Friday 7 August 2009

The trains are on strike and now the post is on strike. What the fuck is happening to this country?

After a disturbed nights sleep I awaken with a headache and a bump. I cannot believe how warm and yet miserably dull it all still is. No wonder people are miserable.

As I walk past St Mary’s playground at Balkerne Heights this morning I see some lad in a plain white t-shirt staggering around disorientated looking as he is on heroin. He sits down and in a scene reminiscent of Whistle Down The Wind when he sees me he says “Jesus.” Does this mean I am now supposed/expected to hide him in a barn and sneak scraps of food out to him? I fucking despair/despise his existence and would happily like to punch and beat him at this time not least for being one of the elements that is making my parents’ lives misery at the moment. Instead however I just acknowledge him with “all right” and move on amidst his response of “fucking hell” as if I am going to indulge in concern. Yes, fucking hell indeed.

I get to the station at 6.50AM for some reason this morning – I guess this is me enthused and overcompensating in preparation to fight my corner on a strike filled train. I get on the train just before 6.55AM, a train that is leaving at 7.15AM. Here are 20 minutes of my life I am never getting back.

Reading Jonathan Ross’ Twitter I discover that John Hughes has died. This is real shame, Planes, Trains And Automobiles is as good as (mainstream) comedy gets.

Eventually 7.15AM comes around and the train pulls away. The train does not feel as busy/full today. And most definitely there are no mugging former classmates spilling Lucozade in front of me. Today is already better than yesterday.

At Kelvedon the woman with crazy hair from a few weeks ago decides to sit opposite me. She’s still dragging herself through a bush on a regular basis it would seem. I look at her thinking “what a fucking mess” and “who the fuck would fuck that.” Then she sneezes on me.

As the train reaches Witham there are still seats available on the train today. This is a seachange in the service.

Later I watch at Shenfield as a bloody-minded individual insists on bringing his kid in a pushchair on the now rammed/packed train. Were there pushchairs at Hillsborough? Well there are here today.

Despite there being hardly any fucking trains from National Express today somehow we again still fucking beach outside Liverpool Street. Now that is consistency in the face of such adversity and the polar opposite of efficiency in action.

Things pick up slightly as I snag an abandoned copy of The Sun and on the cover is the sketch of the McCann’s latest Posh Spice lookalike suspect. The picture actually looks more like Alice Nutter from Chumbawamba, an altogether more likely suspect in proceedings (if John Prescott might be believed).

I know I said it yesterday but today the timing of the RMT and National Express strike spookily coincides with the release of Ronnie Biggs. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

As I step through St Johns Wood station a notice confirms for me that the Jubilee Line will indeed be out this weekend.

Despite the train strike today I get into work comfortably and to the sight of all the bosses already in meeting. I wave “morning” to which they all joyfully respond.

Once in I immediately tear into work knowing that I have a major work schedule ahead of me.

Eventually when the subject of working Saturday comes up I point out how pointless it is and how it is only required because the consultant has dropped the ball. Things get a bit tense but the outcome remains me being persuaded to get dragged in tomorrow. Promptly I put on a sulk and a strop. How old am I again?

Fortunately it is not a (too) destructive sulk as I proceed to put my head right down and power through work. An atmosphere exists but it doesn’t matter as I find myself in the zone and not interested in anything else.

Originally I had intended to have just soup for lunch today (health reasons) but The Girl suggests that I have a chicken burger to avoid further bellyaching about being hungry later on in the day.

When my boss returns from a meeting in the afternoon he tells me not to bother coming in tomorrow (on Saturday). Suddenly I get my way but suddenly I also feel really bad about it. He appears to have heard me moan/complain about having a friend over from “France” tomorrow. Its actually Mark who is back from Frankfurt but I’ll take what I can get. I still feel guilty though.

Later in the afternoon my guilt appeases slightly when my boss asks to borrow £10 to get his haircut. Was this some kind of management test?

