Tuesday 14 April 2009
Dream: I’m on Baker Street in the office looking over the street at the people below. Two of my friends are down there dressed in black sporting replica machine guns. Around them some kind of demo is occurring but the police are choosing to ignore my friends and deal with the more obvious/blatant troublemakers. They are however being watched by men in black wearing sunglasses with wires coming out of their ears. Moving on I wake up the next morning and my car door is open. At first I think this is from my carelessness and upon initial inspection all is fine. Looking closer suddenly the door handle has been replaced by string such as used to be in the those crappy minis when I was young. I check my car to see if anything missing and on the face of it there is nothing changed in the car. I then notice a bag of groceries with some change tied to a small bag at the top. My unfortunate reaction is “free food” and I grab the bag and take it upstairs into my apartment. As I head up I notice some of the secret service meaning roaming around my apartment complex. I do not feel phased by this more angry that they didn’t not prevent an apparent robbery on my car. From atop of my landing I shout down at them to come and investigate the robbery. For some reason it doesn’t occur to me that they may have been responsible for it.
So is that Easter over already?
This morning is misty and still very quiet outside.
When I get on the train this morning there is a stupid kids pushchair and luggage in the way, which is born from early tourists returning from Colchester as opposed to commuters branching out. By providing such an obstruction they deserve to pay peak rates. Later when people are giving the mother funny looks it would appear that it is due to her breast-feeding the baby. The family is African, maybe they are making delivery of a baby to Madonna.
Also today the floor of the train is sticky – what the fuck happened this weekend on the train? An extended weekend and everything appears to have gone to pot.
Reading The Metro this morning it would seem the wrong Stewart Lee episode was indeed broadcast last night as the paper proceeds to review the religion episode that wasn’t broadcast.
My left arm still really hurts. I have been avoiding sleeping on it but that hasn’t done any good. I can pinpoint exactly the time it started aching last week, when I was doing the bank processing and reconciliation. I worry that this is RSI and that old age is now kicking and settling in. How on earth can be being a desk jockey cause so much pain? Feeble.
Booji Boy is back on the train this morning but after the incident with the breast-feeding lady and the general pain induced by my arm I cannot build up any degree of panic or hilarity in his direction. Perhaps still I can muster up some disgust towards him for his inability to get a decent haircut despite being an adult.
The person that eventually sits next to (and annoys) me is a Chinese dude (well, oriental) that is seemingly incapable of sitting on a seat properly. I guess they just sit on the floor in his motherland. As the journey continues he falls deeper and deeper asleep proceeding to lean on me more and more causing great discomfort for me (and him when I eventually shove him with spite). Against stereotype though he is very tall.
Elsewhere on the train a man has a plaster strategically placed on his balding head. Just what kind of injury is that supposed to be dealing with and curing? This is the NHS Direct equivalent of papering up the cracks no doubt. Incompetent and futile.
The train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.04 – late. As I get up to get off the train I find myself sticking to the floor once more.
Everyone has really bad hair on the tube this morning, seemingly bedheads by design. Really I am not qualified to comment as my own do leaves something to be desire at this time but I like judging my fellow man too much.
At Kings Cross the transvestite from last Monday again gets on the tube. The guy is even less convincing this week with the bricklayer hands now eclipsed by the crap wig. He must be very dedicated to this cause to make an exhibition such as this. Just like last week though he/she sinks into the carriage window reading a copy of The Metro closely hiding in it to blank out the reflection.
There is too much luggage on the train today. What if there is a rush or an accident, we will all trip up over it and perish. I have always thought that the nuisance that luggage causes on the train means that people should be charged to take it on the train in the first place. Now is this fair or is this a bit too Nazi?
As I arrive into work I am listening to an old episode of Hancock’s Half Hour on my iPod and it genuinely makes me laugh and puts a smile on my face. It is truly unbelievable and impressive at how well this stuff holds up.
A very hectic week begins slowly with closing off the February accounts (preparing the management pack) taking a lot longer than intended/expected and as lunchtime arrives/hits I still have not put it all to bed.
It is with a rude awakening that we all return to work today, nobody in our office possesses any energy.
At lunchtime the chef begins going on about Albanian sausage in regards to the office girl and her favourite foods. It’s only a little less subtle than just slapping his cock into a bap and going “have a bite.” In response I just nod “yeah, hot beef injection” in the hope of changing the subject to something fishy.
I feel like a mess today. My hair needs cutting, I haven’t shaved and my face looks tubby. Some might say I always look this way.
In the afternoon the office girl attempts to convince/fool me into believing that there is a new day between Sunday and Monday called “Nonday.” What a fucking idiot. Apparently she once worked with a simple guy at a bar that she managed to persuade into believing this. He probably wanted to fuck her. So now her trying the same trick on me, what the hell does that suggest is her perception of me? Does she see me as simple also? Better not you shit beast. From here she then launches into some sort of collection of science facts which only serves to make her sound like Karl Pilkington, a man himself long past his sell by date, try telling that to the Pilkipedia nation though. In a gesture to shut her up I begin telling her that Tree Man (Dede Koswara) is coming to town with view to getting her excited (she being his biggest fan, him and the Pregnant Man (Thomas Beatie)).
Eventually I get onto the March accounts, now with only two and a half days to get the first draft done. This is going to be a job and a half. By the time the afternoon is done I have to face a few more setbacks which slow me down further.
At one point this afternoon we find the whole office in debate over the number of trips to the toilet I make during the day. Apparently it is now unhealthy to have a poo on a regular basis. Fucking women, always finding wrong in everything/anything.
The office girl than decides to criticise me about my knowledge of film after I poo poo her science facts which on the whole do tend to originate from Channel Five documentaries. Film though, it is art and it serves to make knowledge and information more accessible. Surely.
I end up working a little late, which is never something that enthuses me. When I eventually hop a train home while watching Henry Fool on my iPhone a call comes in that says “blocked caller.” I haven’t blocked any numbers on this phone (yet). Weird phones these things.
Back in Colchester I head to the olds to watch Chelsea v Liverpool. This game will go down in history as an absolute classic although the score is ultimately flattering to both sides missing star players and capitalising on silly mistakes it is littered with. People will say it was a classic but actually the match was a farce. Another day it could have been the greatest game in history but the 4-4 scoreline flatters a little too much. For a while there it looked like Liverpool might do the job with fortune on their side but as soon as Chelsea score early in the second half the game is over. Personally I feel I could have scored the first two Liverpool goals and against this sloppy defending Millwall would stand a chance against Chelsea on this showing. As the match pushes on I find myself cheering on Chelsea goals going in, something I never ever expected I would ever find myself doing. In the end the 4-4 scoreline represents something of a false economy but I do take great amusement in the end of Liverpool’s European campaign. Bye bye Victimpool.
Afterwards I head home for the Tuesday night routine of 606 followed by passing out watching Family Guy. I need a girlfriend.
Tuesday, 14 April 2009
Monday, 13 April 2009
Monday 13 April 2009
Today is very quiet. Outside the world appears as if it has remained in its bed. I myself, I awaken at a frustrating 6.45AM unable to lie in any further.
It is Easter Monday! The break is more welcome than Christmas this year. Unfortunately however today represents something of a boring flat morning. Some kind of disaster strikes as I find myself with no enthusiasm for writing today. The best laid plans.
Looking at the news I wonder if Derek Draper is related to Don Draper somewhere down the line – they’re both in the same line (kind of).
In the end I find myself watching more episodes from this season’s Saturday Night Live and they all slay me – this season has been amazing. The appearances by Sarah Palin are very funny suggesting a sense in the woman not demonstrated or exhibited anywhere else in the run up to their failed election. If this is a top rated show (which it is) it suggests that thanks to the writers and performers the world (well, America) is actually a much more/better informed place than you would necessary imagine or give it credit for being.
With writing out of the window I set about re-arranging and attempting to organise Bohemian Grove but as the reality that I just have too much stuff for such a small apartment as ever rears its head the whole exercise begins to feel futile.
While my large stack of DVDs fall to the ground for the nth time Blackbeard’s Ghost arrives on TV and I find myself more than distracted by its charms. I have always loved this movie ever since renting it out on video as a little ‘un to slowly growing some kind of crush on Suzanne Pleshette in it to the final amusing reality that the villain in this piece is also called Mr Seymour. If ever I were to finally find time to do an electronica project on my sacking I would rip this movie to take samples from it.
Later as High School Musical 2 plays out on TV in the background I proceed to plough through the pile of seven inches I have recently bought with view to possibly reviewing them. The majority of the singles are real dogs, what the fuck is going on with modern music to make it all sound so bad. The highlight of a bad batch is the record by Kap Bambino, which sores above the bunch.
With Bedknobs And Broomsticks completing a day of Disney movies on TV I head over to the olds. Bedknobs And Broomsticks has always held a very happy place in my heart, not least for it being one of my favourite movies growing up when we snagged a pirate copy of it on video years before piracy became what it is now. Also when working at the studio and walking down Portobello Road to work every day Nicole and I would laugh about the song and how it didn’t really fit into the reality of our surroundings.
Finally today with Easter almost over I get an Easter egg. Damn I swear these things used to be bigger in years gone by.
The main reason for my visit tonight is Sky showing Millwall v Peterborough live. This is a really important game and had ‘Wall not fluffed points recently it would be a huge six pointer but as things stand it is still a six pointer even though the chances of Millwall finishing second are becoming thinner by the week now as no one is dropping points.
