind.

From here the vocal sceptic rolls out various examples of nonsense, of potential paranormal activity and ghost sightings which he proceeds to dismiss as being down to perception, of how if a mind wants to believe it is seeing a ghost it will believe it.  The most chilling picture he holds up is one of a wedding photo from Scotland that appears to have a small child creeping behind the father of the bride.  As the photo becomes increased the shadow of the child becomes clearer and clearer even though the family insist that there was nobody around at the time.  Was this the presence of child from the past or just an optical illusion?  In the sceptical conclusion rules out although such an image does royally give cause for question.

Soon Nyman is leading us into three examples of other paranormal encounters explicitly re-enacting them.  The first incident features a night watchman (played by David Cardy who featured in Birds Of A Feather) as recounts a late night experience he had at a time where he was being subjected to much family pressure.  As the incident plays out in a tense manner that causes much of the audience to eventually scream (and me to most definitely hop in my seat) Nyman returns only to dismiss the meeting as a trick of the mind.

Moving onto the second example it features a young man driving home late at night from a party where he hits something while talking on his mobile phone.  Once more things occur at a time whereby the witness/victim is experiencing some degree of guilt/tension and as again the story unfolds in a masterfully chilling manner more terror takes place again deriving screams from the audience and another genuine skip in my heart.  Of course once more Nyman dismisses this as the imagination of the lad working overtime.

The final tale features Nicholas Burns (Nathan Barley) as a father dealing with an incident in his child’s bedroom.  After more vibrations and apparent tricks of the mind this scene mutates into all kinds of nastiness as the show strides to an explosive twisting conclusion.

It all ends very noisily with a gnarly conclusion as all the stories are terrifically executed using the kind of trickery you would expect from a magic background.  All in all it is a very visceral experience.

As I emerge back onto the streets of Hammersmith there is a crazy lady asking for help outside the theatre, which invariably leads to a request for money.  Is this an extension to the Ghost Stories experience?  Is she employed by The Lyric?

From here I board the Piccadilly Line, which from Hammersmith feels a very long ride back to East London and civilisation.  As I change lines at Holborn my heart is still pumping from the show, the adrenalin is still flowing.

Once back at Liverpool Street I find myself making the schoolboy error of boarding the 10.30PM Norwich train when easily I could have made the 10.18PM.  Much to my annoyance slowly Norwich City supporters begin to swarm the train with their hick accents and inbred appearance.

Tonight was a big night for third tier football.  Most importantly (unfortunately) I discover that Millwall have fouled up at Yeovil only drawing 1-1.  This score is however slightly improved with the knowledge that our equalizer came three minutes into injury time and things could have been much worse.

Themselves these Norwich supporters are emerging from a surprise 1-0 loss at Leyton Orient.  These people don’t look good and speak in slow, soft accents that only make them stupid.  Elsewhere Colchester United have tonight been playing at Charlton against their former manager.

Ironically I wind up sat opposite/next to a couple of Leyton Orient supporters.  With so many opposing supporters from clubs in my division it really does not appear to be the time to nail my Millwall colours to the mast.  Thankfully the train eventually pulls into Colchester and I gain escape from this gaggle of divs.

As I exit the station I bump into Ben the old music promoter in Colchester who used to have the most amazing record shop called World Class Records.  He asks me if I have just been to the Colchester game at which point I remind him that I am a Millwall supporter.  He apologises.

Eventually I get home.

Monday 12 April 2010

Monday 12 April 2010

More dreams forgotten.

I’m really not quite sure how to play it today, the climate is truly middling and my situation unsure.  Eventually I leave the flat wearing a coat even though this feels like overdressing.

When the train reaches Witham I freak out subtly as a girl that resembles the girl from Dedham last October boards and for a strong minute I think it is actually her.  Upon closer inspection fortunately I find myself proved wrong.

Today is a testing journey into town as I begin to feel like killing as a Peter Richardson lookalike sat opposite me decides to spread out right in front of me.  With this his legs enter into my personal space, my little portion of the train this morning.  Am I really such a fool for tucking my feet in beneath me and respecting the room of others when we have a guy like this sat in front of me just taking the piss?  A few times I kick his feet away and shift my leg knocking his knee in the process while he sleeps with his gormless face looking stretching out.