Towards the end of the day the consultant phones my boss to see if I am still coming in tomorrow. Apparently the guy is at our St Martins Lane location sounding pissed up.

Likewise now The Girl is no longer coming in tomorrow either but she has offered to work late. In a show of solidarity I stay late also as she does a genuinely sterling job in processing invoices, she really helps out and as a result I am semi happy to stay behind also.

On the radio Scott Mills begins his Wonder Years and plays “Smells Like Teen Spirit” – yes!

Eventually, after a few calls from my boss downstairs, The Girl finishes at 6.30PM and I follow a little later at 6.45PM. As I head out the boss is still drinking at the bar. He is happy to see me and asks if I want to join him for a drink but I really need to get back. I apologise for not coming in tomorrow and he tells me he is going to pay me triple time for tonight’s overtime. That’ll be good.

I head home dizzy and exhausted. I wish there was more to this but there just isn’t.

When I get home it is around 8.30PM and I feel exhausted from a mentally challenging day. From here I do little more than flip on the TV and endure another Friday at the height of summer spent on my own.

Evicted on Big Brother tonight is Hira, that poor drippy girl who never stood a chance and was nice throughout the competition. She was nice to look at but little else.

Unsurprisingly soon I am falling asleep, re-emerging briefly to the sight of Old School but not even that can pull me out of the necessity of slumber.

Thursday 6 August 2009

When I write I am the hero of my own shit.

Disturbing dreams plagued me through the night. First I found myself stranded in a hotel room. Then someone or somebody resembling David from Big Brother turned up. There was also a chick (baby chicken not female) involved and while playing with it mum finally bursts into the room after being intrusive three times asking what we were doing.

I cannot believe my ears this morning as on GMTV Penny Smith gets an “expert” to explain what a loan shark is. Are GMTV viewers really that dumb? I suspect so.

Today is wave two of the latest RMT train strikes that are bringing National Express to their knees but not quite putting them out of action as they plod/soldier on at a crawl. The fact that the trains keep on running is a PR own goal on the part of the RMT, they’ve flexed their muscles and failed to cause the commotion they were hoping.

This week I decide not to get up at thee crack of dawn and instead choose to risk the 7.15AM train. As a result this causes me great stress as when I board it at 7AM it is already fairly busy.

As I sit typing notes on my iPhone waiting for the train to move people begin sitting near me and then some doofus in a suit opens a bottle of Lucozade that fizzes up and sprays everywhere. When I look up at the fuckwit it is the nine fingered hateful figure from school that I saw in Asda a few weeks ago. Why him? Why here? Why today? Eventually I look up long enough to acknowledge him before he clocks me acting awkward. A small victory to me. The guy really should spend more than £50 on a suit though, especially when looking more than ever like Jim Davidson (a look that was actually cool at primary school).

That said if by some chance (misfortune) we did stagger/wander into some kind of conversation I expect he would soon be pulling apart my life/world and belittle my existence without my effort. I’m soft like that.

This I appear to remember being the person that told me as a child I could never be a pilot because I was too fat to fit into the cockpit of an aeroplane when I spoke of my dreams at primary school, which was an enormous knock to my self esteem.

Sadly this morning I discover that John Hughes has died. It had been pretty noticeable in recent years how he hadn’t made a movie in a while but still I can watch Planes, Trains And Automobiles any night and love it. He was a true talent and a big loss to film.

By Kelvedon the train is already full this morning. Surely the approaching station’s passengers now represent some kind of threat to capacity and health and safety.

The train stops at Hatfield Peveral and Ingatestone. You know you are in trouble when a train stops at these backwater locations, it means its going to all the houses and will be taking its time to do it.

Eventually we get into Liverpool Street around 8.25AM which is fucking pathetic and represents a truly cuntish and disgusting level of service delivered by these people at this time, from everyone involved including those striking and those scabs working really hard to keep the line running in the face of such obstacles and problems.