It’s a good game in the end and the atmosphere is infectious enough to make me wish I were at the place. I have been really shit this season having barely made any trips to games and watching The Den on TV tonight it looks fantastic, Millwall truly is a great club, earnest and working class.
A strange thing happens tonight, the referee does Millwall a favour. With about ten minutes left to go in the first half ‘Wall snag a soft(ish) penalty and when Gary Alexander steps up and takes it only to have it saved the referee orders him to retake it because the Peterborough (the Posh) goalkeeper moved on his line before the kick. I don’t know, he didn’t appear to move any more than 99% of all other goalkeepers facing penalties. Then with the second identical kick the exact same thing happens again – Alexander takes, keeper saves then the referee says “take it again.” This I have never fucking seen before. For a third attempt Dave Martin takes over and smacks the fucker home. I didn’t even realise you could do that, change penalty taker mid kick. I’m half surprised when the referee doesn’t pick up on that. I don’t know, getting the run of the green, the run of the decisions indicates a season where luck is on your side and the stuff promotion possibilities.
Millwall seal the deal when Dave Martin goes on a sweet run and knocks a tidy ball across the box which Jason Price attempts to sky but instead fires into the top of the net. It’s a sweet sweet thing. This is fortuitous also, here Millwall has a striker on loan that has scored about 60 goals in 400 games, that is such a decrepit strike rate but for us he is now 2 for 2. The game ends 2-0 and all is right for the world.
Back home and it is time for Stewart Lee. Tonight was supposed to be the religion episode but it would seem a late decision has been made to instead show the comedy episode. It’s another really good show. He does his Franklyn Ajaye bit that we saw/heard him perform at the 100 Club with David Cross last summer. Another bit is a mock history of America’s most dangerous comedian that appears loosely based on Bill Hicks and the piece has the comedian dining off the line and repeating the joke “a mouse is just a fag rat.”
Fucking top end to a top day.
Today is very quiet. Outside the world appears as if it has remained in its bed. I myself, I awaken at a frustrating 6.45AM unable to lie in any further.
It is Easter Monday! The break is more welcome than Christmas this year. Unfortunately however today represents something of a boring flat morning. Some kind of disaster strikes as I find myself with no enthusiasm for writing today. The best laid plans.
Looking at the news I wonder if Derek Draper is related to Don Draper somewhere down the line – they’re both in the same line (kind of).
In the end I find myself watching more episodes from this season’s Saturday Night Live and they all slay me – this season has been amazing. The appearances by Sarah Palin are very funny suggesting a sense in the woman not demonstrated or exhibited anywhere else in the run up to their failed election. If this is a top rated show (which it is) it suggests that thanks to the writers and performers the world (well, America) is actually a much more/better informed place than you would necessary imagine or give it credit for being.
With writing out of the window I set about re-arranging and attempting to organise Bohemian Grove but as the reality that I just have too much stuff for such a small apartment as ever rears its head the whole exercise begins to feel futile.
While my large stack of DVDs fall to the ground for the nth time Blackbeard’s Ghost arrives on TV and I find myself more than distracted by its charms. I have always loved this movie ever since renting it out on video as a little ‘un to slowly growing some kind of crush on Suzanne Pleshette in it to the final amusing reality that the villain in this piece is also called Mr Seymour. If ever I were to finally find time to do an electronica project on my sacking I would rip this movie to take samples from it.
Later as High School Musical 2 plays out on TV in the background I proceed to plough through the pile of seven inches I have recently bought with view to possibly reviewing them. The majority of the singles are real dogs, what the fuck is going on with modern music to make it all sound so bad. The highlight of a bad batch is the record by Kap Bambino, which sores above the bunch.
With Bedknobs And Broomsticks completing a day of Disney movies on TV I head over to the olds. Bedknobs And Broomsticks has always held a very happy place in my heart, not least for it being one of my favourite movies growing up when we snagged a pirate copy of it on video years before piracy became what it is now. Also when working at the studio and walking down Portobello Road to work every day Nicole and I would laugh about the song and how it didn’t really fit into the reality of our surroundings.
Finally today with Easter almost over I get an Easter egg. Damn I swear these things used to be bigger in years gone by.
The main reason for my visit tonight is Sky showing Millwall v Peterborough live. This is a really important game and had ‘Wall not fluffed points recently it would be a huge six pointer but as things stand it is still a six pointer even though the chances of Millwall finishing second are becoming thinner by the week now as no one is dropping points.
It’s a good game in the end and the atmosphere is infectious enough to make me wish I were at the place. I have been really shit this season having barely made any trips to games and watching The Den on TV tonight it looks fantastic, Millwall truly is a great club, earnest and working class.
A strange thing happens tonight, the referee does Millwall a favour. With about ten minutes left to go in the first half ‘Wall snag a soft(ish) penalty and when Gary Alexander steps up and takes it only to have it saved the referee orders him to retake it because the Peterborough (the Posh) goalkeeper moved on his line before the kick. I don’t know, he didn’t appear to move any more than 99% of all other goalkeepers facing penalties. Then with the second identical kick the exact same thing happens again – Alexander takes, keeper saves then the referee says “take it again.” This I have never fucking seen before. For a third attempt Dave Martin takes over and smacks the fucker home. I didn’t even realise you could do that, change penalty taker mid kick. I’m half surprised when the referee doesn’t pick up on that. I don’t know, getting the run of the green, the run of the decisions indicates a season where luck is on your side and the stuff promotion possibilities.
Millwall seal the deal when Dave Martin goes on a sweet run and knocks a tidy ball across the box which Jason Price attempts to sky but instead fires into the top of the net. It’s a sweet sweet thing. This is fortuitous also, here Millwall has a striker on loan that has scored about 60 goals in 400 games, that is such a decrepit strike rate but for us he is now 2 for 2. The game ends 2-0 and all is right for the world.
Back home and it is time for Stewart Lee. Tonight was supposed to be the religion episode but it would seem a late decision has been made to instead show the comedy episode. It’s another really good show. He does his Franklyn Ajaye bit that we saw/heard him perform at the 100 Club with David Cross last summer. Another bit is a mock history of America’s most dangerous comedian that appears loosely based on Bill Hicks and the piece has the comedian dining off the line and repeating the joke “a mouse is just a fag rat.”
Fucking top end to a top day.
Sunday, 12 April 2009
Sunday 12 April 2009
Easter Sunday. This morning I awaken at a healthy 8.15 which is a surefire sign that my body clock is getting used to having days off. I did have interesting dreams but upon waking I soon forget them before I make an effort/gesture to remember and recall them.
Over the course of the morning elements and flashbacks of the dream return to me. These are of shots of riding an escalator out of a tube station after some kind of successful meeting in town. As I leave the place (wherever whatever) in a gesture of an upbeat sense of victory I go to put “Isn’t Everything” by My Bloody Valentine on my iPod but instead “Loveless” comes out and I actually find myself singing along to it in public aware that I look and sound stupid but without care regardless. It is a Friday afternoon but I still head back to the office to catch people before they leave (the girls). When I get back they have already gone and the office now resembles something of an old attached house. Inside I find my mother alone cooking sausages as the others desert the place for the weekend. I ask her if she doesn’t get lonely and she tells me she doesn’t.
It is with a flying start I begin today, the resurrection. Once more I am pounding the keyboard with writing/typing and words flow (if not fly). Conscious of it being a Sunday morning but still eager to listen to music I look for a more quiet selection. This is actually a tough exercise knowing my taste in music. Off the back of my dream I scour my harddrive for “Isn’t Everything” but fail in my efforts eventually settling on the much derided new Trail Of Dead and Stevo’s favourite Deerhunter.
The first thing I am working on today is the tricky final chapter of Gestures. I fear it will be top heavy as I wrote extensive notes (pretty much the finished prose) on a notepad during Christmas 07 when it was all happening and going down. Once these notes finish and the chapter switches to part 2 I fear I may be stranded and unable to come up with half the length of material already produced (as I write this standing at 17 Word pages and 8993 words). As I failed to do any writing towards the book yesterday this feels like a deserving punishment.
As I wonder whether today is the weekend in the month that The Observer does its music magazine, flicking through yesterdays Guardian I see the latest largest advert for this year’s Latitude Festival. Lots of names have been added and it feels so apt that it is in The Guardian where I read this, it truly was the whitest middle class festival last year. The additions to the bill are pretty uninspiring but that is always to be expected.
At 11.54 disaster occurs as a power cut hits and I lose all my writing for the day. Suddenly the 8993 words as mentioned above are suddenly back to 8379. How the fuck does auto recover work? Rebooting it appears to have saved nothing. After a productive morning I find myself back at step one with a mountain to climb to regain what I had accomplished.
I thought Jade was going to be resurrected today; you could sense the public willing it on. I think the recent outpouring of emotion represents a distinct lack of caring by the populous regarding reality, regarding the tangible aspects in/of their lives. As they people head towards middle age with their careers and families in place the elements of their lives that they have always strived and fought for are becoming mundane in the process and with it individuals begin to become bored and care less and less about what they actually have in their lives. I fear that this is a major problem now for my generation brought about the way things (the world) move too soon and how our lives appear to peak too soon now. So yeah, it’s a shame she didn’t come back today. I’m truly surprised that Max Clifford failed to arrange it.
Today I finally bite the bullet and watch the final ever episode of JPod. It does come together with a proper climax and ending coupled with a dark twist right at the end. It’s not quite the ending of The Sopranos but it is still a good one. Now to find that missing episode (eleven) that was never actually broadcast.
