Tuesday 7 April 2009
Waking with a headache this morning, I feel wounded (and hounded). I still have my parents’ Fiesta which in itself represents another headache.
As I board the train this morning I notice the gorgeous lady with beedy eyes and a small face already aboard. I have no idea what her story is or might be just that she is one of the most attractive commuters that heads out of Colchester. I would imagine there is some Asian blood in her elsewhere.
In contrast to this the lady that eventually winds up sitting opposite me looks terrifyingly like my ex-boss’s American wife – cue ‘Nam flashbacks. The sight of the doppelganger reminds me of how the woman (the wife) in her role as HR let me down. When I handed in my resignation I don’t think the Baker Street boss even acknowledged what I had said and done and eventually it was his wife who I had to go to in order to get wheels rolling on my exit from the company. On the outset of the minor inquisition featuring myself, her, the boss (her husband) and my manager (Clare Balding crossed with Lynn Benfield from Alan Partridge) she told me she wished I had “said something sooner.” Perhaps. Then however the company wilfully decided to hold up final paycheques causing me to have to chase it and my P45 up well past month end (and mortgage going through the bank time). I half expected the fucker to bounce. So yeah, these bad memories are what congest my mind on the way to work this morning.
I guess it is with a strange expression that I find myself thinking about these things as in a moment of clarity I notice a couple of people staring at me (or at least exchanging eye contact). For the remainder of the journey I find myself and the beedy eyed lady exchanging glances but I suspect half the times I look at her it is in an effort to work out whether she is asleep or not. On her side of the deal she is probably wondering “what the fuck is that guy’s problem?”
Finally the train pulls into Liverpool Street and no longer trapped in my cramped seat I am freed from my thoughts. On the tube platform I notice a very attractive lady reading American Psycho. She ticks so many boxes for me but I allow another potential wife to leave my life as I make no moves/gestures (but what could/would I have done anyway?)
As I get off the tube at Baker Street for a split second I see who I think was/is the second in charge at Baker Street, the boss that I was joyfully informed by my manager there that he was in AA (a comment of great hypocrisy on her part). This guy today looks ravaged but its not him which is a relief as I would have no idea how to react to the man now despite always being a big fan of him, unlike a number of other individuals at the place such as the glorified middle management put in place for decoration.
This morning I am into work first thus giving me alarm duties. Whoever thought I would have such responsibility.
Worryingly the sig file has disappeared from my work email which usually tends to indicate a virus has hit but it also twitches paranoia strings (such as the IT guy having a root around my machine).
Today I have a big day of big work planned but annoyingly soon I find myself getting pulled off management accounts work and back onto audit work. I make my frustration visible.
In the afternoon thankfully things come together despite my achieving the least of both worlds.
Our boss however is chipper as he discovers wi-fi and the ability to use his laptop in our office which ends his day happy. As a result of this he lets us leave early for a second day running.
Despite being offered early doors instead my boss grabs me for after work drinks. It’s a fairly good brisk session but when conversation gets onto the subject of the Ali vs Clay fight some of us realise that things have gone on a little too long.
I end up drinking Wild Turkey after my boss has gone. Eventually I leave the restaurant at 8PM on the dot with things heading towards messy.
On the tube I find myself listening to loud music in an effort to sober up while also perving over a red cheeked blonde Chinese lady. My music of choice is “Red Medicine” by Fugazi in the hope that the straight edge lyrical content will guilt me into sobriety. It does not work. As the tube nears Liverpool Street I am treated to the sight (but not sound) of the Chinese girl chattering out loud non-stop at her friend seemingly in the midst of some kind of angry rant. That or a bout/attack of the tongues. The more she rants the less she appeals to me.
Finally on the train home I have to go piss twice (but only once do I flush in a station) while wrestling with Facebook on my iPhone.
Upon returning to Colchester I stagger up North Station Road starving, seriously tempted by a kebab. However feeling bloated I decline and display some willpower for once.
As I near and reach the olds this coincides with dad taking Bobby for his nightly walk. The dog is really happy to see me but hard to deal with when I am feeling wobbly on my feet. Ultimately I wind up staggering around my parents place at 10PM at night unsuccessfully subtly hinting that I want something to eat. No dice.
Hungry I head home in my car listening to 606. When I arrive home my Coke Bust seven inch has finally arrived and it is a magnificent piece of vinyl, they are the greatest hardcore band I have come across in many years.
Having read my Facebook status updates Nina begins sending me text messages seemingly in a co-effort to talk me down and generally chit chat but tonight I cannot cope with any more texts and such technology.
Instead I tear into the brown pitta breads that have been lingering unopened in my kitchen since the weekend. I wash four of them (two toasted) in fake butter and half a jar of cheap peanut butter.
Afterwards I head to bed to resume listening to Danny Baker before eventually passing out listening to selections from Q-Tip’s last album (or so my Last FM account tells me).
In the middle of the night I wake up dizzy and with a headache. Next to me I see a bottle of orange juice that I promptly down in the hope of reducing the risk of an inevitable hangover in the morning.
Roll over.
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Monday, 6 April 2009
Monday 6 April 2009
Weird dream this morning as I meet a girl at a fare that appears to be keen and like me. Unfortunately for leisure she wants to keep having knife fights with me and they cut! Eventually I manage to calm her down when I show her how to use email.
Welcome to Monday. Luckily this is a short four day week and this coming Easter weekend is so welcome, so highly anticipated and desired as an attempt to catch up on some rest, avoid riding trains and get my house in something of an order.
After an uneventful train ride it rolls into Liverpool Street at 8.01 this morning making it one of the quickest in recent memory.
I am really not up for today this morning as I space out and go numb on my trip into work, paying little attention to the people and my surroundings. The worry causing this comes from the broken state of my car and my apparent inability to deal with it due to my lifestyle.
Fortunately I manage to snap out of this lull as the tube becomes a bit more eventful than my past hour of travel. First the entertainment comes in the form of a baby going crazy. Its parents look (and sound) Polish and they do absolutely nothing to calm the fucker down.
As I look across the carriage I see a guy in glasses wearing a stupid hat smiling. He is the only person on the tube smiling and it makes him just look so smug. What has he got to be smiling about? I guess he’s not dragging his arse to a job he hates. A glare and a sneer in his direction later and he calms down, no longer smiling.
Passing through Barbican station I look out at the opposite platform and notice the most amazing looking lady (in my opinion). Sadly it is not Szesze and I do not possess her number. Looking away I then notice another pretty Asian lady housing one of the harshest fringe bobs I have ever seen in my life. It is true Lego hair. She clocks me noticing her and for a split second the ride is uncomfortable (much like the maintenance of her hair).
The true freak show occurs when the tube stops at Kings Cross. As I look out the doors I notice an Asian man on the platform with a fuck up face with a bunched in eye and a scar covering his head. It looks really nasty. And so does he.
My attention to him is somewhat diverted when a tall, manly woman gets on the tube. Upon closer inspection is a man! Other than the harsh face what really gives it away are the hands, the huge big bricklayer hands.
So what is the correct social etiquette towards transvestites? Obviously you shouldn’t stare just because they are different but at the same time there is a distinct element of the attention seeker about them. Likewise it is not good form to display disgust or amusement but also who would want you kissing up to them off the back of such a gimmick?
I guess there is a possibility that this could have been the post op client our team had a Baker Street, the former keyboard in a hoary old seventies dinosaur band that would be mocked in conversation but buttered up in meetings and on the telephone. Tut tut.
I need a holiday. God bless Easter. As I look to the future (a future of riches) I find myself looking online at hotels and weekend breaks in Portmeirion for a The Prisoner holiday. It is not cheap but it is affordable.
At 10AM I call up my insurance breakdown people and arrange for them to pick up my car from my parents. I fear somewhat that this financial knock could put a block to any of the plans suggested in the previous paragraph.
Feeling my face it embarrassing as I discover roots and hairs that I failed to catch in my shave, it was a crap shave. I hope nobody notices the blemishes as much as I do. Once I saw a simpleton guy working in a newsagent near the bus station in Colchester that had left a HUGE bush of hair on his chin after a shave. That vision has always stuck and lingered with me as a lesson of how bad a poor shave can look.
My working week begins sedate but then our accounts consultant arrives and turns everything upside down as apparently there is a sudden urgency/need to conclude Fridays prepayments work.
Looking online at the forum where I originally met the American I happen to read an entry by her how she enjoyed watching Gavin And Stacey and how she is fond of the Smithy character – I bet this is because he reminds her of me (ha ha). Jesus, months ago I told her this was a good show while the thumbsucking prick from Catford told her he hated it and as a result it appeared she stuck to that conclusion. Moving on.