Out of character at Liverpool Street I head over to WH Smith instead of immediately boarding a tube and here I buy this fortnights copy of Private Eye in the hope that it reinstalls a sense of humour to the day.

Later on the tube at Kings Cross the pretty Parminder Nagra lookalike boards and she clocks me noticing her. There’s no mystery or subtly to my existence.

Somehow I mange to get into work on time, still before The Girl. I put a lot of hard work into life and despite all my efforts I still do not get my end away. Where is the justice in that?

Today ultimately proves to be a so so day whereby I keep plugging away at the accounts during the morning and actually begin to make headway.

For lunch I initially opt for just soup but then get jones for honey glazed ribs as well. When our food is prepared and I head down to collect it The Girl’s order of 3 sausages, beans and mash has turned into 3 PLATES of sausage, beans and mash. Swiftly I keep quiet about the error and become Jason Two Dinners.

The afternoon sails out as expected until my boss heads into a state of the nation meeting. When he emerges he returns panicked about the new company accounts and suddenly he is needling me about coming into work on Saturday. I fucking knew this was coming.

This is off the back of the balls up that has been made by the Chuckle Brothers of accountancy. Is no one else getting the subtext of this?

Frustrated and pissed off I head home.

On the tube I read in the free newspapers about the RMT industrial action coinciding with the prison release of Ronnie Biggs. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

When I finally get back to my flat I feel exhausted, between by the establishment and institutions out to get and undermine.

On TV Thursday night is comedy night but I’m not really in the mood to be laughing so soon I am heading to bed, heading to sleep.

Wednesday 5 August 2009

There is a headache attached to proceedings this morning. The tooth had me awake briefly during the night but thankfully not for too long and now that comes secondary in my woes.

I watch on the news this morning how Clinton bowled/swooped into North Korea and rescued those two Korean-American journalists. The pictures of him and the dude from Team America are hilarious. I swear if you look close enough and read his lips you can see him whispering, “I’m ronery”. Euna Lee is hot.

The walk to the station is easier than expected as I arrive at the station at 6.54AM super early in almost record time. Go figure, the recuperative powers of the body when faced with such obstacles and pain barriers.

I am melting today. It is not even 7AM and sweat is running profusely down my head and face. This is embarrassing. Is this fever?

The more I think of the tooth, the more it hurts. Looking at it in the mirror it is a weird fucking thing, like HR Giger has painted some evil creature slowing ripping its way out through my gums. I do not have such a tooth protruding on the other side of my mouth so I can only come to the conclusion that these are my late wisdom teeth finally coming through. I really don’t want to go to the dentist though; I don’t think I have been for fifteen years. All my dentists were rubbish are the first one committed suicide.

Walking through the gates/barriers of the station today the rail staff are laughing, full in the knowledge that this is their last working day of the week. They may as well be laughing direct into my face. Actually with this gesture they may as well be spitting in my face because it feels like that kind of mockery. More travel misery awaits tomorrow and with it more silent commuter anger.

As I slump down tired and defeated in my seat I notice three rings of muck on my Gap trousers that look very suspicious and very spunky. They’re actually probably from the Coke I spilled there last night but still it’s a bad look and a boob on my part. Note to self: stop dressing in the dark.

Once the train gets going it is the usual arduous experience and when at Chelmsford a Nick Griffin lookalike decides to sit next to me, almost on top of me, the tone of my day is established. He sits so close that his cheap suit begins to prick me. This is true.

Eventually the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.05AM. Shortly afterwards on the tube it feels like everyone is staring at me.

Today is a so so productive day. The outsource guy has produced a bank reconciliation using I method I have never been before. In other words it is wrong and sorting it out has now trickled into a second day. We probably paid this schmuck big bucks for these records. Invariably I will get blame from this as the other Chuckle Brother (the consultant) refuses to have a bad word said about this guy (his recommendation). Cowboy.

Leyla from the Notting Hill studio gets in touch today postponing tonight’s mini reunion. This is a blessing in disguise because I feel yucky.