Back in the real world as I once again attempt to write and once again resoundingly fail, looking over at the TV and BBC1 I find myself confronted by the sight of Camp Rock. Now this is not some kind of homosexual music documentary, more it is the new High School Musical – this once more is the world according to Disney. Not Walt Disney but the people from Buena Vista in suits dressed like hitmen.
It is just far too easy to be cynical about these and as Jonathan Ross said “you have to embrace” things such as High School Musical, whats the point in upsetting a bunch of teenage fans now when they have the remainder of their lives to live in abject misery.
Camp Rock is on the surface a sweet and well-intentioned movie about a girl chasing a dream, being coerced into reinventing herself before winning out at the end of the day upon discovery that she should “just be herself.” More power to her. In between this the Jonas Brothers come along wearing their promise rings (much like I suspect my committed Christian American former friend does) to act like non-threatening love idols in the process of subtly (and not so subtly) promoting their music, their new record, their lifestyle and their careers.
As an adult the crux of the movie is that it is nonsense but nonsense in the best possible way. This is not music in this movie it is team sport for ungifted athletes. I love to think that Camp Rock is now what Gringo Records is like but my suspicions are such that the only camp in Gringo Records is the limpwristed kind. When Jonas Brother #1 finally drops his mask from being an arse to playing an acoustic number he has just written but “will not sell” it is almost straight out of a Smog or Bonnie Prince Billy song. Maybe.
OK, I know this is not aimed at me and to scoff at it (and as a result the kids watching it) is cruel but much like High School Music it is really pushing an existence of just as much fantasy content as Lord Of The Rings or Narnia (maybe). Were I, god forbid, to have kids that liked this stuff I would be quite concerned that they would turn into the kids at school that suffer, that ones that do not thrive and the ones, much like myself, that end up in therapy.
And so we come full circle as a 32 year old man (well, manchild) I end up bored and watching too much of this movie than is healthy for a person in my situation.
Eventually I look away from Camp Rock enough to catch up on the writing that I lost in/through the power cut this morning. This time round I don’t feel the writing is as good or as flowing as what I lost but what am I going to do now? Sadly the excitement just feels as if it has gone from the piece.
With the writing caught up I begin to set about organising my flat with view to finally once more become an adult again. As ever this is an arduous job that I somewhat suspect is beyond me with my OCD qualities. Ultimately despite my efforts I only manage to make the flat even untidier with new piles of rubbish.
One good thing does come from the power cut occurring as I discover that the resetting of my Freeview box in the process has caused sound to return to the channels. This is a good thing. As I scan/scour the revitalised selection of channels I come across Joe Versus The Volcano on Channel Five which I have always loved and found slightly dark in the process. Hanks in the eighties (and early nineties) had some really great subtle and sleeper hits in his cannon. Volunteers anyone? Definitely Splash. And of course The Money Pit. Also if nothing else Joe Versus The Volcano should be thanked for introducing my generation to “Come Go With Me” by the Del Vikings.
If this is not evidence of my boredom taking over, later I find myself online looking up the name Jennifer Parisi who is (or plays) the air hostess in the Sure Protection adverts – she is fucking hot. Maybe she has a website, maybe she has a Facebook page, maybe I should get out of the house before it is too late.
As it becomes apparent my TV is not going away today, I find myself watching the Tim Burton Willy Wonka, which is probably the least healthy thing I do today.
With a sense of guilt/shame I spend the early evening attempting to write some music reviews for Diskant and/or No Pictures but this is difficult when the majority of records I listen to are poor and unexciting. My day could also be described in this manner.
The one beacon of hope is the Eugene Mirman album “En Garde, Society!” which came through the post the other day. I have been listening to this for years and it is amazing but the DVD that comes with the record remains a mystery to me.
With my mind having been shredded/dragged through a mental sieve today I attempt to redeem proceedings by watching something cutting edge. My choice at this time is the mumblecore movie The Puffy Chair. With Spoon on the soundtrack it is a healthily indie movie complete with annoying slacker characters and weird resolutions. I get the impression that this is one of the better movies of the genre.
Now I sleep.
Easter Sunday. This morning I awaken at a healthy 8.15 which is a surefire sign that my body clock is getting used to having days off. I did have interesting dreams but upon waking I soon forget them before I make an effort/gesture to remember and recall them.
Over the course of the morning elements and flashbacks of the dream return to me. These are of shots of riding an escalator out of a tube station after some kind of successful meeting in town. As I leave the place (wherever whatever) in a gesture of an upbeat sense of victory I go to put “Isn’t Everything” by My Bloody Valentine on my iPod but instead “Loveless” comes out and I actually find myself singing along to it in public aware that I look and sound stupid but without care regardless. It is a Friday afternoon but I still head back to the office to catch people before they leave (the girls). When I get back they have already gone and the office now resembles something of an old attached house. Inside I find my mother alone cooking sausages as the others desert the place for the weekend. I ask her if she doesn’t get lonely and she tells me she doesn’t.
It is with a flying start I begin today, the resurrection. Once more I am pounding the keyboard with writing/typing and words flow (if not fly). Conscious of it being a Sunday morning but still eager to listen to music I look for a more quiet selection. This is actually a tough exercise knowing my taste in music. Off the back of my dream I scour my harddrive for “Isn’t Everything” but fail in my efforts eventually settling on the much derided new Trail Of Dead and Stevo’s favourite Deerhunter.
The first thing I am working on today is the tricky final chapter of Gestures. I fear it will be top heavy as I wrote extensive notes (pretty much the finished prose) on a notepad during Christmas 07 when it was all happening and going down. Once these notes finish and the chapter switches to part 2 I fear I may be stranded and unable to come up with half the length of material already produced (as I write this standing at 17 Word pages and 8993 words). As I failed to do any writing towards the book yesterday this feels like a deserving punishment.
As I wonder whether today is the weekend in the month that The Observer does its music magazine, flicking through yesterdays Guardian I see the latest largest advert for this year’s Latitude Festival. Lots of names have been added and it feels so apt that it is in The Guardian where I read this, it truly was the whitest middle class festival last year. The additions to the bill are pretty uninspiring but that is always to be expected.
At 11.54 disaster occurs as a power cut hits and I lose all my writing for the day. Suddenly the 8993 words as mentioned above are suddenly back to 8379. How the fuck does auto recover work? Rebooting it appears to have saved nothing. After a productive morning I find myself back at step one with a mountain to climb to regain what I had accomplished.
I thought Jade was going to be resurrected today; you could sense the public willing it on. I think the recent outpouring of emotion represents a distinct lack of caring by the populous regarding reality, regarding the tangible aspects in/of their lives. As they people head towards middle age with their careers and families in place the elements of their lives that they have always strived and fought for are becoming mundane in the process and with it individuals begin to become bored and care less and less about what they actually have in their lives. I fear that this is a major problem now for my generation brought about the way things (the world) move too soon and how our lives appear to peak too soon now. So yeah, it’s a shame she didn’t come back today. I’m truly surprised that Max Clifford failed to arrange it.
Today I finally bite the bullet and watch the final ever episode of JPod. It does come together with a proper climax and ending coupled with a dark twist right at the end. It’s not quite the ending of The Sopranos but it is still a good one. Now to find that missing episode (eleven) that was never actually broadcast.
Back in the real world as I once again attempt to write and once again resoundingly fail, looking over at the TV and BBC1 I find myself confronted by the sight of Camp Rock. Now this is not some kind of homosexual music documentary, more it is the new High School Musical – this once more is the world according to Disney. Not Walt Disney but the people from Buena Vista in suits dressed like hitmen.
It is just far too easy to be cynical about these and as Jonathan Ross said “you have to embrace” things such as High School Musical, whats the point in upsetting a bunch of teenage fans now when they have the remainder of their lives to live in abject misery.
Camp Rock is on the surface a sweet and well-intentioned movie about a girl chasing a dream, being coerced into reinventing herself before winning out at the end of the day upon discovery that she should “just be herself.” More power to her. In between this the Jonas Brothers come along wearing their promise rings (much like I suspect my committed Christian American former friend does) to act like non-threatening love idols in the process of subtly (and not so subtly) promoting their music, their new record, their lifestyle and their careers.
As an adult the crux of the movie is that it is nonsense but nonsense in the best possible way. This is not music in this movie it is team sport for ungifted athletes. I love to think that Camp Rock is now what Gringo Records is like but my suspicions are such that the only camp in Gringo Records is the limpwristed kind. When Jonas Brother #1 finally drops his mask from being an arse to playing an acoustic number he has just written but “will not sell” it is almost straight out of a Smog or Bonnie Prince Billy song. Maybe.
OK, I know this is not aimed at me and to scoff at it (and as a result the kids watching it) is cruel but much like High School Music it is really pushing an existence of just as much fantasy content as Lord Of The Rings or Narnia (maybe). Were I, god forbid, to have kids that liked this stuff I would be quite concerned that they would turn into the kids at school that suffer, that ones that do not thrive and the ones, much like myself, that end up in therapy.
And so we come full circle as a 32 year old man (well, manchild) I end up bored and watching too much of this movie than is healthy for a person in my situation.
Eventually I look away from Camp Rock enough to catch up on the writing that I lost in/through the power cut this morning. This time round I don’t feel the writing is as good or as flowing as what I lost but what am I going to do now? Sadly the excitement just feels as if it has gone from the piece.