On top of this at Ingatestone some old bag then decides to squeeze into the space next to me prompting the necessity for me to budge drastically in the process.  Why is it always Ingatestone where these people board?

By this point the Peter Richardson lookalike is well away and as I look down I spot his left foot is directly between my legs.  Is this some kind of come on?  Are we now one step away from playing footsie?  Do I really need to blow my whistle?  I begin kicking away at him and he retracts slightly before beginning to rub his left leg up against my right leg.  Now I feel minorly assaulted as I begin mentally forming a plan and a target on his face knowing that one good shot could destroy him.  From here I weigh up the consequences of such an action and ultimately I hardly feel I would emerge from it as a hero.

To my relief the train eventually gets to London and soon I am on the tube platform and spotting Bellalike with her customary cup of Costa and confused expression.

Getting in slightly before 8AM means I beat the rush and smoothly roll to St Johns Wood and into the restaurant.  As I step upstairs our office door is open and suddenly something feels fishy.  When I boot up my computer it soon becomes apparent that email is down, internet is down and basically the entire fucking network is down.  What a coincidence.

Due to computer issues my day never really gets started.  At regular intervals the boss comes in and asks if anything is working yet because I am working away but it is off my flashdrive.  And its personal stuff (this drivel for starters).  Eventually he just comes out with it and asks me what I am doing.  I lie.

The consultant is due in today and this unnecessary hold up causes no end of annoyance and frustration for me as I find myself unable to prepare for his visit.

It is 11AM by the time the network is back up and with it almost lunchtime.  The remainder of the morning soon flies by without anything really getting accomplished.  Soon we reach lunchtime and I order penne.  Predictability is my thing.

Beyond lunch the afternoon plays out as expected but after the computer hiccup at the start of proceedings the day never really gets started.  Thankfully though, the consultant never turns up.  Small blessings are my thing on this day.

The boss lets us out a little early and it is obvious he wants to stay for after work drinks to get business drunk.  For once I stand firm this evening as I point out that Swindon v Exeter is on Sky tonight.  This hardly feels an excuse though at the end of the day.

As per routine I get the 6.20PM Norwich train and arrive home just over an hour later.  Tonight TV is full flow with election propaganda.  When I switch my telly on already playing is a documentary on the history of televised election and debate from both sides of the Atlantic.  There is no comparison, their campaigns last several months (maybe years) whereas ours will run at just four weeks.  We make lack the glitz and glamour but we definitely make up for it with efficiency.

From here ITV then shows some kind of profile cum interview of David Cameron which disturbingly features Jimmy McNulty (Dominic West) speaking highly of his mate “Dave”.  In a way it makes sense that McNulty is this way inclined, when he speaks not in character (his natural voice) he does sound like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins suggesting a very confused situation upstairs.

Half an hour later on BBC One we get “treated” to Jeremy Paxman interviewing Nick Clegg on a set that resembles an empty floor in a seemingly derelict office building.  Was this where they finished off Stringer Bell?  As usual Paxman is Paxman as equal amounts of coverage is lent to his vocal attacks as it is to anything Clegg says.  Its all much of muchness, that Clegg man is a hopeful fellow.  Not much upstairs and not really getting off the fence.

After this I begin to wind down, scraping off a final bit of writing before passing out.

Sunday 11 April 2010

Sunday 11 April 2010

Three heavy dreams occurred during the night but by the time I emerge into this Sunday with any kind of clarity they become long since forgotten.  A little later I will remember that at one point in a dream I thought I was talking to John Godber.

When I finally awaken the time is 8.45AM, an impressive feat by my bodyclock.  Feeling slightly guilty about my lie in soon I am bounding out of bed and looking to kick off my Sunday.  This is easier said than done.

Eventually and inevitably The Big Questions arrives on my TV screen.  With each week now Nicky Campbell is acting more like Jeremy Kyle.  Today Jade Goody’s mum is on making a fucking fool of herself stating that there is no such thing as class (or a class system) before saying how her deceased daughter’s kids are going to private school.  Then the big news is announced: The Big Questions will be from Colchester on Sunday 2 May.  Bring it!  I wonder how many loons I will spot?  I wonder if I can get tickets to be on the show?