In the end I wind up titting around on the bank all day which isn’t necessarily being unproductive but its not brain surgery either. Basically it’s the one job a month I can do on autopilot.

For lunch I have soup in an effort to be good and healthy. Resulting satisfaction levels however are low.

Dealing with the phone calls today I experience a company called Spitfire shouting down the line at me. A whining Scottish voice aggressively pins me down for payment I am not authorised to and cannot make. When however he tells me that his name is Fox Mckelvie I can no longer take him seriously and suddenly his aggression begins to make sense. He has been saddled with the name equivalent of short man complex. Imagine being stuck with the name “Fox” all your life. Cunt.

In a more positive note Marceline of Diskant puts JGRAM WORLD up on her Asking For Trouble website today for sale at the very competitive price of £6.

Later Mark gets in touch to tell me that he is now back in Colchester. We should hook up.

It is something of a mixed blessing having the boss sitting in our office while his own is being decorated. You feel under the focus and scrutiny but then you also notice when he gets bored, tired and sleepy. It’s a very paternal method of management, fun but not necessarily the most productive. It is very funny having your 57 year old boss telling you how good he thought Bruno was.

As the painter begins hitting (painting) our door the fumes come into the room and luckily our boss lets us out early before we all develop migraines and mini tumours. With leaving this means the joys of catching an earlier train and accidentally on purpose bumping into certain people on the train (Sarah).

Tonight when I collect my copies of London Lite and The London Paper at St Johns Wood station I begin to wonder if I am the only person in London that says “thank you” for them.

In the end I catch the 5.50PM train to Norwich and as I stomp through the carriages there I see her: Sarah. She looks as fucking miserable as ever and is not in the least receptive to me. Thankfully at the point of (almost) contact I am listening to “Here Comes Sickness” by Mudhoney (from their album “Mudhoney”) and the combination/juxtaposition of these two elements amuses me no end.

I win no friends on the train this evening as a dawdling brown couple hold me up as they decide whether to take the last two remaining seats or not. Obviously they do and when the guy takes an eternity to finally sit down and get out of the aisle (out of my way) as I hit him with my rolled up free newspapers it isn’t necessarily appreciated by him.

When we arrive back at Colchester and exit the station as I reach the pedestrian crossing at the roundabout I realise that I find myself stood behind Sarah. Her hair and her arse look great and suddenly my previous action towards her are put into a new perspective as the reality of this person being tangible hits me. I begin to question the purpose of my writing and the point of writing what happened between me and her. She I would imagine plainly thinks that I am strange and mean spirited and presented with this reality I struggle to disagree. Perhaps though she shouldn’t have given me such source material in the first place.

Getting back to the olds on Balkerne Heights I settle into annoying the dog. I hadn’t intended staying too long tonight but I wind up doing so anyway.

I get into conversation with mum asking her if she thinks that I am immature. This comes from a combination of the wedding and analysing my thoughts towards Sarah. She tells me that she thinks I was gobby at the wedding and I interrogate her as to whether she thinks this was a bad thing. I sense she does.

MTV2 is good tonight and away from her moaning that is what I stick around for.

Eventually I head home for 9PM and Big Brother – what a chump. It’s a good episode with a big barney in the household (between who though, I soon forget). I begin texting Nina about it but she is not watching. OK, so it’s only me without a life tonight then.

Afterwards as the night plays out I risk watching an out of sync/sequence episode of The Wire but with the event of it being an episode featuring Bunk being sick in the streets all signs are good and easily I am able to get into the episode stand alone.

Elsewhere I notice Channel Four are repeating Teachers tonight. Now that was a truly great show.

In the end though I just fall asleep.

Tuesday 4 August 2009

I wake this morning with a stinking headache and dry throat. The tooth still aches but for now it is manageable.

There were fever dreams last night. When I awoke in the middle of the night seemingly having lost my DVD player remote it came with some kind of weird exaggerated panic as if it had dropped out of my room into another vortex. Or flown out of the window. As a result I found myself unable to relax and sleep until it was found.