With the writing caught up I begin to set about organising my flat with view to finally once more become an adult again. As ever this is an arduous job that I somewhat suspect is beyond me with my OCD qualities. Ultimately despite my efforts I only manage to make the flat even untidier with new piles of rubbish.
One good thing does come from the power cut occurring as I discover that the resetting of my Freeview box in the process has caused sound to return to the channels. This is a good thing. As I scan/scour the revitalised selection of channels I come across Joe Versus The Volcano on Channel Five which I have always loved and found slightly dark in the process. Hanks in the eighties (and early nineties) had some really great subtle and sleeper hits in his cannon. Volunteers anyone? Definitely Splash. And of course The Money Pit. Also if nothing else Joe Versus The Volcano should be thanked for introducing my generation to “Come Go With Me” by the Del Vikings.
If this is not evidence of my boredom taking over, later I find myself online looking up the name Jennifer Parisi who is (or plays) the air hostess in the Sure Protection adverts – she is fucking hot. Maybe she has a website, maybe she has a Facebook page, maybe I should get out of the house before it is too late.
As it becomes apparent my TV is not going away today, I find myself watching the Tim Burton Willy Wonka, which is probably the least healthy thing I do today.
With a sense of guilt/shame I spend the early evening attempting to write some music reviews for Diskant and/or No Pictures but this is difficult when the majority of records I listen to are poor and unexciting. My day could also be described in this manner.
The one beacon of hope is the Eugene Mirman album “En Garde, Society!” which came through the post the other day. I have been listening to this for years and it is amazing but the DVD that comes with the record remains a mystery to me.
With my mind having been shredded/dragged through a mental sieve today I attempt to redeem proceedings by watching something cutting edge. My choice at this time is the mumblecore movie The Puffy Chair. With Spoon on the soundtrack it is a healthily indie movie complete with annoying slacker characters and weird resolutions. I get the impression that this is one of the better movies of the genre.
Now I sleep.
Saturday, 11 April 2009
Saturday 11 April 2009
This morning I awaken in a strange mood. Last night was good, right?
I wake up at 7.30 to catch the morning news. It is a slow day.
Today I finally bother to wrestle and persist with Youtube in order to watch My Breakfast With Blassie. I have been wanting to see this for years ever since Tim from Electro Group told me about it during the great Gringo Records tour in 2002 with Hirameka. It is a wonderful thing. Kaufman comes over as charming and hilarious while Freddie Blassie likewise is likeable but also very gruff and alpha male, the kind of grumpy old man that has seen and done everything without becoming cynical about the world. Based somewhat on My Dinner With Andre (a movie that completely fascinated me when I discovered it in the Harlesden house) the conversation flows as an interesting rate and when there is interaction between them two and an adjacent table you begin to wonder how much of it is kayfabe and staged. It is funny watching the pair of them turn from charming to what appears to be them revealing their real uninhibited selves. It is relieving however to discover that the guy at the end is actually Bob Zmuda.
Not long afterwards I head to Sainsburys to collect the Saturday newspapers in a change from Asda. It’s nothing really to write about.
With the day still early I put on the final episode of the Lost Room which I have had sitting on my computer for about a year to watch. It fails to hold my attention and my mind wanders as I fail to take it in even though Margaret Cho looks stunning whenever she appears in her scenes.
Briefly around midday I find myself on MSN chatting to Iain about Twitter and why his Facebook status says that he has been officially convicted in the eyes of the law. It turns out to be speeding related. It’s a funny coincidence that we are chatting at this time because I was just on his fantastic View From The Shelf blog yesterday which features a lot of coverage of the MLS and I get to tell him about the little obsession I used to have when I was younger with American soccer and the NASL and MISL.
I continue to wrestle with the concept of writing but it feels stunted and forced, very laboured and not flowing. When the postman calls he drops off the Easter booty in ordered with view to stunting boredom. Amongst the DVDs that arrive are the second Grindhouse trailers compilation, the Born Into This Charles Bukowski documentary and BAADASSSSS!
In the afternoon bored I wind up watching the Grindhouse trailers DVD but there is a distinct lack of energy on this release and I don’t have the enthusiasm for it that I had for the first compilation, to the point I find myself falling asleep. I know they are not meant to be anything but, but these really are cheap and nasty.
Back at my desk I continue to attempt to write only managing to scrape out a burst of words here and there. On TV I find my attention twitched by Finding Nemo followed by Doctor Who – this really is not healthy.
The ultimate slap to my psyche occurs when I find myself actually gawping at Britain’s Got Talent. No it has not got talent.
Eventually I throw the towel in on a very unproductive day as Little Miss Sunshine pops up on Channel Four. I will always remember this movie fondly for when I saw it one Monday evening at the Curzon in Soho and the collective audience response was the greatest sense of unity I have ever felt from a cinema audience. That ending really does come from left field. Little Miss Sunshine also represents the first time I saw a glimmer of personality in Zoe when she lent the movie on DVD to the chav girl at Baker Street and I was excited by her apparent good taste.
Saturday then has closure.
This morning I awaken in a strange mood. Last night was good, right?
I wake up at 7.30 to catch the morning news. It is a slow day.
Today I finally bother to wrestle and persist with Youtube in order to watch My Breakfast With Blassie. I have been wanting to see this for years ever since Tim from Electro Group told me about it during the great Gringo Records tour in 2002 with Hirameka. It is a wonderful thing. Kaufman comes over as charming and hilarious while Freddie Blassie likewise is likeable but also very gruff and alpha male, the kind of grumpy old man that has seen and done everything without becoming cynical about the world. Based somewhat on My Dinner With Andre (a movie that completely fascinated me when I discovered it in the Harlesden house) the conversation flows as an interesting rate and when there is interaction between them two and an adjacent table you begin to wonder how much of it is kayfabe and staged. It is funny watching the pair of them turn from charming to what appears to be them revealing their real uninhibited selves. It is relieving however to discover that the guy at the end is actually Bob Zmuda.
Not long afterwards I head to Sainsburys to collect the Saturday newspapers in a change from Asda. It’s nothing really to write about.
With the day still early I put on the final episode of the Lost Room which I have had sitting on my computer for about a year to watch. It fails to hold my attention and my mind wanders as I fail to take it in even though Margaret Cho looks stunning whenever she appears in her scenes.
Briefly around midday I find myself on MSN chatting to Iain about Twitter and why his Facebook status says that he has been officially convicted in the eyes of the law. It turns out to be speeding related. It’s a funny coincidence that we are chatting at this time because I was just on his fantastic View From The Shelf blog yesterday which features a lot of coverage of the MLS and I get to tell him about the little obsession I used to have when I was younger with American soccer and the NASL and MISL.
I continue to wrestle with the concept of writing but it feels stunted and forced, very laboured and not flowing. When the postman calls he drops off the Easter booty in ordered with view to stunting boredom. Amongst the DVDs that arrive are the second Grindhouse trailers compilation, the Born Into This Charles Bukowski documentary and BAADASSSSS!
In the afternoon bored I wind up watching the Grindhouse trailers DVD but there is a distinct lack of energy on this release and I don’t have the enthusiasm for it that I had for the first compilation, to the point I find myself falling asleep. I know they are not meant to be anything but, but these really are cheap and nasty.
Back at my desk I continue to attempt to write only managing to scrape out a burst of words here and there. On TV I find my attention twitched by Finding Nemo followed by Doctor Who – this really is not healthy.
The ultimate slap to my psyche occurs when I find myself actually gawping at Britain’s Got Talent. No it has not got talent.
Eventually I throw the towel in on a very unproductive day as Little Miss Sunshine pops up on Channel Four. I will always remember this movie fondly for when I saw it one Monday evening at the Curzon in Soho and the collective audience response was the greatest sense of unity I have ever felt from a cinema audience. That ending really does come from left field. Little Miss Sunshine also represents the first time I saw a glimmer of personality in Zoe when she lent the movie on DVD to the chav girl at Baker Street and I was excited by her apparent good taste.
Saturday then has closure.
Friday, 10 April 2009
Friday 10 April 2009
Good Friday? Great Friday!
Man alive, what a gift! I will happily subscribe to any religion that offers a four day weekend.
Unfortunately the reality is less so rosy as I awaken at 5.25AM (on a holiday!) with a splitting aneurysm headache. I cannot possibly curse my luck any more than I do at the fucking disaster of feeling shitty on my first (week) day off work in a very long time. No wonder I am a hateful person at times if this is how the world treats me (not to be hyperbolic or anything).
This migraine is probably the result of me getting so steamed up and angry last night about the person parking in my spot last night. I acknowledge it is ridiculous to get so irritated by something so miniscule in the grand scheme of things but it is just how the world works and now if it has served to make me feel physically bad this morning the urge to take a baseball bat to the car is more frequent than ever.
A quick peak out of my window displays that the car is still in my (MY) bay! I notice the car has a tow bar on it. For reason I read into this that the owner is a tough guy, an alpha male that has more kit (tools) than his bare boot can handle. He is tooled up and ready to go and as a result could/would probably kick my arse if challenged. Yes, this is how (the direction) my brain works.
A peak on Facebook at my last night’s angry status update sees Mark (Scorpio Scorpio) confirming my ridiculous angry as he rings in agreement with me. This at least helps me see humour in the situation and cheers me up as I begin to dust off the number of the clamping company in subtle urge to dob.