Afterwards my usual Sunday morning TV breakdown continues as I flip over to Something For The Weekend where the social wet dream continues.  This week at least the bag lady Louise Redknapp is missing (probably too hungover to get out of bed, maybe) only to be replaced by Angellica Bell who I used to fancy but these days just possesses a forehead straight from a Star Trek character.  Dark stuff.

Today is another bright, sunny and warm day.  All is well with this weather and it can only be days now until it starts become uncomfortable and personally unbearable.

Honestly, I really try to do some writing but soon I find myself distracted with watching the latest two episodes of South Park (with medicinal marijuana and the perils of Facebook on the agenda) which provide genuine laughs.  Am I Kip Drordy?

Eventually it comes time to fulfil my routine obligations and head over to my parents for Sunday lunch at 3PM.  As I leave my flat it is to the sight and smell of two more stinking bin bags dumped on our landing outside my pig neighbour’s front door.  Maybe my neighbour isn’t lazy but in fact she has broken both her legs and cannot get out of apartment to do anything.  Maybe.

When I get to Balkerne Heights the streets are now christened with yellow lines.  There are a few gaps in the lines and these turn out to be the spots where cars were illegally parked when the lines were painted yesterday.

As I arrive Manchester United are choking against Blackburn Rovers, running around like headless chickens.  This collapse always felt likely if Rooney were to go missing.  In the end the game finishes 0-0 and ultimately it hardly feels worth Sky showing or the public worth watching.

From here it is the second FA Cup semi final from Wembley with Tottenham gearing up to slap Portsmouth.  This game does not necessarily hold interest.  It does however beg the question: what is RuPaul doing in goal for Pompey?

Instead I find myself going online and watching this week’s Have I Got News For You featuring Richard Herring and new honey Victoria Coren.  Since the powers that be (the idiots that be) have moved the show to Thursday nights I repeatedly forget that it is even on.  This is not a Thursday night show.

The Spurs v Portsmouth game also ends at 0-0 and I try to get into it but…nah, it’s truly not a good game.  Going into extra time Portsmouth miraculously actually scrape a lead and later while I am in the toilet having a dump they get a second.  Is this some kind of metaphor?  Goddamn, this is real.

Afterwards I linger around my parents’ and bag some dinner before discovering The Simpsons on Sky.  This show never fails.

Eventually I head home to a Sunday evening alone preparing for another working week.  The night plays out as expected as I eventually fall asleep watching the William Shatner roast on Channel Four complete with a great bit from Artie Lange.

Saturday 10 April 2010

 

Saturday 10 April 2010

Dream: Devo are playing Brixton Academy in support of their new record.  Racton and I head along, getting tickets to sit upstairs.  Upon entering the venue we snag really good seats towards the front in anticipation of getting a good view for when the band do their hits.  As we sit down it becomes apparent that we aren’t going to get a very good view of the band because the edge of the circle is too far away.  Later people begin to ruminate around us insinuating that they are more entitled to these seats than us.  This culminates with a guy in a wheelchair sidling up next to me.  Being in a wheelchair though he already has his seat!  Eventually the show begins and it’s a stinker, all new material and not very good.  In fact for the first few songs you can’t even see the band, they haven’t bothered to come out onstage.  Our row (and the one in front of us) stands up in our seats to get a better view only to be shouted down by the row behind us.  Before long we find ourselves heading downstairs to see if we can get a real view of proceedings.  Onstage it is almost like a clockwork circus, people dressed as mechanical toys going along with the music.  Bewildered we lose track with the show and eventually I wind up outsides where the band members of Devo are actually working the concession stands, Marks Mothersbaugh is scooping out ice cream.  I try to take a photo of him but he disappears.  The concession vans are situated in that strange square in Brixton we went to before the Pixies gig and soon I find myself entering a building looking for Mothersbaugh.  There seems to be some kind of downbeat party going on and while I scour the rooms in search of band members it suddenly feels/appears that I am on some kind of heist looking for the owner’s safe, looking to rob the place.  Invariably I get discover and that’s it.

I don’t feel good about today.  There is a bad atmosphere within my mind and I have nervous expectations.  As I dress and wash looking in the mirror the vision that faces me is a scary proposition.  It’s like looking at myself for the first time in six months.  Despite my best efforts things aren’t getting any better.