Late in the afternoon I phone home to see how the car is doing. When I speak to the old man he tells me that the guy on the breakdown truck managed to get it going – it was the fucking battery. This is truly a relief, I honestly thought the electrics had gone and it was going to cost big bucks. I thank dad profusely for helping sort it out but he’s cool as about it.
When I tell the room the problem had been the battery they both (both females) laugh at me. I don’t understand the mockery, shit happens. I think they think an alpha male would have spotted the problem a mile off and sorted it Fonz style.
It is perhaps with this degree of immasculination (and saving of money) that I find myself indulging in a heavy bout of online retail therapy this afternoon.
The end of the day does not come too soon and after the usual arduous tube rides from St Johns Wood to Liverpool Street (via Baker Street) my day ends immeasurably better as when I head to my 6.20 train to Norwich I see the gorgeous silhouette of a gorgeous lady in the distance and as I squint for focus I find myself met with a huge smile from her. My morale rises high, hopefully as much as my apparent stock (as suggested by this gesture). You don’t think I read into things too much do you?
Back in Colchester I stop by the parents’ on the way home and thank dad profusely for getting involved in sorting out my car. I leave in the evening still possessing their dinky little Fiesta (that poxy little car with no go) as dad offers to take my car out for a big run tomorrow to test/check the battery properly.
When I finally get home I jump into writing with gusto. On Radio One this evening is 30 Years Of Hip Hop which turns out to be a truly inspired piece of radio programming. The run down of the most important hip hop people (countdown ting) spews up some strange entries (including Obama) but it isn’t guilty of neglecting its roots/origins even if Public Enemy and Run DMC do have ridiculous placing. Additionally the Wu Tang Clan come in at 25 only to be followed by Lil Wayne at 23 which would suggest some people know something I don’t know.
As this show plays out great minds think alike as Iain texts telling me to listen to the station. From here we proceed to compare positioning and predict who will wind up where. Nas in at 13 causes some disappointment but when Afrika Bambaataa turns up at 11 it feels as if the balance is readdressed to some degree.
Tonight’s Stewart Lee’s Comedy Vehicle episode deals with the global financial crisis and addresses amongst other things the end of brand mark businesses such as Woolworths and Zavvi and how the end of these icons from our generation’s lives is subtly alarming offering a sense/threat of vulnerability. It’s all still very funny but not thunderous this week.
Weird dream this morning as I meet a girl at a fare that appears to be keen and like me. Unfortunately for leisure she wants to keep having knife fights with me and they cut! Eventually I manage to calm her down when I show her how to use email.
Welcome to Monday. Luckily this is a short four day week and this coming Easter weekend is so welcome, so highly anticipated and desired as an attempt to catch up on some rest, avoid riding trains and get my house in something of an order.
After an uneventful train ride it rolls into Liverpool Street at 8.01 this morning making it one of the quickest in recent memory.
I am really not up for today this morning as I space out and go numb on my trip into work, paying little attention to the people and my surroundings. The worry causing this comes from the broken state of my car and my apparent inability to deal with it due to my lifestyle.
Fortunately I manage to snap out of this lull as the tube becomes a bit more eventful than my past hour of travel. First the entertainment comes in the form of a baby going crazy. Its parents look (and sound) Polish and they do absolutely nothing to calm the fucker down.
As I look across the carriage I see a guy in glasses wearing a stupid hat smiling. He is the only person on the tube smiling and it makes him just look so smug. What has he got to be smiling about? I guess he’s not dragging his arse to a job he hates. A glare and a sneer in his direction later and he calms down, no longer smiling.
Passing through Barbican station I look out at the opposite platform and notice the most amazing looking lady (in my opinion). Sadly it is not Szesze and I do not possess her number. Looking away I then notice another pretty Asian lady housing one of the harshest fringe bobs I have ever seen in my life. It is true Lego hair. She clocks me noticing her and for a split second the ride is uncomfortable (much like the maintenance of her hair).
The true freak show occurs when the tube stops at Kings Cross. As I look out the doors I notice an Asian man on the platform with a fuck up face with a bunched in eye and a scar covering his head. It looks really nasty. And so does he.
My attention to him is somewhat diverted when a tall, manly woman gets on the tube. Upon closer inspection is a man! Other than the harsh face what really gives it away are the hands, the huge big bricklayer hands.
So what is the correct social etiquette towards transvestites? Obviously you shouldn’t stare just because they are different but at the same time there is a distinct element of the attention seeker about them. Likewise it is not good form to display disgust or amusement but also who would want you kissing up to them off the back of such a gimmick?
I guess there is a possibility that this could have been the post op client our team had a Baker Street, the former keyboard in a hoary old seventies dinosaur band that would be mocked in conversation but buttered up in meetings and on the telephone. Tut tut.
I need a holiday. God bless Easter. As I look to the future (a future of riches) I find myself looking online at hotels and weekend breaks in Portmeirion for a The Prisoner holiday. It is not cheap but it is affordable.
At 10AM I call up my insurance breakdown people and arrange for them to pick up my car from my parents. I fear somewhat that this financial knock could put a block to any of the plans suggested in the previous paragraph.
Feeling my face it embarrassing as I discover roots and hairs that I failed to catch in my shave, it was a crap shave. I hope nobody notices the blemishes as much as I do. Once I saw a simpleton guy working in a newsagent near the bus station in Colchester that had left a HUGE bush of hair on his chin after a shave. That vision has always stuck and lingered with me as a lesson of how bad a poor shave can look.
My working week begins sedate but then our accounts consultant arrives and turns everything upside down as apparently there is a sudden urgency/need to conclude Fridays prepayments work.
Looking online at the forum where I originally met the American I happen to read an entry by her how she enjoyed watching Gavin And Stacey and how she is fond of the Smithy character – I bet this is because he reminds her of me (ha ha). Jesus, months ago I told her this was a good show while the thumbsucking prick from Catford told her he hated it and as a result it appeared she stuck to that conclusion. Moving on.
Late in the afternoon I phone home to see how the car is doing. When I speak to the old man he tells me that the guy on the breakdown truck managed to get it going – it was the fucking battery. This is truly a relief, I honestly thought the electrics had gone and it was going to cost big bucks. I thank dad profusely for helping sort it out but he’s cool as about it.
When I tell the room the problem had been the battery they both (both females) laugh at me. I don’t understand the mockery, shit happens. I think they think an alpha male would have spotted the problem a mile off and sorted it Fonz style.
It is perhaps with this degree of immasculination (and saving of money) that I find myself indulging in a heavy bout of online retail therapy this afternoon.
The end of the day does not come too soon and after the usual arduous tube rides from St Johns Wood to Liverpool Street (via Baker Street) my day ends immeasurably better as when I head to my 6.20 train to Norwich I see the gorgeous silhouette of a gorgeous lady in the distance and as I squint for focus I find myself met with a huge smile from her. My morale rises high, hopefully as much as my apparent stock (as suggested by this gesture). You don’t think I read into things too much do you?
Back in Colchester I stop by the parents’ on the way home and thank dad profusely for getting involved in sorting out my car. I leave in the evening still possessing their dinky little Fiesta (that poxy little car with no go) as dad offers to take my car out for a big run tomorrow to test/check the battery properly.
When I finally get home I jump into writing with gusto. On Radio One this evening is 30 Years Of Hip Hop which turns out to be a truly inspired piece of radio programming. The run down of the most important hip hop people (countdown ting) spews up some strange entries (including Obama) but it isn’t guilty of neglecting its roots/origins even if Public Enemy and Run DMC do have ridiculous placing. Additionally the Wu Tang Clan come in at 25 only to be followed by Lil Wayne at 23 which would suggest some people know something I don’t know.
As this show plays out great minds think alike as Iain texts telling me to listen to the station. From here we proceed to compare positioning and predict who will wind up where. Nas in at 13 causes some disappointment but when Afrika Bambaataa turns up at 11 it feels as if the balance is readdressed to some degree.
Tonight’s Stewart Lee’s Comedy Vehicle episode deals with the global financial crisis and addresses amongst other things the end of brand mark businesses such as Woolworths and Zavvi and how the end of these icons from our generation’s lives is subtly alarming offering a sense/threat of vulnerability. It’s all still very funny but not thunderous this week.
Sunday, 5 April 2009
Sunday 5 April 2009
Dreams. I had them, I’ve forgotten them. They were linked to both friends and work colleagues past and present. I have a bad feeling Gringo Records was mentioned in there to coincide with business discussion with a current boss unable to get with the concept that it is and was always a hobby label and not a real professional record label. I emerge from the dream feeling scolded and miserable.