With my silly strop not really serving to sooth my head I once more attempt to finish off watching last weekend’s Saturday Night Live hosted by Seth Rogen. Seth Rogen is really likeable but just looks so wrong with his weight loss. That said the show is another stormer from season 34, not least with Fred Armisen as ever stealing the show playing every minority under the sun including a great turn as an Italian TV show worker referring to Seth Rogen fearfully as the “Bear Man.”
The music on this week’s show is by Phoenix. I have no idea where they came from and they are such a strange band reminiscent of an early very light new wave band such as The Cars combined with some faux indie-lite act. It should be the worst of both worlds but they are likeable even if the only song they appear to have ever had was the one on the Lost In Translation soundtrack which they play over the closing credits.
For GMTV news this morning it is business as usual despite it being Good Friday. The headlines today are still addressing the capture of suspected terrorists in Manchester apparently planning on bombing various structures in Manchester. Today it turns out that the majority of them are over on student visas and when I joke on Facebook “bloody students trying to bomb buildings – must be rag week” I do not clock how this joke works on many levels. Genius without knowing it.
With the morning beginning to burn away once again I look out the window to the sight of the car with the tow bar still annoyingly parked in my spot. In the air I shake my fist at nothing before resuming TV.
Back in bed I watch this week’s edition of Newswipe on iPlayer. This episode features Fox News and Glenn Beck which is terrifying and as Charlie Brooker correctly points out not too far removed from Howard Beale in Network. What is it with people named Glenn? Only in America. Stupid Americans.
From here I watch the second episode of Attention Scum and it slays yet again, Simon Munnery is the fucking man! Despite this though my headache remains.
Even though today is Good Friday a very religious and sacred day ITV still persists in screening the Jeremy Kyle Show. Surely this is some kind of blasphemy and sacrilege. Baby Jesus weeps on the way to resurrection as subjects such as “accept it’s your fault we’re over and let me see our son!” and “is my cousin really my sister?” appear on screen. Surely instead of all this negativity all that these people need are chocolate eggs and a hug.
With the sun coming and nothing to do I watch V For Vendetta for the first time since that weird May day after Justin and Helen’s wedding when I was staying in Harlesden and experienced some kind of weird meltdown in the process. It turns out as good as I remember. I guess watching it is a subliminal reaction to all the Alan Moore and Watchmen coverage of the moment. This has also seen me purchase the Watchmen graphic novel I am unlikely to ever read and also listening to the fantastic Tank Riot Nietzsche and Watchmen episode.
Afterwards I finally begin writing, albeit stunted by the headache, and actually manage to finish off Chapter 11 of Gestures which is a real relief and something of a success with my recent bouts of writers block.
Alas the momentum does not persist and I find my mind and eyes wandering to watching The Greatest Story Ever Told. This is a pretty great story. Max Von Sydow has to be one of the greatest Jesuses with The Exorcist, Seventh Seal and Escape To Victory under his belt – Jesus has range. And when Kojak pops up and sentences him to death there is not a lollipop in sight. It is the small touches that make these movies realistic.
That said the ending comes as something of a shock to me. For some reason I have always thought the Jesus resurrection entailed him coming back to life and telling everyone what clueless wankers his crucifiers were. Instead it would appear the reality of the piece is that it actually closely resembles the Gram Parsons story when I think in earnest I was hoping for Weekend At Bernie’s. On Good Friday afternoon suddenly I find myself genuinely confused.
With such blasphemy playing on my mind it is probably the powers that be that cause my left arm to begin to ache so much. As a result of this I find it difficult (impossible) to write any further and instead for some reason I find myself gawping at the TV at Shall We Dance starring J’Lo but really I am probably mainly staring at her arse. No stork however, go figure.
Eventually the day heads towards the evening and with it my plans head to fruition – watch Simpsons at 6PM and see from there. While I do this I prepare dinner and Chris texts inviting me to dinner at his parents’ gaff where they have salmon aplenty by the sounds. That would have been good.
I leave at 7.30 heading over to meet up. As I exit my apartment dump some rubbish in the bin store and see a TV in there. The set is larger than my own at home and for a few moments I wonder if it is any good. Luckily I grow out of such thoughts as I am met by the Scottish woman that lives downstairs who says she heard me sounding my horn at the parked car last night. Suddenly I feel perfect, being in a much more relaxed this evening. She tells me I was justified and we shrug/laugh it off. I am finding myself locked in conversation with this woman a lot lately – eight years living at this address and finally there is a hint of community.
When I finally get to Stanway the salmon is as amazing as I had imagined it would, it fucking giant. I am once more offered a taste but by this point I am stuffed. As I arrive I am greeted with a firm handshake from Chris’ dad, it all being very adult in the process. Me and parents – I know how to work the room.
Tonight in Colchester it is the usual fare of not a whole lot to do and not a whole lot of people to do it with but at the Arts Centre there is at least a gig. The gig is some guy called MC Lars and before heading out we check it out and weigh him up. It is difficult to work out if the guy is taking the piss.
Undaunted we head into town and tonight it feels fairly dead. On the way I pop into the olds’ place to show Chris our new(ish) dog Bobby. All things appear well in the homestead on this fine Easter day and dad happily begins showing us a “funny” Youtube link about Obama’s mum that was sent to him by their old South African neighbour that was racist. I cringe as he begins to run the clip knowing what a bunch of soft lefty shits my music buddies/acquaintances are. The clip begins bad enough, something about “Miss Anna” but when I see it lasts ten minutes I quickly laugh it off and push Chris out the place, hoping that I haven’t hurt my old man’s feelings in the process.
The first place we head to (after hitting a cash machine) is the Hogshead. Really, for a Friday night bank holiday town is eerily quiet. Is this the credit crunch crushing Colchester’s social activities?
I always cringe when I go out in Colchester these days, fearful of seeing one too many people from my past, especially people related to my career dip on Butt Road. I remember a few years ago on this night bumping into a guy called Dick that I used to play against with the old firm. Luckily he had no concept/idea of how/why I was shitcanned.
At the Hogshead I recognise nobody and this I have mixed feelings about. Obviously the louder people are the more intimidating and as we sit outside I look over at the bench where I saw that guy have a pint glass thrown in his face that time. I tell a lie though, I do recognise one person, her being the lady my ex Gringo Records cohort used to obsess about and also the person I once really upset by calling her a “prick tease”, which to be honest was a fair comment but perhaps not fired at the best of times. It ruined the evening for all (kind of). Last year after befriending me on Facebook she promptly and viciously defriended me giving birth to all kinds of concepts and scenarios as to why. These things happen.
Chris and I sit outside in the beer garden on our own and it is chilly. Its now overwhelming but just about enough to render the occasion uncomfortable. Despite this though conversation flows and it begins to work out. What was originally feeling like a laboured/forced night out suddenly turns fun. Conversation is fairly work heavy, we both sound busy at work and interested in our endeavours if not passionate.
After one drink we decide to move, heading to the Hole. On the way we pass the Arts Centre and get a listen of MC Lars. It sounds bad and our decision to avoid seems good.
The Hole is disheartening, the same old tramps that have been there for ten years. We both recognise faces but no names and no one we want to talk to. We get a seat easy and that is the best of it. Here I notice the Asian goth lady that one of my ex-work colleagues has told me how he has been lead on by her. This reminds me how he had suggested we go for drinks tonight a few weeks ago and I had not bothered to reply because it was the last thing I wanted to do this weekend and yet now I find myself in that position anyway. As the Asian and her other half sit at the table next to us I say “hello” to the guy because once about six/seven years ago I had a conversation with him via the ex-work colleague. The guy probably wonders who the fuck I am.
As the only other person we recognise here is a tubby woman that Tom once spread a rumour about having the clap we decide to move on.
We head to the Hospital Arms where we hope things are quiet and indeed they are. Conversation re-engages here after the Hole had kind of stunned us into depression and as things pick up Chris tells me how earlier this year his girlfriend’s dad died and bored of her one week later he ditched her. Told in such a brief/curt manner this is quite frankly one of the worst most callous things I have ever heard in my life. Par for the course though.
The night ends on a relatively high note, conversation even manages to drift onto the current state of my old Gringo Records cohort (he ain’t flying).
As we leave the Hospital Arms I bump into a very drunk Greeny and finally for the first time in the evening we see someone cool. He is flying and heading towards midnight on Good Friday he and I find ourselves discussing accountancy issues – perhaps not the most healthy of topics.
Eventually the night closes with me dropping Chris off at Stanway and something of our relationship has been regained/saved. Since he has moved to Nottingham, like everyone else there, I have drifted away from some very close and important friends from my past – Gringo Records is now most definitely a previous life for me now. So to touch base with someone from that era is a very important and healthy thing.
When I get in TV is dead.
Good Friday? Great Friday!
Man alive, what a gift! I will happily subscribe to any religion that offers a four day weekend.
Unfortunately the reality is less so rosy as I awaken at 5.25AM (on a holiday!) with a splitting aneurysm headache. I cannot possibly curse my luck any more than I do at the fucking disaster of feeling shitty on my first (week) day off work in a very long time. No wonder I am a hateful person at times if this is how the world treats me (not to be hyperbolic or anything).
This migraine is probably the result of me getting so steamed up and angry last night about the person parking in my spot last night. I acknowledge it is ridiculous to get so irritated by something so miniscule in the grand scheme of things but it is just how the world works and now if it has served to make me feel physically bad this morning the urge to take a baseball bat to the car is more frequent than ever.