The walk to the station is another struggle this morning. As I wheeze the entire journey and process, chances that I will make it to Friday are beginning to look slim.

Arrival at the station is to the sight of an ambulance with flashing lights. I do not see any drama connected/attached to the vehicle though. Maybe someone called ahead in case it was required for me.

The platform (or rather “our” section of it) is bare this morning. Once more I manage to snag “my seat” and soon I find myself sat opposite a lookalike of Alf from Home And Away, which is a disturbing sight at the best of times.

Today is a new day and another listen to “Wowee Zowee.”

At Shenfield the creepy Barry Humphries/Andy Warhol hybrid boards and again soon he is nose deep into his Harry Potter book. I bet he ain’t the demographic JK Rowling was aiming for when she spewed out the drivel. Really though, how long is it taking him to read a fucking children’s book?

The train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.05AM – I guess yesterdays on time performance was to be a short-lived gesture of competence.

Once through the herds at the station when I get to the tube platform at Liverpool Street is again eerily deserted this morning. The Metropolitan Line is out it seems which can only equate to my getting to work being delayed today.

When I eventually board a tube I find myself sat opposite a Roy Cropper lookalike. Then the vacant looking lady sat next to him pulls out her Harry Potter book and I begin to scream internally. There is no hope.

Ahead of time I stagger into work and as a reward for arriving first I flip the radio to XFM. I deserve this.

Today turns out to be a tense day as the boss and The Girl are somewhat at odds with each other even though in actuality he doesn’t even clock this tension. No bark, no bite.

Unhindered by the exterior I make great progress on the new company until I discover what a mess the outsource guy made of the bank reconciliation. I have been doing this shit over thirteen years now and I have once seen this method used when doing a bank reconciliation. In others it is so far beyond wrong its not even funny. He appears to have reinvented the wheel. Or at least tried to.

For lunch I have potato soup with a few extras. It’s bland.

During lunch as I put up my DJ Gram “I Hate My Job” set write up I revisit my blogging dismissal and find myself re-reading the letters which Butt Road used to fit me up like a kipper. It still makes for uneasy reading/writing in the cold light of day, almost five years after the event. These scars will never heal.

The afternoon sails out OK without any casualties until the boss starts on some head office cost analysis late in the day that is required for the bank. Eventually I wind up staying 20 minutes late, which serves to depress me as my teeth ache and I just want to go home and brush them out of agony.

Once out of the office, out of the building I rush to St Johns Wood station. As I change lines at Baker Street I see James board the same tube as me. Luckily he walks off into the distance so I don’t need to bother with him (exhibit nice nice) although it does mean we now have a moment of awkwardness lined up for Liverpool Street when we get off the tube. Fortunately when this time comes he appears to run off to his train home meaning to his credit he appears to be putting more effort into avoiding him than me him. Is this really what it has come to though, people running away from me in order to avoid me? What is the protocol these days for dealing with ex-work colleagues?

In the end I wind up on the 6.30PM train to Norwich where I find myself surrounded by an annoying cunting family. Then I notice to my right some blonde lady reading a Harry Potter book. Are these books now government issue to keep the mass populous fucking stupid?

Soon to compound my annoyance the train beaches just outside of Shenfield and with my teethache (plural) and leaving work late depression it all serves to flatten my evening. Are these fucks still striking next Thursday and Friday? Looks like they’ve started early. Later just outside of Colchester, after I have already got up out of my seat, the train again beaches metres away from the station platform, which puts the finishing touches into destroying my soul. God hates me.

At this point a guy that looks like Dwight from the American Office begins acknowledging and reciprocating my disgust at the train service. In him I could have had an ally for descent but looking at him I want no part of this guy and nobody would listen to him or anything he would have to say anyway.

The walk home to my car is tough and by the top of the hill I am finding it hard to breath. That’s not very encouraging.