It is Sunday and yet I find myself awake at 6.45AM. This now means around midday I will feel sleepy and pathetic. During the night I appear to have sloped into the middle of my bed as my legs hang over the end of my bed and the knackered mattress has its way with me, almost sucking me in like that pit monster in Return Of The Jedi (The Sarlacc).
For breakfast I have the remaining steamed dim sum bun that Nora brought in for me on Wednesday. One minute in the microwave and it tastes fantastic, burning a flavour hole of joy in my mouth. What a gift.
Staggering around I wind up back in bed when I pick at my recent downloads and decide to watch Attention Scum. Why have I never got around to watching this sooner? I have seen Simon Munnery perform and barely “got it” but in this format his delivery is genius, one of the sharpest and quickest wits in modern comedy. I cannot believe this show dates back to 2000, it is fresh and pretty much faultless. I couldn’t say it is a mystery why this hasn’t been released on DVD (it is very sharp and appears occasionally mean spirited) but it is a minor crime to comedy that it hasn’t been released on DVD.
Still unable to muster any movement I remain in bed watching downloads as I take in Frost/Nixon. This is a long and slow movie. My initial reaction is disappointment. The major flaw in the movie is how the Frost just does not ring true with the TV personality that we in the UK know in the flesh. This portrayal makes him out to be something of a Dudley Moore-esqe playboy. Michael Sheen as in The Damned United reminds me too much of a Mike Yarwood impression which turns this Frost into some kind of Alan Partridge-esqe version, albeit one that is good with the ladies.
I enjoyed the build up of the movie but when it reached the actual interview portions I felt it lacked bite and suspense and after such a hyped introduction almost failed to amount to much. In showing a little emotion it is difficult to accuse Nixon of defeat or losing face. I actually found myself almost siding, liking and sympathising with Nixon. I think that due to how David Frost stole Peter Cook’s satirical thunder (and possibly career) before selling out causes conflict and elements of our generation to have disdain for him immediately.
All in all the whole movie feels quite tame, especially in its attitude towards Nixon, after being used to reading and watching Hunter S Thompson regularly bashing and savaging Nixon for years at every given opportunity. Then again anything would appear tame in comparison to that but I do feel I have learned more over the years about Nixon from Hunter S Thompson than I did from this dramatic portrayal. Ultimately on a Bob Woodward kick I think I was expecting the movie to be more revealing in a similar manner to the much underrated John Belushi biopic Wired, which it would appear I am the only person in history to actually like.
Ultimately I think the fact that during the movie I once feel asleep during it and then I stopped it to briefly to look at pornography instead speaks bad volumes about it.
Afterward I head to Sainsburys to grab the Sunday newspaper. As I drive there (to Stanway) I remember lost Easters around this area spent hanging around en masse at Chris’ parents’ place. Also I fondly recall the many Friday nights that we would stock up on booze here before heading to mine (Bohemian Grove) for a party prior to heading into town wasted in the hope of banging/bumping into friends or future wives.
Upon returning home I endeavour to get into some writing but it comes very slowly and with little in the way of satisfaction. Why am I struggling so much these days?
By way of distraction I resume watching the JPod TV show in the sad realisation that I will soon run out of episodes of the cancelled show that I really love. This is smart stuff.
Eventually I head over to the olds’ for the Sunday 3PM lunch routine. There I watch Manchester United beat Aston Villa 3-2 in a real slog of a game.
There is a new episode of The Simpsons on tonight featuring the Credit Crunch hitting the Simpsons as their house gets auctioned off and purchased by Flanders who becomes their landlord. To me The Simpsons now plays like a sketch show, it gets in its jokes but rarely plays out a decent story/narrative. In recent years though it has felt more topical and explicitly satirical, if not always funny. The character Flanders will always cause me discomfort as he reminds me of too many people I know (have known) for comfort.
When I finally get home it is a Sunday night. Sunday nights no longer fill me with the dread that they once did but they do usually leaving me feeling still exhausted. Oh well.
Dreams. I had them, I’ve forgotten them. They were linked to both friends and work colleagues past and present. I have a bad feeling Gringo Records was mentioned in there to coincide with business discussion with a current boss unable to get with the concept that it is and was always a hobby label and not a real professional record label. I emerge from the dream feeling scolded and miserable.
It is Sunday and yet I find myself awake at 6.45AM. This now means around midday I will feel sleepy and pathetic. During the night I appear to have sloped into the middle of my bed as my legs hang over the end of my bed and the knackered mattress has its way with me, almost sucking me in like that pit monster in Return Of The Jedi (The Sarlacc).
For breakfast I have the remaining steamed dim sum bun that Nora brought in for me on Wednesday. One minute in the microwave and it tastes fantastic, burning a flavour hole of joy in my mouth. What a gift.
Staggering around I wind up back in bed when I pick at my recent downloads and decide to watch Attention Scum. Why have I never got around to watching this sooner? I have seen Simon Munnery perform and barely “got it” but in this format his delivery is genius, one of the sharpest and quickest wits in modern comedy. I cannot believe this show dates back to 2000, it is fresh and pretty much faultless. I couldn’t say it is a mystery why this hasn’t been released on DVD (it is very sharp and appears occasionally mean spirited) but it is a minor crime to comedy that it hasn’t been released on DVD.
Still unable to muster any movement I remain in bed watching downloads as I take in Frost/Nixon. This is a long and slow movie. My initial reaction is disappointment. The major flaw in the movie is how the Frost just does not ring true with the TV personality that we in the UK know in the flesh. This portrayal makes him out to be something of a Dudley Moore-esqe playboy. Michael Sheen as in The Damned United reminds me too much of a Mike Yarwood impression which turns this Frost into some kind of Alan Partridge-esqe version, albeit one that is good with the ladies.
I enjoyed the build up of the movie but when it reached the actual interview portions I felt it lacked bite and suspense and after such a hyped introduction almost failed to amount to much. In showing a little emotion it is difficult to accuse Nixon of defeat or losing face. I actually found myself almost siding, liking and sympathising with Nixon. I think that due to how David Frost stole Peter Cook’s satirical thunder (and possibly career) before selling out causes conflict and elements of our generation to have disdain for him immediately.
All in all the whole movie feels quite tame, especially in its attitude towards Nixon, after being used to reading and watching Hunter S Thompson regularly bashing and savaging Nixon for years at every given opportunity. Then again anything would appear tame in comparison to that but I do feel I have learned more over the years about Nixon from Hunter S Thompson than I did from this dramatic portrayal. Ultimately on a Bob Woodward kick I think I was expecting the movie to be more revealing in a similar manner to the much underrated John Belushi biopic Wired, which it would appear I am the only person in history to actually like.
Ultimately I think the fact that during the movie I once feel asleep during it and then I stopped it to briefly to look at pornography instead speaks bad volumes about it.
Afterward I head to Sainsburys to grab the Sunday newspaper. As I drive there (to Stanway) I remember lost Easters around this area spent hanging around en masse at Chris’ parents’ place. Also I fondly recall the many Friday nights that we would stock up on booze here before heading to mine (Bohemian Grove) for a party prior to heading into town wasted in the hope of banging/bumping into friends or future wives.
Upon returning home I endeavour to get into some writing but it comes very slowly and with little in the way of satisfaction. Why am I struggling so much these days?
By way of distraction I resume watching the JPod TV show in the sad realisation that I will soon run out of episodes of the cancelled show that I really love. This is smart stuff.
Eventually I head over to the olds’ for the Sunday 3PM lunch routine. There I watch Manchester United beat Aston Villa 3-2 in a real slog of a game.
There is a new episode of The Simpsons on tonight featuring the Credit Crunch hitting the Simpsons as their house gets auctioned off and purchased by Flanders who becomes their landlord. To me The Simpsons now plays like a sketch show, it gets in its jokes but rarely plays out a decent story/narrative. In recent years though it has felt more topical and explicitly satirical, if not always funny. The character Flanders will always cause me discomfort as he reminds me of too many people I know (have known) for comfort.
When I finally get home it is a Sunday night. Sunday nights no longer fill me with the dread that they once did but they do usually leaving me feeling still exhausted. Oh well.
Saturday, 4 April 2009
Saturday 4 April 2009
This morning I emerge from a weird harsh dream that brings to mind many people that have exited my life in the last year. The dream opened with me walking into a covered variation of Colchester town centre. The young bubbly black waitress is there and as ever she is open to me and friendly. As I head to a cash machine/ATM to get some money I notice also getting money from the machine to my left is Mindy. Hovering over her is her geeky boyfriend. I try to avoid her, attempt to hide from her seeing me but we blatantly see each other. Despite this however we do not acknowledge each other and as to who ignores who is open to debate. In an attempt to display I am flying and not suffering I head back to the black girl and loudly do that thing of attempting to make myself sound more cool, more popular and more fun in an effort to extract envy. Of course being so forced and fake this is something I cannot do very real in practise (unlike certain music related people that used to be in my life). My American friend shuffles off with her apparent other half unmoved, this is sadly unfortunately how it is. As I walk away in the opposite direction, not taking up the black girl’s invitation to party with her and her friends (she’s over ten years my junior), I bump into Zoe.