A quick peak out of my window displays that the car is still in my (MY) bay! I notice the car has a tow bar on it. For reason I read into this that the owner is a tough guy, an alpha male that has more kit (tools) than his bare boot can handle. He is tooled up and ready to go and as a result could/would probably kick my arse if challenged. Yes, this is how (the direction) my brain works.
A peak on Facebook at my last night’s angry status update sees Mark (Scorpio Scorpio) confirming my ridiculous angry as he rings in agreement with me. This at least helps me see humour in the situation and cheers me up as I begin to dust off the number of the clamping company in subtle urge to dob.
With my silly strop not really serving to sooth my head I once more attempt to finish off watching last weekend’s Saturday Night Live hosted by Seth Rogen. Seth Rogen is really likeable but just looks so wrong with his weight loss. That said the show is another stormer from season 34, not least with Fred Armisen as ever stealing the show playing every minority under the sun including a great turn as an Italian TV show worker referring to Seth Rogen fearfully as the “Bear Man.”
The music on this week’s show is by Phoenix. I have no idea where they came from and they are such a strange band reminiscent of an early very light new wave band such as The Cars combined with some faux indie-lite act. It should be the worst of both worlds but they are likeable even if the only song they appear to have ever had was the one on the Lost In Translation soundtrack which they play over the closing credits.
For GMTV news this morning it is business as usual despite it being Good Friday. The headlines today are still addressing the capture of suspected terrorists in Manchester apparently planning on bombing various structures in Manchester. Today it turns out that the majority of them are over on student visas and when I joke on Facebook “bloody students trying to bomb buildings – must be rag week” I do not clock how this joke works on many levels. Genius without knowing it.
With the morning beginning to burn away once again I look out the window to the sight of the car with the tow bar still annoyingly parked in my spot. In the air I shake my fist at nothing before resuming TV.
Back in bed I watch this week’s edition of Newswipe on iPlayer. This episode features Fox News and Glenn Beck which is terrifying and as Charlie Brooker correctly points out not too far removed from Howard Beale in Network. What is it with people named Glenn? Only in America. Stupid Americans.
From here I watch the second episode of Attention Scum and it slays yet again, Simon Munnery is the fucking man! Despite this though my headache remains.
Even though today is Good Friday a very religious and sacred day ITV still persists in screening the Jeremy Kyle Show. Surely this is some kind of blasphemy and sacrilege. Baby Jesus weeps on the way to resurrection as subjects such as “accept it’s your fault we’re over and let me see our son!” and “is my cousin really my sister?” appear on screen. Surely instead of all this negativity all that these people need are chocolate eggs and a hug.
With the sun coming and nothing to do I watch V For Vendetta for the first time since that weird May day after Justin and Helen’s wedding when I was staying in Harlesden and experienced some kind of weird meltdown in the process. It turns out as good as I remember. I guess watching it is a subliminal reaction to all the Alan Moore and Watchmen coverage of the moment. This has also seen me purchase the Watchmen graphic novel I am unlikely to ever read and also listening to the fantastic Tank Riot Nietzsche and Watchmen episode.
Afterwards I finally begin writing, albeit stunted by the headache, and actually manage to finish off Chapter 11 of Gestures which is a real relief and something of a success with my recent bouts of writers block.
Alas the momentum does not persist and I find my mind and eyes wandering to watching The Greatest Story Ever Told. This is a pretty great story. Max Von Sydow has to be one of the greatest Jesuses with The Exorcist, Seventh Seal and Escape To Victory under his belt – Jesus has range. And when Kojak pops up and sentences him to death there is not a lollipop in sight. It is the small touches that make these movies realistic.
That said the ending comes as something of a shock to me. For some reason I have always thought the Jesus resurrection entailed him coming back to life and telling everyone what clueless wankers his crucifiers were. Instead it would appear the reality of the piece is that it actually closely resembles the Gram Parsons story when I think in earnest I was hoping for Weekend At Bernie’s. On Good Friday afternoon suddenly I find myself genuinely confused.
With such blasphemy playing on my mind it is probably the powers that be that cause my left arm to begin to ache so much. As a result of this I find it difficult (impossible) to write any further and instead for some reason I find myself gawping at the TV at Shall We Dance starring J’Lo but really I am probably mainly staring at her arse. No stork however, go figure.
Eventually the day heads towards the evening and with it my plans head to fruition – watch Simpsons at 6PM and see from there. While I do this I prepare dinner and Chris texts inviting me to dinner at his parents’ gaff where they have salmon aplenty by the sounds. That would have been good.
I leave at 7.30 heading over to meet up. As I exit my apartment dump some rubbish in the bin store and see a TV in there. The set is larger than my own at home and for a few moments I wonder if it is any good. Luckily I grow out of such thoughts as I am met by the Scottish woman that lives downstairs who says she heard me sounding my horn at the parked car last night. Suddenly I feel perfect, being in a much more relaxed this evening. She tells me I was justified and we shrug/laugh it off. I am finding myself locked in conversation with this woman a lot lately – eight years living at this address and finally there is a hint of community.
When I finally get to Stanway the salmon is as amazing as I had imagined it would, it fucking giant. I am once more offered a taste but by this point I am stuffed. As I arrive I am greeted with a firm handshake from Chris’ dad, it all being very adult in the process. Me and parents – I know how to work the room.
Tonight in Colchester it is the usual fare of not a whole lot to do and not a whole lot of people to do it with but at the Arts Centre there is at least a gig. The gig is some guy called MC Lars and before heading out we check it out and weigh him up. It is difficult to work out if the guy is taking the piss.
Undaunted we head into town and tonight it feels fairly dead. On the way I pop into the olds’ place to show Chris our new(ish) dog Bobby. All things appear well in the homestead on this fine Easter day and dad happily begins showing us a “funny” Youtube link about Obama’s mum that was sent to him by their old South African neighbour that was racist. I cringe as he begins to run the clip knowing what a bunch of soft lefty shits my music buddies/acquaintances are. The clip begins bad enough, something about “Miss Anna” but when I see it lasts ten minutes I quickly laugh it off and push Chris out the place, hoping that I haven’t hurt my old man’s feelings in the process.
The first place we head to (after hitting a cash machine) is the Hogshead. Really, for a Friday night bank holiday town is eerily quiet. Is this the credit crunch crushing Colchester’s social activities?
I always cringe when I go out in Colchester these days, fearful of seeing one too many people from my past, especially people related to my career dip on Butt Road. I remember a few years ago on this night bumping into a guy called Dick that I used to play against with the old firm. Luckily he had no concept/idea of how/why I was shitcanned.
At the Hogshead I recognise nobody and this I have mixed feelings about. Obviously the louder people are the more intimidating and as we sit outside I look over at the bench where I saw that guy have a pint glass thrown in his face that time. I tell a lie though, I do recognise one person, her being the lady my ex Gringo Records cohort used to obsess about and also the person I once really upset by calling her a “prick tease”, which to be honest was a fair comment but perhaps not fired at the best of times. It ruined the evening for all (kind of). Last year after befriending me on Facebook she promptly and viciously defriended me giving birth to all kinds of concepts and scenarios as to why. These things happen.
Chris and I sit outside in the beer garden on our own and it is chilly. Its now overwhelming but just about enough to render the occasion uncomfortable. Despite this though conversation flows and it begins to work out. What was originally feeling like a laboured/forced night out suddenly turns fun. Conversation is fairly work heavy, we both sound busy at work and interested in our endeavours if not passionate.
After one drink we decide to move, heading to the Hole. On the way we pass the Arts Centre and get a listen of MC Lars. It sounds bad and our decision to avoid seems good.
The Hole is disheartening, the same old tramps that have been there for ten years. We both recognise faces but no names and no one we want to talk to. We get a seat easy and that is the best of it. Here I notice the Asian goth lady that one of my ex-work colleagues has told me how he has been lead on by her. This reminds me how he had suggested we go for drinks tonight a few weeks ago and I had not bothered to reply because it was the last thing I wanted to do this weekend and yet now I find myself in that position anyway. As the Asian and her other half sit at the table next to us I say “hello” to the guy because once about six/seven years ago I had a conversation with him via the ex-work colleague. The guy probably wonders who the fuck I am.
As the only other person we recognise here is a tubby woman that Tom once spread a rumour about having the clap we decide to move on.
We head to the Hospital Arms where we hope things are quiet and indeed they are. Conversation re-engages here after the Hole had kind of stunned us into depression and as things pick up Chris tells me how earlier this year his girlfriend’s dad died and bored of her one week later he ditched her. Told in such a brief/curt manner this is quite frankly one of the worst most callous things I have ever heard in my life. Par for the course though.
The night ends on a relatively high note, conversation even manages to drift onto the current state of my old Gringo Records cohort (he ain’t flying).
As we leave the Hospital Arms I bump into a very drunk Greeny and finally for the first time in the evening we see someone cool. He is flying and heading towards midnight on Good Friday he and I find ourselves discussing accountancy issues – perhaps not the most healthy of topics.
Eventually the night closes with me dropping Chris off at Stanway and something of our relationship has been regained/saved. Since he has moved to Nottingham, like everyone else there, I have drifted away from some very close and important friends from my past – Gringo Records is now most definitely a previous life for me now. So to touch base with someone from that era is a very important and healthy thing.
When I get in TV is dead.
Thursday, 9 April 2009
Thursday 9 April 2009
This morning I awake and emerge to two sad texts from Nina last night. She really wanted to chat and she tells me how much she needed a friend and sadly I was not there for her and in essence I let her down.