For some reason today I experience a couple of nasty flashbacks which I guess come tied in with seeing old friends for the first time today in almost ten years (eight years I believe).  My first memory recalls the first Gringo Records night upstairs at The Garage and for the first time in years I remember that Matt’s dad actually drove a group of us in a mini bus.

The other memory I have is of my Grandfather’s funeral in 1992.  It was in August and I was just insane.  I am even too ashamed to recall my actions and how I was that day.  Does that strain of my personality still come through these days I wonder?  I truly hope not.  Aside from all the trivia that I complain about from day to day thinking about that day truly does fill me with shame.

When I finally shake these thoughts away as per routine I head to Asda and do my grocery thing.  As I stagger through the aisles I spot The Crab and all seems normal with the world.  Generally shopping goes so so.  In the end I manage to only spend £11 which is generally due to the only food that I buy is apples and bananas, otherwise it is all drinks and newspapers.

Getting back to Bohemian Grove I quickly jump in the bath with view to looking my best today.  Once done with hygiene I eventually get on a 10.17AM train to Liverpool Street.

When the train stops at Shenfield an old guy boards and sits in the seat next to me and as he does so he comments “nice day.”  Freaked out by somebody talking to me I just smile in response/reaction.

Once arrived into London I head straight to Highbury & Islington, getting to the place in super decent time.  Today the sun is out and London is visibly glowing.  From here I head into Starbucks where I grab a get go.

With coffee in hand I head to the Union Chapel where the latest Daylight Music gig is occurring and OWEN TROMANS is performing.

Arriving early I stand outside the venue for a decent amount/length of time looking the ultimate in stalker/fanboy.  Eventually Racton phones me to say he has arrived and that he is currently in Starbucks himself.  It’s the taste of our generation, it came from Seattle just like Nirvana grunge.  Surely it can’t be bad.

By the time we meet up the doors to the Union Chapel have now opened so we step in briefly saying “hi” to the organiser (Arctic Circle).  Almost immediately upon entering I spot OWEN TROMANS and we exchange greetings as we acknowledge that it is scarily probably eight years since we last saw each other (a horrible weekend spent in Nottingham when he was playing there with his old band After Rome).  It is now officially a long time since San Lorenzo.

In the process of catching up I discover that he is now a dad with his wife having given birth a few months ago.  When did I fall so horribly far out of the loop?  It’s really hard to catch up with a person after such a long time, where does a person start?  I guess the key thing is to make the effort but as time whittles away common ground soon even the best of us will begin to struggle.  Fortunately he has to prepare for his set.

Today OWEN TROMANS flies solo.  His recent excellent album “The Fall Of Acre” was a full band proposition but today as the songs are played in a more pure form they truly hold up with sharp precision.  Within the confines of the glorious midday Union Chapel being drenched in sun it is a fantastic vision.

His performance is great, very accomplished, making skilled texture out of songwriting in a most modern manner.  A number of tracks from his “The Fall Of Acre” record appear in stark form as he appears to take glee in revealing that he is performing songs about a cult leader inside a church on this fine day.

TROMAN’S voice carries throughout the building as the acoustics of the event compliment all surroundings.  Towards the end of his set he drops “Schizophrenia” into the mix and proceedings lending another casual dark edge to the delivery.  I don’t remember him previously being like this.  All in all this is a very masterful performance.

After his set we bid our farewells wondering if it will now be another eight years until we see each other again.  From here Racton and I head to Oxford Circus where he’s needs a shirt and subsequently drags me into Banana Republic where I am forced to face the reality that I am just too large to fit into any of these clothes these days.  In a world where Jack Donaghy correctly says “dress for the job you want not the one you have” I am well and truly fucked.  This is the haven of the beautiful, my eyes open as I realise “so this is where they all shop.”  I thought all the cool people were in Fopp.  I was wrong, they don’t have eye candy of this degree staggering amongst their aisles.

Once outside the fashion shack we stagger through Carnaby Street and into Soho in an effort to avoid people (tourists).  Eventually we wind up in Nosh Bar having overpriced salt beef sandwiches sitting in the window staring out at the lost people of London as they stare back inside at us.

Invariably we wind up in Fopp where today the selection is good.  Perhaps this is just Racton and I goading/enthusing each other into purchase but I have to say I gain no end of satisfaction from my purchases of King Of Kong on DVD, Synecdoche, New York, the Blue Velvet soundtrack and a ropey Misfits CD.