Zoe sees me and Zoe acknowledges me. She is bigger (taller) than when I last saw her but not looking good for it. The vision I see is dominated by her teeth and yellow gums that have diminished. Suddenly the roles appear to have reserved as she is now warmer to me than me her. Regardless of this there is a partner on the scene with a different name to what I believed her new beau to be – has there been another (a change) since? She tells me of a Baker Street gathering (past and present) and it sounds like a fun opportunity of some sort of reunion. We meet up outside a coffee shop just around the corner from where I bump into Zoe. Lots of people I liked from the company are there and no senior types. In comparison to my standing while I was at the company, my current one is now far improved and I feel on more than level terms with these guys. Zoe soon disappears leaving me to sail out the reunion which suddenly moves inside and instead of a coffee shop setting I now find myself in a room that resembles a boardroom and I notice that my enemy from the company has turned up (my Moriarty). I suddenly feel outnumbered and I awaken with a thud and a headache.
It is with deflation that I awaken this morning. The dream took its toll and re-affirms how much I miss certain people from my life but in reality it is just not workable.
The car is stressing me out today. In the past I have had nothing but bad luck with my previous two Escorts so when I decided to get a new car (the Focus) it was with the conscious decision to spend a lot in order to go some degree to ensuring that it be reliable. Just as I hit a good streak financially and am on the verge of clearing my credit card debts this potential nightmare rears its head.
Outside I look and it is the sight of my parents’ Fiesta sat in my parking spot. That car is just too small and too slow. Undaunted however I have to make the necessary trip in it to Asda to do the weekly grocery run. I have to admit things are feeling on top of me today.
Not long after returning home I cancel Chris. My car breaking down comes as the final straw but in reality the replacement bus service on the trains put me off heading to London most of all.
I have to pull myself together.
Originally I had intended to head to my broken car at the crack of dawn in an effort to attend to it but in my lethargic state I find myself hitting the usual routine putting on Jonathan Ross on the radio.
One of the guests on the show today is Mark Radcliffe plugging his new book which I came across by accident in Waterstones the other day. Listening to him on the radio serves to make me pine for the old period where he would do the 10-12PM “graveyard shift” slot Mon to Thurs on Radio One with Lard (Marc Riley) and produce the finest radio. In times when nearly all the DJs on Radio One are awful sycophantic hacks devoid of humour he should be ruling supreme. Well, I guess there is the age gap preventing it. This and the current retarded iGeneration audience with have that seems incapable of appreciating its elders, valuing sincerity/humanity or decoding subtleties in humour.
Swimming in frustration I had so many plans for today but instead I find myself wrestling a headache of harsh proportions before even contemplating or approaching the real problem of my car.
Mid morning my landline phone reasons and as I think (hope) it is news on my car instead I find myself greeted by an Asian (Indian or Pakistani) accent asking me who my energy suppliers are. Is it bad that I am not quite sure whether it is Eon or EDF? I feed the guy some line who then proceeds to tell me that he isn’t trying to sell me anything but does go ahead and tell/quote me who the best three energy suppliers in my area are (Npower it would appear). It all goes in one ear and out the other. He then begins to ask me for my personal details and when I get bored and tell him I was born in 1966 he makes comment that I sound too young to be that old – cheeky cunt. Once he knows my name and address the guy hands me over to an Asian lady who proceeds to ask me for my bank details. At this point I question why she would be wanting these if they were not trying to sell me anything. She babbles something in her Asian drawl and when I refuse to give over the details she tells me it is fine, they will just be billing me instead. Who will be fucking billing me? Bored and pissed off at this point I just go silent and begin pressing the buttons on my phone as if dialling an IRA message. I listen in as stupid voices on the other end of the phone keep repeating “hello? Hello?” How dare those fuckers phone me and waste my (precious) time.
Eventually I head to the broken down car at around 1PM in the hope that the old man has miraculously managed to get it to work/drive. He hasn’t. Originally he thought it might be the battery and now he thinks it might be the starter engine and that all it might need is a “little tap.” He remains far too optimistic as all this sounds much too easy. I am still convinced that there are major problems in the electrics of the thing and that I where I fear it will costs big bucks.
I find myself watching Blackburn v Tottenham on Sky, which is a horrible mess of a game featuring two floundering teams making errors. Its watchable but as a bad example.
Today is the fifth anniversary of Millwall beating Sunderland 1-0 in the semi final of the FA Cup and making the FA Cup Final against Manchester United. That was a truly amazing day and makes for a good beginning in JGRAM WORLD even if I say so myself. I cannot believe that it is five years ago already, it does not feel so long ago, time moves at such a scary pace these days.
With the afternoon now kicking in the inevitable reality that the car will have to go to the garage is realised but by this point most self respecting garages have shut up for the weekend. It’s a drag.
As I debate whether to head into town or not to try and discover a copy of Guitar Hero World Tour Solus I wind up procrastinating by watching Sky TV. When I come across the ever-reliable 30 Rock I am coming across comedy gold as the show only serves to become sharper and funnier with each episode. The guest spot by SNL’s super reliable Jason Sudeikis is cool because he looks like a younger version of Millwall’s manager Kenny Jackett.
Easing my pain Millwall beat Walsall 3-1 today improving recent crap home form and making things even tighter at the top of Division One (the third division).
Back on Sky more football appears in the form of Bristol City v Preston North End. At 5.20 on a Saturday evening who on earth wants to be going to such a match or watching it on television? It never surprises me to see so many empty seats and barren sections when Sky covers such drab fixtures. Bristol hardly appears to be a hotbed of interest and the only personal interest for me occurs when Starvin’ Marvin Elliott comes on as a substitute at the end.
Beyond scamming some dinner at the olds’ wondering what I could/should have been doing in London tonight soon I head home for another crappy quiet Saturday night home alone. I could swear I had a life at one time.
Heading home it is to internet porn and the premiere of An Inconvenient Truth on Channel Four (after the very depressing The Day After Tomorrow is reeled out first). I barely manage thirty minutes of Al Gore before I nod off. So as a result my version of An Inconvenient Truth so far contains the message “its all going to be all right” it seems.
I was hoping the catch the repeat of the Japan: A Story Of Love And Hate documentary tonight but passing out I miss the beginning and when I awaken thirty minutes into it it is at the point I thought most entertaining where the girl Yoshie breaks his glasses.
With this image in my mind I head back to sleep.
This morning I emerge from a weird harsh dream that brings to mind many people that have exited my life in the last year. The dream opened with me walking into a covered variation of Colchester town centre. The young bubbly black waitress is there and as ever she is open to me and friendly. As I head to a cash machine/ATM to get some money I notice also getting money from the machine to my left is Mindy. Hovering over her is her geeky boyfriend. I try to avoid her, attempt to hide from her seeing me but we blatantly see each other. Despite this however we do not acknowledge each other and as to who ignores who is open to debate. In an attempt to display I am flying and not suffering I head back to the black girl and loudly do that thing of attempting to make myself sound more cool, more popular and more fun in an effort to extract envy. Of course being so forced and fake this is something I cannot do very real in practise (unlike certain music related people that used to be in my life). My American friend shuffles off with her apparent other half unmoved, this is sadly unfortunately how it is. As I walk away in the opposite direction, not taking up the black girl’s invitation to party with her and her friends (she’s over ten years my junior), I bump into Zoe.
Zoe sees me and Zoe acknowledges me. She is bigger (taller) than when I last saw her but not looking good for it. The vision I see is dominated by her teeth and yellow gums that have diminished. Suddenly the roles appear to have reserved as she is now warmer to me than me her. Regardless of this there is a partner on the scene with a different name to what I believed her new beau to be – has there been another (a change) since? She tells me of a Baker Street gathering (past and present) and it sounds like a fun opportunity of some sort of reunion. We meet up outside a coffee shop just around the corner from where I bump into Zoe. Lots of people I liked from the company are there and no senior types. In comparison to my standing while I was at the company, my current one is now far improved and I feel on more than level terms with these guys. Zoe soon disappears leaving me to sail out the reunion which suddenly moves inside and instead of a coffee shop setting I now find myself in a room that resembles a boardroom and I notice that my enemy from the company has turned up (my Moriarty). I suddenly feel outnumbered and I awaken with a thud and a headache.