Beyond this the train is pleasantly bare this morning, it would appear that many people have started Easter early. In my seat I manage to stretch my arms, at least for a stop or two.
At Witham the journey picks/livens up as a real life version of Booji Boy gets on the train. This is as hilarious as it is terrifying. I feel inclined to warn everybody else on the train. Fortunately I do this using the method of blinking so as not to cause/raise too much suspicion.
Off the train and onto the tube at Kings Cross station a geek version of Stringer Bell gets on the carriage. This version of Stringer Bell is one dressed like Alan Partridge – a strange combination I am sure he would even agree. Somehow though he more or less pulls off the look and it makes me wonder/consider if this is an indication of how Stringer Bell’s style has influenced the black male (blackmail) community.
Currently I appear to be getting a lot of slight smiles on the trains/tubes. To be honest I am not really quite sure how to take and react to these. Am I missing out on opportunity? More likely I suspect it is due to my current appearance being rather comical although I am not sure how or where it has changed. Confusion.
Today the streets smell of perfume. Not the smell of modern scent that echo chocolate and confectionary but the real whore stuff I was raised on as a child, the cheap stuff worn by all the mothers of my friends at school. The odour sends me thinking back to my youth as I briefly reminisce the freedom and optimism of those times in addition to the yummy mummies. The feeling soon deflates however as soon as the smell arrives it departs revealing itself to having been the retro scent choice/option of just one bold lady either striking out with a new hygiene decision or just being too poor (or cheap) to keep up with trends and times. The feeling was nice while it lasted.
The office girl doesn’t bother to turn up today, she has tooth ache. Likewise my boss texted me last night to say he wouldn’t be in until 10AM today but just after 9AM he then phones the office to tell me he won’t be in until 11AM now. To his credit by the time I arrived he had been and gone but this does leave me having to deal with the auditors.
The overriding feeling towards today is that we are already in Easter mode, already in a mindspace that sees us on holiday prematurely.
At lunchtime I head down to collect our food and notice a gorgeous Japanese customer with blonde hair. I am immediately smit as her sour face displays no change in demeanour and paints her as one cool customer. I then realise the real attraction to me of her is that she appears to look exactly like the lady in the Deeper Underground porn I downloaded last year. I point this out to the girl on the bar but it doesn’t really resonate with her having not seen the filthy movie.
In the afternoon my boss and I head over to our company storage units in Paddington. Luckily we soon find what we are looking for against what I was expecting was going to be a lengthy and frustrating task. It was a year ago today that I and the nutty bloke put all these boxes in here.
As we head back to the restaurant we drive through Paddington and it is a disheartening and grim sight as every other shop appears to contain Islamic writing on the signs above. Despite being within a stones throw of some very expensive properties owned by rich people these shops just make the area look piss poor and run down.
When we take a slight short cut through Maida Vale we wind up on Hamilton Terrace driving past the house of my old boss the producer. I remember driving here a couple of times back in the day.
Late in the afternoon I receive a text from the girl who has taken today off ill asking if I will send out some stuff for her. Its not as if I’m not busy doing a ton of my own stuff already. Cheeky cow.
As everyone else heads off to begin Easter early I find myself having to work right up to the wire assisting the auditors with their various queries and sample selections. It is tedious and having been on their side of the fence doing audits myself in the past I realise how tedious it is for them also.
By the time 5.30 and home time arrives it comes with a huge sigh of relief.
The train ride home is spent sat opposite an uppity lady with a passing resemblance to Samantha Janus. In a sarky mood I wonder just how cool it would be to burst her ego bubble and ask her “when is it due?” because she plainly has something of a pot belly dying to get out.
Back in Colchester I find myself elated and relieved to be back home on course for a four day weekend, a true break. As I stride along the platform I feel a poke in the ribs and it is that Mark guy that used to work in the building next to ours on Butt Road, the guy with the ego bigger than the office block from where he came from. In a good mood however I say “hi, how are you?” able to deal with him. He makes some comment about being “still in work then” as if to question my competence and suggest incompetence. Perhaps he didn’t mean it this way but everything he ever has said has always come with such a potential for sarcasm. Hey, he looks like a white Rio Ferdinand of course people (females) are going to tell him he is a gift from god (to some degree). Still, I’m in a fantastic mood and tonight he cannot ruin it. He tells me he is about to move away, closer to London. Oh, that’ll be a shame, to never see you on the train ever again being sarcastic and prick like. And soon we are parted.
On the way home I briefly pop into the olds to see them and the dog before heading straight to Asda to do my weekend shop early in order to beat a potential Easter rush. I don’t know, grocery shopping on a Thursday night takes me out of my comfort zone and I don’t like it.
When I finally get home to my flat I am in a pretty grumpy mood and when there is somebody parked in my allocated space I kick off sounding my horn three times loudly as if this is going to spring the owner into action. I notice a window twitch as my neighbour downstairs clocks me and as I honk for a third time I begin to notice other people looking out of their windows weary at me. If I am going to be angry and pissed off then everybody should be angry and pissed off. To say the least I am grumpy tonight, perhaps the Mark dude did have his desired affect on me after all.
Eventually I park up in a visitors space and stomp upstairs into my flat slamming our communal door behind me in the process generally acting like a spoilt child.
Welcome to the weekend.
This morning I awake and emerge to two sad texts from Nina last night. She really wanted to chat and she tells me how much she needed a friend and sadly I was not there for her and in essence I let her down.
Beyond this the train is pleasantly bare this morning, it would appear that many people have started Easter early. In my seat I manage to stretch my arms, at least for a stop or two.
At Witham the journey picks/livens up as a real life version of Booji Boy gets on the train. This is as hilarious as it is terrifying. I feel inclined to warn everybody else on the train. Fortunately I do this using the method of blinking so as not to cause/raise too much suspicion.
Off the train and onto the tube at Kings Cross station a geek version of Stringer Bell gets on the carriage. This version of Stringer Bell is one dressed like Alan Partridge – a strange combination I am sure he would even agree. Somehow though he more or less pulls off the look and it makes me wonder/consider if this is an indication of how Stringer Bell’s style has influenced the black male (blackmail) community.
Currently I appear to be getting a lot of slight smiles on the trains/tubes. To be honest I am not really quite sure how to take and react to these. Am I missing out on opportunity? More likely I suspect it is due to my current appearance being rather comical although I am not sure how or where it has changed. Confusion.
Today the streets smell of perfume. Not the smell of modern scent that echo chocolate and confectionary but the real whore stuff I was raised on as a child, the cheap stuff worn by all the mothers of my friends at school. The odour sends me thinking back to my youth as I briefly reminisce the freedom and optimism of those times in addition to the yummy mummies. The feeling soon deflates however as soon as the smell arrives it departs revealing itself to having been the retro scent choice/option of just one bold lady either striking out with a new hygiene decision or just being too poor (or cheap) to keep up with trends and times. The feeling was nice while it lasted.
The office girl doesn’t bother to turn up today, she has tooth ache. Likewise my boss texted me last night to say he wouldn’t be in until 10AM today but just after 9AM he then phones the office to tell me he won’t be in until 11AM now. To his credit by the time I arrived he had been and gone but this does leave me having to deal with the auditors.
The overriding feeling towards today is that we are already in Easter mode, already in a mindspace that sees us on holiday prematurely.
At lunchtime I head down to collect our food and notice a gorgeous Japanese customer with blonde hair. I am immediately smit as her sour face displays no change in demeanour and paints her as one cool customer. I then realise the real attraction to me of her is that she appears to look exactly like the lady in the Deeper Underground porn I downloaded last year. I point this out to the girl on the bar but it doesn’t really resonate with her having not seen the filthy movie.
In the afternoon my boss and I head over to our company storage units in Paddington. Luckily we soon find what we are looking for against what I was expecting was going to be a lengthy and frustrating task. It was a year ago today that I and the nutty bloke put all these boxes in here.
As we head back to the restaurant we drive through Paddington and it is a disheartening and grim sight as every other shop appears to contain Islamic writing on the signs above. Despite being within a stones throw of some very expensive properties owned by rich people these shops just make the area look piss poor and run down.
When we take a slight short cut through Maida Vale we wind up on Hamilton Terrace driving past the house of my old boss the producer. I remember driving here a couple of times back in the day.
Late in the afternoon I receive a text from the girl who has taken today off ill asking if I will send out some stuff for her. Its not as if I’m not busy doing a ton of my own stuff already. Cheeky cow.
As everyone else heads off to begin Easter early I find myself having to work right up to the wire assisting the auditors with their various queries and sample selections. It is tedious and having been on their side of the fence doing audits myself in the past I realise how tedious it is for them also.
By the time 5.30 and home time arrives it comes with a huge sigh of relief.
The train ride home is spent sat opposite an uppity lady with a passing resemblance to Samantha Janus. In a sarky mood I wonder just how cool it would be to burst her ego bubble and ask her “when is it due?” because she plainly has something of a pot belly dying to get out.