Eventually we head to the ICA passing Trafalgar Square where today there is a Pass Public Sector demonstration happening.  It’s very busy and very loud.  I love Trafalgar Square on Saturdays; it’s always full of this kind of shit.

Soon we find ourselves inside the ICA waiting for THE THING to begin.  In front of us appears to be the Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons who sits very comfortably with his arm swung across the row of seats.  More than a few times this arm later slips down off the sweat and towards my nether regions.  Where does this guy get his front?  Never have I felt that comfortable within a cinema.

On a big screen THE THING looks great.  It is a remastered print that is crisp and clear as day with the audio sounding equally impressive.  From the off the movie remains fun and the special effects look great in a very calm and understated way, almost in the manner with which Harryhausen effects are regarded in this day and age as being from a different era.  Its almost like an analogue approach in contrast to what is now a very digital era which lends a very organic and dare I say more realistic/convincing air to the visuals.  Certainly one that has more heart and effort put into it.

It begins with that classic scene of RJ MacReady getting frustrated while playing computer chess.  As ever I find myself questioning the mentality behind his destroying the CPU, it just surely makes for a logistical nightmare and ultimately a very selfish act.  Did they all have computer chess or were they sharing the same machine.  I suspect the latter.  Also I don’t really think it gets fully explained as to just what those guys are doing there in the first place.

With age THE THING has gained a lot of humour, which you do not necessarily sense was the intention.  There can however be no doubting the comedy value of seeing/watching Kurt Russell stagger around in something of a drunken haze, nursing his bottle of Jim Beam like a man desperate for a shag.  Later when they lock him outside as his actions become too strange when he breaks back into the compound looking like an icicle his expression is one of having his feelings genuinely hurt.  Now that is acting.  Of course this comes after he makes some of his wild tapes that sound straight from a Godspeed You Black Emperor record.

Another thing that strikes me about the movie is just how much more better computers appear to be back in the day.  None of this Windows shit, just straight talk.  When Wilford Brimley types in the destiny of the world if the virus or alien breaks out the computer gives him his answer immediately.  Now that was a progressive computer, that should have been the future right there.

A couple of times during the movie the comic store guy sat in front of me, with his arm spread out across the empty seats, continues to lean said arm over the back of the row and into my space.  Quite frankly this is verging/bordering on molestation.  It lends an extra element of horror to proceedings for me as I guard my ghoulies from it.

After the movie we emerge hyped and satisfied commenting at just how great everyone in the movie is, especially Keith David and obviously Kurt Russell.  Those were serious men from stern times.  We will never know.

From here we check out the Billy Childish exhibition in the ICA galleries.  We scope all the record sleeves in addition to the book from the book burning earlier this year and the Knut Hamsun inspired yellow suit at which point Racton gets a call to inform him that he has won the Grand National sweepstake he was entered in.  Triumph.

As we head back onto The Mall it is still a beautiful day, one too good to be spent so much in the cinema.  Passing Trafalgar Square the protest has now disbanded.  Does this mean the public sector got what they wanted?

We head straight to the Prince Charles Cinema where they are showing THE HURT LOCKER.  After getting tickets (the price has gone up again) we hit the crazy Chinese supermarket on Newport Court before going to the Curzon for a pre-movie drink.

THE HURT LOCKER turns out to be a great, all gung ho and gruesome with genuinely exhilarating moments of tension and real pay off.  I finding these days that I am harbouring a growing interest in our modern military escapades in the middle east.  It wouldn’t certainly appear that we are there for the long game (although that has been a given for a long time).  Thankfully these films, when serious and coming from a left perspective, lend a humanity to proceedings that I do not necessarily gain from news coverage.  I actually feel I learn something from this movie, which more than anything goes to justify its Oscars success.

Afterwards we emerge around 8.30PM just a Leicester Square on a Saturday begins flying.  From here we bid each other good night and I head back to Liverpool Street.

In the end I get home at a decent hour with the Top 100 Comedians showing on Channel Four.  Bill Hicks comes fourth.

Friday 9 April 2010

Friday 9 April 2010

A panic attaches itself to the opening of today when after my alarm buzzes at 7AM the next thing I know is that it is thirty minutes later and I am officially late.  I never doze.

From here I speedily pull myself together and exit the house something of a mess.