It is with deflation that I awaken this morning. The dream took its toll and re-affirms how much I miss certain people from my life but in reality it is just not workable.
The car is stressing me out today. In the past I have had nothing but bad luck with my previous two Escorts so when I decided to get a new car (the Focus) it was with the conscious decision to spend a lot in order to go some degree to ensuring that it be reliable. Just as I hit a good streak financially and am on the verge of clearing my credit card debts this potential nightmare rears its head.
Outside I look and it is the sight of my parents’ Fiesta sat in my parking spot. That car is just too small and too slow. Undaunted however I have to make the necessary trip in it to Asda to do the weekly grocery run. I have to admit things are feeling on top of me today.
Not long after returning home I cancel Chris. My car breaking down comes as the final straw but in reality the replacement bus service on the trains put me off heading to London most of all.
I have to pull myself together.
Originally I had intended to head to my broken car at the crack of dawn in an effort to attend to it but in my lethargic state I find myself hitting the usual routine putting on Jonathan Ross on the radio.
One of the guests on the show today is Mark Radcliffe plugging his new book which I came across by accident in Waterstones the other day. Listening to him on the radio serves to make me pine for the old period where he would do the 10-12PM “graveyard shift” slot Mon to Thurs on Radio One with Lard (Marc Riley) and produce the finest radio. In times when nearly all the DJs on Radio One are awful sycophantic hacks devoid of humour he should be ruling supreme. Well, I guess there is the age gap preventing it. This and the current retarded iGeneration audience with have that seems incapable of appreciating its elders, valuing sincerity/humanity or decoding subtleties in humour.
Swimming in frustration I had so many plans for today but instead I find myself wrestling a headache of harsh proportions before even contemplating or approaching the real problem of my car.
Mid morning my landline phone reasons and as I think (hope) it is news on my car instead I find myself greeted by an Asian (Indian or Pakistani) accent asking me who my energy suppliers are. Is it bad that I am not quite sure whether it is Eon or EDF? I feed the guy some line who then proceeds to tell me that he isn’t trying to sell me anything but does go ahead and tell/quote me who the best three energy suppliers in my area are (Npower it would appear). It all goes in one ear and out the other. He then begins to ask me for my personal details and when I get bored and tell him I was born in 1966 he makes comment that I sound too young to be that old – cheeky cunt. Once he knows my name and address the guy hands me over to an Asian lady who proceeds to ask me for my bank details. At this point I question why she would be wanting these if they were not trying to sell me anything. She babbles something in her Asian drawl and when I refuse to give over the details she tells me it is fine, they will just be billing me instead. Who will be fucking billing me? Bored and pissed off at this point I just go silent and begin pressing the buttons on my phone as if dialling an IRA message. I listen in as stupid voices on the other end of the phone keep repeating “hello? Hello?” How dare those fuckers phone me and waste my (precious) time.
Eventually I head to the broken down car at around 1PM in the hope that the old man has miraculously managed to get it to work/drive. He hasn’t. Originally he thought it might be the battery and now he thinks it might be the starter engine and that all it might need is a “little tap.” He remains far too optimistic as all this sounds much too easy. I am still convinced that there are major problems in the electrics of the thing and that I where I fear it will costs big bucks.
I find myself watching Blackburn v Tottenham on Sky, which is a horrible mess of a game featuring two floundering teams making errors. Its watchable but as a bad example.
Today is the fifth anniversary of Millwall beating Sunderland 1-0 in the semi final of the FA Cup and making the FA Cup Final against Manchester United. That was a truly amazing day and makes for a good beginning in JGRAM WORLD even if I say so myself. I cannot believe that it is five years ago already, it does not feel so long ago, time moves at such a scary pace these days.
With the afternoon now kicking in the inevitable reality that the car will have to go to the garage is realised but by this point most self respecting garages have shut up for the weekend. It’s a drag.
As I debate whether to head into town or not to try and discover a copy of Guitar Hero World Tour Solus I wind up procrastinating by watching Sky TV. When I come across the ever-reliable 30 Rock I am coming across comedy gold as the show only serves to become sharper and funnier with each episode. The guest spot by SNL’s super reliable Jason Sudeikis is cool because he looks like a younger version of Millwall’s manager Kenny Jackett.
Easing my pain Millwall beat Walsall 3-1 today improving recent crap home form and making things even tighter at the top of Division One (the third division).
Back on Sky more football appears in the form of Bristol City v Preston North End. At 5.20 on a Saturday evening who on earth wants to be going to such a match or watching it on television? It never surprises me to see so many empty seats and barren sections when Sky covers such drab fixtures. Bristol hardly appears to be a hotbed of interest and the only personal interest for me occurs when Starvin’ Marvin Elliott comes on as a substitute at the end.
Beyond scamming some dinner at the olds’ wondering what I could/should have been doing in London tonight soon I head home for another crappy quiet Saturday night home alone. I could swear I had a life at one time.
Heading home it is to internet porn and the premiere of An Inconvenient Truth on Channel Four (after the very depressing The Day After Tomorrow is reeled out first). I barely manage thirty minutes of Al Gore before I nod off. So as a result my version of An Inconvenient Truth so far contains the message “its all going to be all right” it seems.
I was hoping the catch the repeat of the Japan: A Story Of Love And Hate documentary tonight but passing out I miss the beginning and when I awaken thirty minutes into it it is at the point I thought most entertaining where the girl Yoshie breaks his glasses.
With this image in my mind I head back to sleep.
Friday, 3 April 2009
Friday 3 April 2009
Relief as the end to a very hard/difficult week arrives. Unfortunately I still possess a huge menu of work still to complete before this afternoon’s meeting, a list I won’t be able to complete so this morning will very much be an exercise in damage limitation.
I trolley into town with little drama. The train is happily sparse, a small relief. As we enter the Essex/London clouded borderline the train is hurtling at impressive pace and it looks like it might actually arrive on time for once. Hopes however dash as once more we sit outside Liverpool Street for a lengthy bout of time and the train ends up sloping into the station at 8.05.
The beached train felt excruciating today, I wanted off the train fast before I would begin screaming.
Bowling into work it is with a lot to get done before the afternoon, which realistically isn’t all going to get done so my morning looks like to be an exercise in damage limitation, cutting corners and papering up the cracks.
Chris gets in touch today regarding him being down in London. The suggestion of getting dim sum is an exciting prospect and I suggest we do so in the evening after I double up and head to Millwall.
Racton also gets in touch, texting a suggested a meet up over the Easter weekend. Unfortunately I have set aside the weekend for a planned flurry of writing at which point I truly hope to finally knock the first draft of Gestures on the head.
By the time (2PM) our accounts consultant turns up I have managed to do a lot of the work set/planned and look good for it.
Away from work I look over the train timetables only to discover that yet again this month the trains are FUCKED every weekend, not only Sundays as was previously unacceptable but now also Saturdays for the Nth month running. How the fucking hell can National Express justify charging passengers to ride piss stenched rail replacement buses just to have a daytrip to London. This ruins my plans and my flagging social life, yet again I find myself confined to Colchester at the weekend. The £4500 I pay for my annual Travelcard leaves me the overriding sensation of being financially gang raped.
With work being solid at the moment again I end up remaining behind a little late which then turns into drinks with the boss before I finally get away staggering towards the tube station at 7PM. As I announce on Facebook, I am a little drunk but all amazing.
It is headed towards 9PM when I finally stagger towards my parents’ place in the hope of blagging some food in order to soap up the numerous Jack Daniels and Cokes I have sampled this evening.
As I cross the bridge over Balkerne Hill I see an old school foe called Russell that happens to be a “friend” on Facebook. I see him and look unimpressed and unamused as I quickly ensure we avoid eye contact in a process, which once more blurs the reality of just who ignores who today.
More and more I find myself regretting adding old school acquaintances to my Facebook account. At school this guy was an arsehole. His family were arseholes and when I had my world torn apart by the bully Pullen when I hit secondary school this piece of shit was one of his henchmen that never once served to hinder the process, indeed I can recall a number of times he explicitly assisted the guy pushing me to the floor physically and mentally and kicking me when already down. So why on earth would I even entertain the idea/concept of allowing the person anywhere near back into my world/life?
We pass each other and without doubt we see each other and acknowledge that we need not acknowledge the other. Perhaps I should have pushed him off the bridge as a favour to humanity (and maybe a little revenge).
When I pull into the olds apartment Bobby is happy to see me. In my dubious state I find myself nodding off on their sofa watching the Clough documentary again. When I wake up startled it is with the realisation that I need my bed. Just before leaving I sneakily steal a Chunky Kit Kat before heading downstairs to get in my car.