Back in Colchester I find myself elated and relieved to be back home on course for a four day weekend, a true break. As I stride along the platform I feel a poke in the ribs and it is that Mark guy that used to work in the building next to ours on Butt Road, the guy with the ego bigger than the office block from where he came from. In a good mood however I say “hi, how are you?” able to deal with him. He makes some comment about being “still in work then” as if to question my competence and suggest incompetence. Perhaps he didn’t mean it this way but everything he ever has said has always come with such a potential for sarcasm. Hey, he looks like a white Rio Ferdinand of course people (females) are going to tell him he is a gift from god (to some degree). Still, I’m in a fantastic mood and tonight he cannot ruin it. He tells me he is about to move away, closer to London. Oh, that’ll be a shame, to never see you on the train ever again being sarcastic and prick like. And soon we are parted.
On the way home I briefly pop into the olds to see them and the dog before heading straight to Asda to do my weekend shop early in order to beat a potential Easter rush. I don’t know, grocery shopping on a Thursday night takes me out of my comfort zone and I don’t like it.
When I finally get home to my flat I am in a pretty grumpy mood and when there is somebody parked in my allocated space I kick off sounding my horn three times loudly as if this is going to spring the owner into action. I notice a window twitch as my neighbour downstairs clocks me and as I honk for a third time I begin to notice other people looking out of their windows weary at me. If I am going to be angry and pissed off then everybody should be angry and pissed off. To say the least I am grumpy tonight, perhaps the Mark dude did have his desired affect on me after all.
Eventually I park up in a visitors space and stomp upstairs into my flat slamming our communal door behind me in the process generally acting like a spoilt child.
Welcome to the weekend.
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
Wednesday 8 April 2009
I awaken thankfully without a hangover today. Slowly I arise and begin to study my flat fearing the potential wreckage from a drunken rampage upon returning home last night. I remember it being smattered in peanut butter but as to what else I did and accidentally bang/bumped into and knocked remains something of a concern and worry as I pull myself from my bed like a bear recovered from a sore head.
My place looks ransacked, as if burgled. I then realise that this is how it always looks and soon acknowledge that it is business as usual and thankfully last night I did no harm.
I look at my phone to discover two text messages from Nina last night. The second text embarrassingly states “Guess your (sic) too pissed to chat? X” Suddenly I begin to feel pathetic.
Leaving the house is late this morning and without my kickboxing kit which again wasn’t even a consideration. This week’s excuse? Erm, I want to be fit for the Easter weekend?
Another day another delay just outside Liverpool Street station. Outside the station our train just dies, stopping short of turning the lights off and acting as if they have forgotten that there are still commuters/passengers left on the train. The announcer pops (perks) up addressing the train informing us that the train is not actually booked into the platform until 8.04 but the time is already actually 8.05 and rising. The trains to Auschwitz probably ran on better time than this.
Eventually we pull in at 8.08.
This morning though I cannot help but smile as I pass the poster for In The Loop. James Gandolfini’s big Tony Soprano smile is a wonderful thing to behold.
Upon emerging from St Johns Wood this morning suddenly it has turned into a beautiful day and suddenly a peak of optimism raises its head.
The day pans out to be relatively nondescript but still busy.
Looking around the net I again find myself being wowed by Ayumi Hamasaki’s new stuff.
In the afternoon Szesze texts me for the first time in weeks but unfortunately she doesn’t really offer much to work with. I respond with enthusiasm and friendliness but when her reply is too businesslike I can’t even be bothered to reply to the second message. What is it with the women I meet and their lack energy and integrity?
Again I find myself ending up working a little late this evening and as a result of this by the time I finally get to Liverpool Street not for the first time I find myself running for my train but I still get it.
As I stumble onto the train being late I only manage to snag a seat that faces the direction in which the train is going (this example being pointed towards Essex rather than London). OCD kicks in. Usually I grab a seat on the aisle aimed going backwards so that I see all the oncoming/approaching passengers so that I can a) avoid and duck their elbows and handbags as they pass and b) perv on the hot women boarding the train.
Then the seating jinx kicks in as……
Some stinky Irish guy decides he wants to sit next to me. As I look over to avoid his glance I notice opposite me to my left is an extreme pizza faced individual (adult). What the fuck is going on with his boat? It soon occurs to me that this is one shot to bits train.
Back to my right the Irish guy sits at the table with his head held in his hands. When he asks me if the train stops at Colchester (he fucking knows it does) it becomes obvious that he wants to talk. In reply I just nod curtly as I return to watching In Treatment on my iPhone. Unfortunately for the woman sat opposite us on the table she is less rude and with less scope to escape his attention and as a result she gets trapped into conversation with him (a lady far too polite for her own good).
Before the train gets to Colchester the Mick apologies to the lady, gets up and leaves while I am trying to watch a very emotional funeral episode of In Treatment. The fucker. After he leaves the woman and her colleague (boss) laugh the guy off and in a gesture of feeling superior.
In the end I wind up at the olds watching Liverpool v Chelsea in the Champions League. It is a real shock when Chelsea take apart the very in form and usually on song current Liverpool team. As the match pushes on I find myself cheering on Chelsea goals going in, something I never ever expected I would ever find myself doing. The 3-1 score does ultimately feel somewhat misleading. Bye bye Victimpool.
Late in the game the old man tells me how a parking ticket was slapped on my car today due to him moving the parking permit from my windscreen. They try to wind me up for a few minutes before telling me that dad got it squashed. They think they’re fucking funny.
When I finally get home logging onto Facebook it is spewing out more and more dickheads in the “people you might know” section. Yeah, they may also be people I might hate too.
Once home for another week running I find myself watching only The Apprentice You’re Fired show and not the actual episode. This week Majid gets shitcanned which I am unsympathetically very happy about because his beard just fucking annoyed me.
I awaken thankfully without a hangover today. Slowly I arise and begin to study my flat fearing the potential wreckage from a drunken rampage upon returning home last night. I remember it being smattered in peanut butter but as to what else I did and accidentally bang/bumped into and knocked remains something of a concern and worry as I pull myself from my bed like a bear recovered from a sore head.
My place looks ransacked, as if burgled. I then realise that this is how it always looks and soon acknowledge that it is business as usual and thankfully last night I did no harm.
I look at my phone to discover two text messages from Nina last night. The second text embarrassingly states “Guess your (sic) too pissed to chat? X” Suddenly I begin to feel pathetic.
Leaving the house is late this morning and without my kickboxing kit which again wasn’t even a consideration. This week’s excuse? Erm, I want to be fit for the Easter weekend?
Another day another delay just outside Liverpool Street station. Outside the station our train just dies, stopping short of turning the lights off and acting as if they have forgotten that there are still commuters/passengers left on the train. The announcer pops (perks) up addressing the train informing us that the train is not actually booked into the platform until 8.04 but the time is already actually 8.05 and rising. The trains to Auschwitz probably ran on better time than this.
Eventually we pull in at 8.08.
This morning though I cannot help but smile as I pass the poster for In The Loop. James Gandolfini’s big Tony Soprano smile is a wonderful thing to behold.
Upon emerging from St Johns Wood this morning suddenly it has turned into a beautiful day and suddenly a peak of optimism raises its head.
The day pans out to be relatively nondescript but still busy.
Looking around the net I again find myself being wowed by Ayumi Hamasaki’s new stuff.
In the afternoon Szesze texts me for the first time in weeks but unfortunately she doesn’t really offer much to work with. I respond with enthusiasm and friendliness but when her reply is too businesslike I can’t even be bothered to reply to the second message. What is it with the women I meet and their lack energy and integrity?
Again I find myself ending up working a little late this evening and as a result of this by the time I finally get to Liverpool Street not for the first time I find myself running for my train but I still get it.
As I stumble onto the train being late I only manage to snag a seat that faces the direction in which the train is going (this example being pointed towards Essex rather than London). OCD kicks in. Usually I grab a seat on the aisle aimed going backwards so that I see all the oncoming/approaching passengers so that I can a) avoid and duck their elbows and handbags as they pass and b) perv on the hot women boarding the train.
Then the seating jinx kicks in as……
Some stinky Irish guy decides he wants to sit next to me. As I look over to avoid his glance I notice opposite me to my left is an extreme pizza faced individual (adult). What the fuck is going on with his boat? It soon occurs to me that this is one shot to bits train.
Back to my right the Irish guy sits at the table with his head held in his hands. When he asks me if the train stops at Colchester (he fucking knows it does) it becomes obvious that he wants to talk. In reply I just nod curtly as I return to watching In Treatment on my iPhone. Unfortunately for the woman sat opposite us on the table she is less rude and with less scope to escape his attention and as a result she gets trapped into conversation with him (a lady far too polite for her own good).
Before the train gets to Colchester the Mick apologies to the lady, gets up and leaves while I am trying to watch a very emotional funeral episode of In Treatment. The fucker. After he leaves the woman and her colleague (boss) laugh the guy off and in a gesture of feeling superior.
In the end I wind up at the olds watching Liverpool v Chelsea in the Champions League. It is a real shock when Chelsea take apart the very in form and usually on song current Liverpool team. As the match pushes on I find myself cheering on Chelsea goals going in, something I never ever expected I would ever find myself doing. The 3-1 score does ultimately feel somewhat misleading. Bye bye Victimpool.
Late in the game the old man tells me how a parking ticket was slapped on my car today due to him moving the parking permit from my windscreen. They try to wind me up for a few minutes before telling me that dad got it squashed. They think they’re fucking funny.
When I finally get home logging onto Facebook it is spewing out more and more dickheads in the “people you might know” section. Yeah, they may also be people I might hate too.
Once home for another week running I find myself watching only The Apprentice You’re Fired show and not the actual episode. This week Majid gets shitcanned which I am unsympathetically very happy about because his beard just fucking annoyed me.
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