Once back at Balkerne Heights I hang at the olds for a while terrorising the dog when suddenly VH-1 has the Top 100 One Hit Wonders Of The 80s hosted by Judah Friedlander. I totally get suckered into the show with so many great songs and amusingly a number of half credible UK bands that actually had careers (Haircut 100, Big Country etc). Its great fun watching Thomas Dolby and amusing to see one of Australia’s biggest ever acts in Midnight Oil be dismissed as a one hit wonder. I hold my breath and wait for The Buggles to turn up but before I can get too far in the show (five hours and counting) mother strong arms me into turning the TV over to her soaps.

I get home at 9PM for tonight’s Big Brother and also manage some writing in the process. Finally I get my book description done for its inclusion on Marceline’s Asking For Trouble website.

My night ends watching this week’s You Have Been Watching with a gyrating Reginald D. Hunter who always slays on these shows. I have to see him live before it is too late (which I fear/suspect it already may me). Charlie Brooker does another great show.

Then I fall asleep.

Monday 3 August 2009

After being kept awake half the night with my tooth hurting this morning I awaken feeling fucked.

I pull myself together and leave the flat as normal although during the walk to the station I do feel like the walking dead.

My tooth is still aching and as I look at it in the mirror the sight of the apparent wisdom tooth ripping through my gum looks like something from an HR Giger painting.

Today The Wookiee is on the train looking as devastating as ever. I managed to get “my seat” so all in all it is good times on the train this morning.

Shockingly the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8AM, which to me indicates a sure-fire demonstration of performance improvement due to guilt for Thursday and Friday. This however is too little too late.

On the way to work I breeze through the tube journey and as I step into the office the big boss has evacuated all his office belongings into our room which includes the creepy little waiter man ornament. The fucking thing makes me hop/jump at the best of times but when I step into our office on a Monday morning to find a little orange man standing in our room seemingly waiting to pounce on me; it almost resembles something from a movie like Child’s Play or Leprechaun.

It is a good start to the day when I check Outlook to no bad emails from the consultant. Off the back of no such hindrance I tear into the accounts of the new company’s accounts, endeavouring to tidy them up after the outsource guy botches them.

Then the phone calls begin. I think I remember now why Claire got miserable and jacked in as a barrage of abuse hits me from people chasing up outstanding monies that my bosses do not seem in any hurry to pay.

The worst person on the phone today is some whoring cunt from a company called Elite Contracts barking ultimatums down the phone at me. Oh yeah, that is really going to enthuse me into assisting you, incent me into action.

The second worst person is some foul fucking twot from a company called Casa Julia. When I look at the invoice and see the company is based in Braintree it all begins to make sense.

Why are so many women working in credit control? Is it penis envy? Does it give them the opportunity to shout at men in a way that their marriage does not allow or accommodate? Do they actually look forward to getting the blob every month just so that they can tear loose and feel free?

For lunch I have penne with chargrilled chicken. Succulent.

I’m on my own this afternoon which means I have to deal solely with the fucking phone. This is a job in itself. The Girl is off to her dentist again.

At 5.30PM I head home as usual and leaving the offices it is to bad vibes from those around me as I put on and listen to “Pod” by The Breeders for my soundtrack.

When I get on the tube at Baker Street it is to a dude in a Stone Island parker coat. He looks fucking stupid with it and that is before you even consider today’s heat. He must have a lot invested in that garment.

On the tube I move from “Pod” to listening to the freshly downloaded Entourage soundtrack and mos def Obie Trice. Yes!

During the train ride home some bald little fucker keeps scuffing my shoes. He looks like the dude from Sex And The City.

Along the journey Szesze sends me a text message telling me how her restaurant is getting another refurbishment (second one in six months) and how she is bored. I’m not really sure what she wants from me at this time. I respond with nice nice and not a whole lot of enthusiasm.

When I get back to Colchester I pop in at the olds’ in Balkerne Heights and I continue my training/teaching of making the dog bite mum’s feet.