My heart sinks as I turn the key in the ignition and nothing happens. Bummed out I sit and eat the Kit Kat while pondering what to do with the car half hoping that if I leave it a couple of minutes the car will miraculously start. Needless to say it doesn’t.
Recently the car has been making some strange noises when starting it in the mornings and immediately my suspicions are that there is a major problem with the electrics, which traditionally equates to big bucks, as the modern car appears to be developing larger and larger brains and computers by the year.
Defeated I head back upstairs from the underground car park back to my parents’ place where I go running to them for help like the not quite fully developed adult that I am. As ever they are the ones that save me and allow me to borrow their car with view to dad giving the car a knock in the morning.
Driving home in their boxy little Fiesta in an intimidating thing, I do not feel safe in such a small car with so little kick/boot to it. At junctions I find myself having to weigh things up a lot more cautiously, especially in the light that it is their car and I am probably driving slightly/technically over the limit.
Despite this I get home safe and sound but depressed. I pass out watching The Ringer on Channel Four remembering the lost weekend that me, Tom and Chris got this on PPV Chris’ parents’ house.
Relief as the end to a very hard/difficult week arrives. Unfortunately I still possess a huge menu of work still to complete before this afternoon’s meeting, a list I won’t be able to complete so this morning will very much be an exercise in damage limitation.
I trolley into town with little drama. The train is happily sparse, a small relief. As we enter the Essex/London clouded borderline the train is hurtling at impressive pace and it looks like it might actually arrive on time for once. Hopes however dash as once more we sit outside Liverpool Street for a lengthy bout of time and the train ends up sloping into the station at 8.05.
The beached train felt excruciating today, I wanted off the train fast before I would begin screaming.
Bowling into work it is with a lot to get done before the afternoon, which realistically isn’t all going to get done so my morning looks like to be an exercise in damage limitation, cutting corners and papering up the cracks.
Chris gets in touch today regarding him being down in London. The suggestion of getting dim sum is an exciting prospect and I suggest we do so in the evening after I double up and head to Millwall.
Racton also gets in touch, texting a suggested a meet up over the Easter weekend. Unfortunately I have set aside the weekend for a planned flurry of writing at which point I truly hope to finally knock the first draft of Gestures on the head.
By the time (2PM) our accounts consultant turns up I have managed to do a lot of the work set/planned and look good for it.
Away from work I look over the train timetables only to discover that yet again this month the trains are FUCKED every weekend, not only Sundays as was previously unacceptable but now also Saturdays for the Nth month running. How the fucking hell can National Express justify charging passengers to ride piss stenched rail replacement buses just to have a daytrip to London. This ruins my plans and my flagging social life, yet again I find myself confined to Colchester at the weekend. The £4500 I pay for my annual Travelcard leaves me the overriding sensation of being financially gang raped.
With work being solid at the moment again I end up remaining behind a little late which then turns into drinks with the boss before I finally get away staggering towards the tube station at 7PM. As I announce on Facebook, I am a little drunk but all amazing.
It is headed towards 9PM when I finally stagger towards my parents’ place in the hope of blagging some food in order to soap up the numerous Jack Daniels and Cokes I have sampled this evening.
As I cross the bridge over Balkerne Hill I see an old school foe called Russell that happens to be a “friend” on Facebook. I see him and look unimpressed and unamused as I quickly ensure we avoid eye contact in a process, which once more blurs the reality of just who ignores who today.
More and more I find myself regretting adding old school acquaintances to my Facebook account. At school this guy was an arsehole. His family were arseholes and when I had my world torn apart by the bully Pullen when I hit secondary school this piece of shit was one of his henchmen that never once served to hinder the process, indeed I can recall a number of times he explicitly assisted the guy pushing me to the floor physically and mentally and kicking me when already down. So why on earth would I even entertain the idea/concept of allowing the person anywhere near back into my world/life?
We pass each other and without doubt we see each other and acknowledge that we need not acknowledge the other. Perhaps I should have pushed him off the bridge as a favour to humanity (and maybe a little revenge).
When I pull into the olds apartment Bobby is happy to see me. In my dubious state I find myself nodding off on their sofa watching the Clough documentary again. When I wake up startled it is with the realisation that I need my bed. Just before leaving I sneakily steal a Chunky Kit Kat before heading downstairs to get in my car.
My heart sinks as I turn the key in the ignition and nothing happens. Bummed out I sit and eat the Kit Kat while pondering what to do with the car half hoping that if I leave it a couple of minutes the car will miraculously start. Needless to say it doesn’t.
Recently the car has been making some strange noises when starting it in the mornings and immediately my suspicions are that there is a major problem with the electrics, which traditionally equates to big bucks, as the modern car appears to be developing larger and larger brains and computers by the year.
Defeated I head back upstairs from the underground car park back to my parents’ place where I go running to them for help like the not quite fully developed adult that I am. As ever they are the ones that save me and allow me to borrow their car with view to dad giving the car a knock in the morning.
Driving home in their boxy little Fiesta in an intimidating thing, I do not feel safe in such a small car with so little kick/boot to it. At junctions I find myself having to weigh things up a lot more cautiously, especially in the light that it is their car and I am probably driving slightly/technically over the limit.
Despite this I get home safe and sound but depressed. I pass out watching The Ringer on Channel Four remembering the lost weekend that me, Tom and Chris got this on PPV Chris’ parents’ house.
Thursday, 2 April 2009
Thursday 2 April 2009
Today is National Autism Day. More of that later.
No dreams today just depression. I find myself lost for words as self-loathing turns into self-pity and nobody wants to hear about that.
I feel nervous today. In some ways the chickens have come home to roost on my work. Perhaps I can deflect responsibility just one more time provided I can tweak and tighten up other areas. Regardless today is looking as if it is gearing up to be a mission.
I feel I need a place to belong. It seems that people have abandoned me in preference to their own selfish needs and it has been a very frustrating year so far.
I step into work and it is ultimately a fairly sedate and relaxed day of going through the motions and keeping my head above water while fending off various distractions and nuisances.
At 5PM we are let out early, a sure sign of a happy and content boss. This serves me particularly well as I head home with urgency for tonight’s show at the Arts Centre with Pappy’s Fun Club.
Out of keeping with my life I am back in Colchester by 7PM lending a lot of time with which to head towards the venue. It even gives me time to pop into the olds on the way to see the dog and snag some dinner.
I head over to the Arts Centre for 8PM in the hope that by the time I arrive someone I know will already be there. They are not. Instead I find myself chatting to Sue and talking bollocks which only serves to demean me as I try too hard to be friendly, maybe even charming.
Tonight Staff leaves a vinyl copy of the new Extreme Noise Terror record “Law Of Retaliation” on the door for me and it looks fantastic.
As I spew out all kinds of nonsense to Sue I see the skinny guy that Bella lived with that used to think it was hilarious to wear coloured contact lenses in an effort to be rebellious and individual. Damn, she had a bigger crush on him than she did me and now in the colder light of day (night) he looks/appears even less impressive than ever.
Eventually Lee turns up and finally I have someone normal to talk to. He is dubious of PAPPY’S FUN CLUB this evening and with his cynical demeanour I am not so sure my old friends will appeal to him. I had hoped Nina would be out tonight also but with a lot on her plate as ever she doesn’t turn up or come along.
Tonight PAPPY’S FUN CLUB perform two sets (or rather one big one sandwiching an interval). The first set is pretty much a greatest hits show followed by their killer “Funergy” show which slayed last summer at Latitude and the one that Mindy chose to blow me out on last year (that beginning of an end).
The greatest hits set on the whole consists of material I have seen before and as ever it doesn’t fail to amuse. Soon into the set they are winning over the Colchester audience with a keen mixture of silliness interrupted by sudden darkness. Magic Thimble arrives early in the set as does Len Taunton and by the time Caesar hits the set and pummels in, the evening is well on the way to a comedic victory. Being that this is tried and tested material the guys often head off on tangents with Tom often leading the way.
At the interval when the autism people come around for contributions my friend gets out of it by pointing out how he has a relative that is autistic.
The previous time I saw Pappy’s “Funergy” set was at the Latitude festival last summer. Tonight the show runs just as fluid coupled with more smart diversions and apt in-jokes. The internet vs the owl still comes relatively unexpectedly but equally inventive. When Nottingham chooses to heckle and pick a fight onstage it is so convincing that a member of the audience tells Nottingham (NOTTINGHAM!) to “shut up!” As the set closes with a rant about the audience at a Lionel Richie gig from a sea loving mammal the night has taken several genuinely surreal turns in the process.