Despite everything being a rush this morning though I eventually end up on the usual 6.59AM as per some kind of increased clockwork.  I guess these moments of urgency are the ones that truly make life worth living.  Maybe not.

I sit further back on the train than normal in section that feels alien and foreign to me.  Variety is the spice of life.  As a result the train is much more quiet and pleasant as a result, things are good at this end of the train.

Today is the longing suite.  I haven’t felt this exhausted in a very long time and as a result I now desire some affection to get me through it.  Seldom do I feel so wet these days but today I have to concede a hug would be a good thing.  Now man the fuck up.

Eventually I sleepwalk into London and through Liverpool Street.  Later on the tube at Kings Cross a vivid David Carradine lookalike boards making for a ghoulish spectre.  He is wearing a suit and thick winter gloves.  Just what is behind that reckoning?  Chill Bill?  As he turns his head he reveals/exposes an ample clump/mound of flesh on the crown of his head.  Has he been chipped?

Soon I find myself at my desk as the slack week begins to catch up on me.  Things begin positively as the Filipino brings in a sweet sweet pastry for us to share.  This thing, my god its great, I swear it comes lined with a streak of custard.  I almost feel embarrassed to eat it.

The morning turns out to be a stunted one as slowly I progress with the accounts in a wayward manner resembling a person suffering from autism.  By lunchtime I have accomplished some stuff but as usual not enough to keep me on target.  As a result of self pity I wind up having lamb burger for lunch.  It’s a good dish.

In the afternoon I pick up steam (as I always do on Fridays) but every time I complete a task I remember another one that needs doing.

It is incredibly quiet in the office today.  With it being such a glorious day one boss is out playing golf while another has headed up to Liverpool to visit relatives.  As a result of this our own boss gets very bored in the process.

Things improve slightly when the IT guy shows his face and makes an appearance.

Towards the end of the day the boss says we can go a little early and it is obvious that he wants drinks.  What is wrong with me?  Most people would kill to have a boss that pulls them off deadlines to business drunk.  Not me though, I’m a proper fun sponge.

In the end I finish off a draft of the March accounts and head down.  Before doing so I hang around with the radio for a while with the Wonder Years being done in alphabetical order and when it reaches C they play Crazy Town.  Now this is a song that sends me spiralling.

Around the time “Butterfly” by Crazy Town was released it was also the period that I was knocking around with Bella and being an “alternative type” she naturally liked this song because it featured dickheads covered in tattoos sounding like the Red Hot Chili Peppers.  Her aunt liked it also.  To me I could never get my head around this song was acceptable.  Basically looking back at the video the band looked like rapists trying to act sensitive and this was something people fell for hook, line and sinker including Bella.  I shudder to think (back).

I wind up hanging around after work for an hour of business drunk which for me kind of defeats the point/purpose of leaving early on a Friday.  Eventually I get out just after 6.15PM and I am super grumpy for it.

Invariably by the time I reach Liverpool Street the peak trains have gone meaning a journey ahead with the non-commuting proles.  When did I become such a snob?

As I board the 7PM train unsurprisingly it is filled with tags on booked seats and families looking for said seats.  As I sit stoic and ignorant a loud family emerges and the spare seat next to me gets immediately and blatantly earmarked by the mother.  As I let her in I do so with a huff.

With three of her kids in close proximity I quickly come to the conclusion that this is a woman that should not have kids or at least not have them around anywhere near me.  As she pulls out her Tesco bag and distributes the food I watch as the boy eats a raw pack of ham.  Jamie Oliver would have a shit fit.

The train makes me angry tonight as I begin ranting on Facebook about wishing that the train would become one that derailed and killed people because that would be less annoying than being around these people.

Eventually I get back to Colchester but I am still steaming as my grumpiness continues far into the night.

Once home I watch South Park where the kids write their own version of The Catcher In The Rye in Henry Fool fashion (well, Simon Grim).  It’s a good episode.

I manage to write a little and find myself determined to watch the Chris Tarrant roast on Channel Four.  Before this begins however My Embarrassing Body takes up the prime hour of 9PM on Channel Four.  What kind of sick and insane person watches this?

Unsurprisingly I fall asleep minutes into the roast.  This is something we just cannot do in this country, we’re not stupid to the degree of being American (although these days we give it a fucking good go).