We discover tonight that dad is actually still a director of Balkerne Heights Residents Company despite being told by this Barry Hepburn guy that he wasn’t. This guy with all his apparent corporate know how and it would appear he doesn’t know how to remove a director. He has probably left it in the hands of this Terry Sutton guy who doesn’t tend to do things in a hurry. The Ibogaine effect?

By the time I get home to Bohemian Grove I am exhausted. I managed to squeeze out some writing but I fear and sense that it is laboured and so as a result isn’t very good.

Soon however I find myself in bed falling asleep to Big Brother. There’s not a lot going on there.

Sunday 2 August 2009

Bit of a headache this morning. My tooth still hurts, which obviously I fucking hate.

Exhausted I begin the day by finished off watching season two of Entourage with four episodes back-to-back. I cannot speak highly enough of this show, more fool me for dismissing it for so long. It’s like the cast of Stand By Me grew up and opened up shop in Hollywood, its real buddy TV stuff.

Around 10AM just as I am getting ready to walk to my parents to collect my car mum phones and asks me if I want dad to come and pick me up. Pretty ideal.

When he arrives everyone is in high spirits. The wedding sounds as if it were a universal success and I begin to regret leaving so early but truly I felt rough, some of which has passed through into today. It was great to have a family do after so many years. I think I was on form and charming (except for the final hour).

The dog is really happy to see me when I step through the door, jumping higher than usual with a more rabid dog smile than ordinary.

Not long afterwards I am leaving and driving to Asda to do my weekly grocery shop, delayed one day because of the wedding. Sunday is just as bland as Saturday to do the deed and this week my treat in amongst buying cereal, newspapers and energy drinks is to find/discover Singles on DVD for £2.

When I get home I tear into some writing, especially off the back of having not been able to do any yesterday which now means it is caked in some kind of guilt.

I feel in love today. I feel relaxed and looking out of the window this evening the day is ending perfectly and the sun is lighting the world ideally.

Around lunchtime Big Brother Little Brother comes on along with Noirin actually aloof to her actions and adamant that she did not do a single thing wrong in the house despite being the house prick tease. It is great when Grace Dent from The Guardian makes some really harsh comments directed towards her about not taking any ownership for her actions. Later her Yank boyfriend comes out to join her and when he swears I feel like complaining to Channel Four about it, not because it offends me just because I hate those two odious creatures. This guy has plainly been through the reality TV mill as all his answers come over as well rehearsed and well delivered and it is noticeable how he talks towards the audience and not to the idiot George Lamb as if they were at least attempting to pretend it is some kind of natural conversation. This guy is USA all over, all surface and no substance, flattering to deceive and fake/false all over.

In the afternoon I get back to doing some writing to as ever varying degrees of success.

Today there is a feeling and sense of freedom attached to not feeling obliged to head to my parents for Sunday lunch at 3PM and being able to break away from my routine.

Outside the day is pretty good and I bask in the sight of summer and the glow that comes with it.

In the evening I sit down to watching my Help DVD and watch four episodes back to back and feel like kicking Chris Langham for what is now the waste of what was a true talent. Its scary how Mr Melchett reminds me of him and vice versa.

Eventually proceedings transfer into a trademark summer Sunday night and the most beautiful of evenings. To this is what I fall asleep to.

August is going to be a very good month.

Saturday 1 August 2009

Today I wake up at 6.30AM shivering. Where the fuck am I again? Oh yeah, this is Streatham rubbing up against Tulse Hill. This is not ideal.

Eventually I stagger out onto the South London streets around 7.40AM with everyone else in the place remaining asleep in bed. I guess that is until I have to slam the door in order to close it.

London is a grey place this morning. Less than five hours ago I was only just arriving here and now without enough rest or sleep I am staggering around leaving it.

I don’t think I would enjoy living her. This particular road in South London benefits from not actually looking like London but soon once I trundle down a steep hill and hit a main road suddenly I am hit with the grime and trash that is London, the lower standard of life where everyone and everything appears financially poor and as a result suffers from the suggestion of being morally poor/bankrupt. Also it smells.