After the show I head over and say “hello” to the guys but it is slightly awkward as it has been almost a year since I last saw them and I half suspect two of them no longer remember my name. It doesn’t help either that I am carrying around a copy of the new Extreme Noise Terror LP which everybody keeps asking me about before looking at the cover first pulling a face of disgust at the image before pulling a face of disgust at me for owning it.
Happily amused we (the audience) head off home smirking and tickled at the sight this evening of grown men acting at the height of silliness.
Afterwards I have a quick drink with Lee in the Hole but I feel I lack coherence and as the bell signifying eleven is run we knock the night on its head (as the bell would signify we are supposed to).
Today is National Autism Day. More of that later.
No dreams today just depression. I find myself lost for words as self-loathing turns into self-pity and nobody wants to hear about that.
I feel nervous today. In some ways the chickens have come home to roost on my work. Perhaps I can deflect responsibility just one more time provided I can tweak and tighten up other areas. Regardless today is looking as if it is gearing up to be a mission.
I feel I need a place to belong. It seems that people have abandoned me in preference to their own selfish needs and it has been a very frustrating year so far.
I step into work and it is ultimately a fairly sedate and relaxed day of going through the motions and keeping my head above water while fending off various distractions and nuisances.
At 5PM we are let out early, a sure sign of a happy and content boss. This serves me particularly well as I head home with urgency for tonight’s show at the Arts Centre with Pappy’s Fun Club.
Out of keeping with my life I am back in Colchester by 7PM lending a lot of time with which to head towards the venue. It even gives me time to pop into the olds on the way to see the dog and snag some dinner.
I head over to the Arts Centre for 8PM in the hope that by the time I arrive someone I know will already be there. They are not. Instead I find myself chatting to Sue and talking bollocks which only serves to demean me as I try too hard to be friendly, maybe even charming.
Tonight Staff leaves a vinyl copy of the new Extreme Noise Terror record “Law Of Retaliation” on the door for me and it looks fantastic.
As I spew out all kinds of nonsense to Sue I see the skinny guy that Bella lived with that used to think it was hilarious to wear coloured contact lenses in an effort to be rebellious and individual. Damn, she had a bigger crush on him than she did me and now in the colder light of day (night) he looks/appears even less impressive than ever.
Eventually Lee turns up and finally I have someone normal to talk to. He is dubious of PAPPY’S FUN CLUB this evening and with his cynical demeanour I am not so sure my old friends will appeal to him. I had hoped Nina would be out tonight also but with a lot on her plate as ever she doesn’t turn up or come along.
Tonight PAPPY’S FUN CLUB perform two sets (or rather one big one sandwiching an interval). The first set is pretty much a greatest hits show followed by their killer “Funergy” show which slayed last summer at Latitude and the one that Mindy chose to blow me out on last year (that beginning of an end).
The greatest hits set on the whole consists of material I have seen before and as ever it doesn’t fail to amuse. Soon into the set they are winning over the Colchester audience with a keen mixture of silliness interrupted by sudden darkness. Magic Thimble arrives early in the set as does Len Taunton and by the time Caesar hits the set and pummels in, the evening is well on the way to a comedic victory. Being that this is tried and tested material the guys often head off on tangents with Tom often leading the way.
At the interval when the autism people come around for contributions my friend gets out of it by pointing out how he has a relative that is autistic.
The previous time I saw Pappy’s “Funergy” set was at the Latitude festival last summer. Tonight the show runs just as fluid coupled with more smart diversions and apt in-jokes. The internet vs the owl still comes relatively unexpectedly but equally inventive. When Nottingham chooses to heckle and pick a fight onstage it is so convincing that a member of the audience tells Nottingham (NOTTINGHAM!) to “shut up!” As the set closes with a rant about the audience at a Lionel Richie gig from a sea loving mammal the night has taken several genuinely surreal turns in the process.
After the show I head over and say “hello” to the guys but it is slightly awkward as it has been almost a year since I last saw them and I half suspect two of them no longer remember my name. It doesn’t help either that I am carrying around a copy of the new Extreme Noise Terror LP which everybody keeps asking me about before looking at the cover first pulling a face of disgust at the image before pulling a face of disgust at me for owning it.
Happily amused we (the audience) head off home smirking and tickled at the sight this evening of grown men acting at the height of silliness.
Afterwards I have a quick drink with Lee in the Hole but I feel I lack coherence and as the bell signifying eleven is run we knock the night on its head (as the bell would signify we are supposed to).
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
Wednesday 1 April 2009
April Fools Day and I’m the biggest fool going.
I’m pregnant!
Gotcha!
Excitement abounds today at the prospect of carnage in London. Personally I pretty much hate all parties involved – the world leaders, the soap dodgers, the city worker salarymen, the police. Hopefully they’ll just all kill each other as they threaten one another’s way of life and leave London empty for the rest of us moderate normal people to enjoy.
There is a strange sight on GMTV this morning as stood outside Number 10 the GMTV reporter/correspondent interviews another GMTV reporter/correspondent. Surely a journalist should be interviewing a third party, an external participant in the story. What are they trying to pull off and get away with? Why do they do this? Two payslips and laziness.
Today is not even a consideration. I cannot be bothered with it any more but with my left foot not quite at 100% and how the media is promising central London to be a warzone today, I choose to use these facts as an excuse to get out of P.E. It is a real shame how the class has changed compared to this time last year, the facilities are now dire in comparison, the day and time of the class is just a plain nuisance and all possible fun has been squeezed out of proceedings by people taking the whole thing far too seriously. I hate people without lives.
Undaunted by the prospect of a lairy London I board my train as normal. At Colchester the commuters boarding the train is as normal at a time when I thought there might be less people heading up town, taking the intimidation of the march/protestors as an excuse to take the day off. That’s what I would have done. People are however noticeably dressed down.
As the train stops at Kelvedon absolutely nobody boards which is something of a first, not even bike guy gets on the train. This is then echoed by the fact that commuters boarding the train at Chelmsford is very light on the ground.
The train rolls into Liverpool Street at 8.07. Upon stepping off the train and into the station the place is disappointingly sedate. Where are the mobs and enflamed buildings that the media was promising me?
When I get on the tube it smells of piss, have the soap dodgers been through here already?
Trawling myself into work today I feel so heavy, so deflated about recent work developments. Ever since last Wednesday and the beginning of my second year at the restaurant it has all gone so royally wrong. Workload wise why is everything being done at once? In addition to the inherited never ending mess that is my job why am I expected to take on the chores of the long departed person that took me on? How dare the IT guy (the computer guy!) criticise me!
So yeah I go into work feeling pretty hateful and then my boss serves to additionally wind me up and then Nora gives me some homemade dim sum steamed buns (bau). How on earth can I rock such a bad mood when presented with such gifts? This great gesture is the first thing to put a smile on my face today. She is a really lovely lady.
Soon into the day the auditors begin asking me questions pulling me away from my real duties that should really take priority over these queries. Its frustrating.
The IT guy then turns up and proceeds to act as if nothing is up. When he chips his opinion into conversations one time too many I just fucking lose it and shout “are you going to fucking shout at us today?” With him evidently somewhat more over last Wednesday than I am he holds his hands up apologises for shouting at us last week and for me that is more than enough and thoroughly stops me in my tracks (thankfully). He proceeds to say he had typed an apology email the next day but never sent it and that he actually said to one of the bosses last week after his rant that he thought we were the best accounts team the place has had. At least it turned out eventually.
The remainder of the day pans out with an atmosphere in the air but it is now unnecessary and hopefully soon things will resume back to normal although the immediate reaction to the day is that everyone in our office walks on egg shells.
Away from this the day pans out in a very stressful manner. The workload is not getting any lighter and the BIG deadline looms ever closer.
Listening to the news reports from the city it generally sounds as if the all threats from today have been snuffed out by the army of police with their helmets, shields and batons. Its really dull and most definitely not what the television was promising us. Disappointing.
In the afternoon our financial consultant turns up and it is without me having got my shit together due to the many distractions of the day. I feel as if I am a disappointment in his eyes but I’ll get over it.
Shortly afterwards finally there are reports of some action in the city as some bums tear apart an RBS on Threadneedle Street (now to be renamed Threadbare Street I believe). God bless the BBC and the rolling coverage on their website. The footage coming through is disgusting, if these guys really wanted to steal computers why didn’t they hit Dixons or a PC World where the selection would have been a lot wider. As the windows get smashed in there are no policemen in sight instead there is a sea of photographers gathering around getting their pictures instead of trying to stop the rioters and make any gesture of worth. This is paparazzi.
I have to giggle at the political correctness of one of the captions of a picture where a black guy smashing the window is described as a “masked protestor.” Stupid white men indeed.
Towards the end of the afternoon I find myself in a meeting discussing just what the Tronc system is all about. We meander however and end up dissecting the whole weekly trading reports going over the self explanatory areas unnecessarily. Partway through the meeting the IT guy gets called in for his explanation/opinion/feedback and realising that this was the area that caused him to kick off so excessively last week I shrink and cringe like fuck bracing myself for a repeat of the previous abuse. Fortunately it doesn’t come as my body language and retraction from proceedings speaks volumes.
I end up staying/working late tonight after too many cooks (as usual) get involved and spoil the broth. After about an hour of fannying around I make a healthy degree of late progress and chip off home. In the process of this delay I forget all about the dim sum buns and leave them at work as I head home remembering them on the tube. I hope dim sum steamed buns don’t go off.
By the time I get to Liverpool Street there is yet again a distinct lack of excitement in the air and lack of riot.
Tonight I catch the 6.48 train to Colchester which isn’t too late considering. As I sit on the train I watch a Chinese girl chatting away to her friend (hopefully oblivious of the protests for tourist reasons). She’s only semi pretty but entirely funny as she pulls a sweet from her pocket and puts it in her mouth with the inner wrapper still on it. It is with the most anticipation of the day that I await her eventual realisation and reaction to the wrapper. Comedy gold.
It seems somewhat stupid that today’s protest was coupled with an England game at Wembley – surely that has congestion and clash written all over it.
The plan for the evening is to head to the olds to watch it on their big TV with Sky but when I get to their gaff their annoying neighbours (the couple in their fifties) are sat on the sofa taking up my space, my seat watching the football. Room for a little one? Nope.
Happily at half time they fuck off, just as I am making my own gestures to leave. This is not before however that the woman reveals that she used to have a family dog in the form of a Cocker Spaniel named “Nigger.” Different times.
Eventually I get home to Bohemian Grove just after 10PM. This week I watch The Apprentice You’re Fired without having seen the main programme first. Week two doesn’t sound as if it was classic. The Jody Morris lookalike Rocky is the person to get fired this week. Lets face it somebody called “Rocky” was never going to win anything was he – Northern working class scum.
After a testing day I soon pass out to sleep.
April Fools Day and I’m the biggest fool going.
I’m pregnant!
Gotcha!
Excitement abounds today at the prospect of carnage in London. Personally I pretty much hate all parties involved – the world leaders, the soap dodgers, the city worker salarymen, the police. Hopefully they’ll just all kill each other as they threaten one another’s way of life and leave London empty for the rest of us moderate normal people to enjoy.
There is a strange sight on GMTV this morning as stood outside Number 10 the GMTV reporter/correspondent interviews another GMTV reporter/correspondent. Surely a journalist should be interviewing a third party, an external participant in the story. What are they trying to pull off and get away with? Why do they do this? Two payslips and laziness.
Today is not even a consideration. I cannot be bothered with it any more but with my left foot not quite at 100% and how the media is promising central London to be a warzone today, I choose to use these facts as an excuse to get out of P.E. It is a real shame how the class has changed compared to this time last year, the facilities are now dire in comparison, the day and time of the class is just a plain nuisance and all possible fun has been squeezed out of proceedings by people taking the whole thing far too seriously. I hate people without lives.
Undaunted by the prospect of a lairy London I board my train as normal. At Colchester the commuters boarding the train is as normal at a time when I thought there might be less people heading up town, taking the intimidation of the march/protestors as an excuse to take the day off. That’s what I would have done. People are however noticeably dressed down.
As the train stops at Kelvedon absolutely nobody boards which is something of a first, not even bike guy gets on the train. This is then echoed by the fact that commuters boarding the train at Chelmsford is very light on the ground.
The train rolls into Liverpool Street at 8.07. Upon stepping off the train and into the station the place is disappointingly sedate. Where are the mobs and enflamed buildings that the media was promising me?
When I get on the tube it smells of piss, have the soap dodgers been through here already?
Trawling myself into work today I feel so heavy, so deflated about recent work developments. Ever since last Wednesday and the beginning of my second year at the restaurant it has all gone so royally wrong. Workload wise why is everything being done at once? In addition to the inherited never ending mess that is my job why am I expected to take on the chores of the long departed person that took me on? How dare the IT guy (the computer guy!) criticise me!
So yeah I go into work feeling pretty hateful and then my boss serves to additionally wind me up and then Nora gives me some homemade dim sum steamed buns (bau). How on earth can I rock such a bad mood when presented with such gifts? This great gesture is the first thing to put a smile on my face today. She is a really lovely lady.
Soon into the day the auditors begin asking me questions pulling me away from my real duties that should really take priority over these queries. Its frustrating.
The IT guy then turns up and proceeds to act as if nothing is up. When he chips his opinion into conversations one time too many I just fucking lose it and shout “are you going to fucking shout at us today?” With him evidently somewhat more over last Wednesday than I am he holds his hands up apologises for shouting at us last week and for me that is more than enough and thoroughly stops me in my tracks (thankfully). He proceeds to say he had typed an apology email the next day but never sent it and that he actually said to one of the bosses last week after his rant that he thought we were the best accounts team the place has had. At least it turned out eventually.
The remainder of the day pans out with an atmosphere in the air but it is now unnecessary and hopefully soon things will resume back to normal although the immediate reaction to the day is that everyone in our office walks on egg shells.
Away from this the day pans out in a very stressful manner. The workload is not getting any lighter and the BIG deadline looms ever closer.
Listening to the news reports from the city it generally sounds as if the all threats from today have been snuffed out by the army of police with their helmets, shields and batons. Its really dull and most definitely not what the television was promising us. Disappointing.
In the afternoon our financial consultant turns up and it is without me having got my shit together due to the many distractions of the day. I feel as if I am a disappointment in his eyes but I’ll get over it.
Shortly afterwards finally there are reports of some action in the city as some bums tear apart an RBS on Threadneedle Street (now to be renamed Threadbare Street I believe). God bless the BBC and the rolling coverage on their website. The footage coming through is disgusting, if these guys really wanted to steal computers why didn’t they hit Dixons or a PC World where the selection would have been a lot wider. As the windows get smashed in there are no policemen in sight instead there is a sea of photographers gathering around getting their pictures instead of trying to stop the rioters and make any gesture of worth. This is paparazzi.
I have to giggle at the political correctness of one of the captions of a picture where a black guy smashing the window is described as a “masked protestor.” Stupid white men indeed.
Towards the end of the afternoon I find myself in a meeting discussing just what the Tronc system is all about. We meander however and end up dissecting the whole weekly trading reports going over the self explanatory areas unnecessarily. Partway through the meeting the IT guy gets called in for his explanation/opinion/feedback and realising that this was the area that caused him to kick off so excessively last week I shrink and cringe like fuck bracing myself for a repeat of the previous abuse. Fortunately it doesn’t come as my body language and retraction from proceedings speaks volumes.
I end up staying/working late tonight after too many cooks (as usual) get involved and spoil the broth. After about an hour of fannying around I make a healthy degree of late progress and chip off home. In the process of this delay I forget all about the dim sum buns and leave them at work as I head home remembering them on the tube. I hope dim sum steamed buns don’t go off.
By the time I get to Liverpool Street there is yet again a distinct lack of excitement in the air and lack of riot.
Tonight I catch the 6.48 train to Colchester which isn’t too late considering. As I sit on the train I watch a Chinese girl chatting away to her friend (hopefully oblivious of the protests for tourist reasons). She’s only semi pretty but entirely funny as she pulls a sweet from her pocket and puts it in her mouth with the inner wrapper still on it. It is with the most anticipation of the day that I await her eventual realisation and reaction to the wrapper. Comedy gold.
It seems somewhat stupid that today’s protest was coupled with an England game at Wembley – surely that has congestion and clash written all over it.
The plan for the evening is to head to the olds to watch it on their big TV with Sky but when I get to their gaff their annoying neighbours (the couple in their fifties) are sat on the sofa taking up my space, my seat watching the football. Room for a little one? Nope.
Happily at half time they fuck off, just as I am making my own gestures to leave. This is not before however that the woman reveals that she used to have a family dog in the form of a Cocker Spaniel named “Nigger.” Different times.
Eventually I get home to Bohemian Grove just after 10PM. This week I watch The Apprentice You’re Fired without having seen the main programme first. Week two doesn’t sound as if it was classic. The Jody Morris lookalike Rocky is the person to get fired this week. Lets face it somebody called “Rocky” was never going to win anything was he – Northern working class scum.
After a testing day I soon pass out to sleep.
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