It is still early and the shops are just setting up stall/shop for the day. There are a few remnants from last night’s shenanigans and as I pass what appears the most rundown B&Q store in the franchise’s history a sudden desire to be in Essex now consumes me. I do not even stop to get a newspaper.

I choose to catch a train at West Norwood instead of Tulse Hill and when I arrive on the platform thankfully there is a train to London Bridge not too far away. Slowly I am joined on the platform by an assortment of strange looking characters none of whom are smiling. Welcome to South London. Fortunately I do not feel intimidated, I am years past feeling that emotion.

Eventually the train turns up and even more strange looking characters are aboard that. The train passes through places in South London I would never want to stop at including Crystal Palace.

Finally things pick up as the train goes through Bermondsey and there The New Den is right in front of me looking great as ever despite the fact it looks like it is made from Meccano. This surely is a good omen for my/the day.

While riding this train I muse over the reality that in modern life people do not possess the time and/or resources to be/become the best possible version of themselves. For some reason it is South London that drums this reality home to me.

I also acknowledge how close we are to Lewisham and the sadness I left back there.

As the train pulls into London Bridge I change onto the Northern Line with view to getting to Moorgate suddenly the trains/tubes appear to be conspiring against me as painfully long gaps/waiting times between trains are given birth. Suddenly my desire to catch the 9AM train back to Colchester (on the fast Norwich train) begins to feel like something of a race that cannot be won. A five minute platform wait is for just two stops. Having missed the previous tube by seconds due to having to leapfrog and hurdle people with luggage I curse my fortune.

When the train finally gets to Moorgate I rush to the platform to only be met with the reality of a seven minute wait for a train to do a 30 second ride to Liverpool Street. As I spin around half considering walking to Liverpool Street my iPhone slips out of my hand and drops to the floor hitting the stone clad surface hard. When I look down the screen has shattered and is now cracked as if it were ice. Suddenly in a New York minute the omens for today have turned terrible and rotten.

In the end I use the seven minute wait to lick my wounds and collect myself. I peruse the damage to my phone and a shard of screen pierces my finger. Will I be looking back at this moment in the future as a wasted opportunity to sue? Despite the screen being history miraculously the pad actually still works and the iPhone remains functioning. Go figure. At this point I begin to feel really thankful for the IT Guy’s advice to take out insurance on the thing.

In the end the delayed and crappy tube means I miss the 9AM Norwich train by minutes and instead wind/end up on the slower 9.08AM loser train that calls at every fucking station along the way. You just know a train is bad when it stops at Romford.

At this point in time I take stock of my estimated arrival time back in Colchester at being around 10AM. With the walk to my car and the drive home I will be lucky to get back for 10.30AM which at least means I am still on course to be ready and around my parents for midday.

There is a strange androgynous person on the train this morning regularly turning around and looking at me. I’m not wholly convinced of what sex he/she is but there is an air of Ruth Gordon in Rosemary’s Baby attached to it.

My timing predictions for getting home begin to feel a tad optimistic when the train beaches at Shenfield at 9.35AM. This comes coupled with my toothache that isn’t going away. God hates me.

Eventually as the train heads into Colchester just after 10AM and I can see Jumbo in the distance once again it beaches and the reality and circle of the world conspiring against me is complete. Truly god hates me.

Finally having pulled into the station as I exit it I spot/see Nina sat outside the café awaiting her own chariot. Defeated and disillusioned I sit down and have a chat with her happy for some human contact. She tells me she has already seen my Facebook status about my broken phone and as she inspects it she remarks “gutted.”

Once her train arrives she goes off to the hell hole that is Romford as I storm home to get changed for today’s proceedings. Eventually I get back to Bohemian Grove for 10.40AM still racing against the clock. Annoyingly on the way I forget to buy a newspaper so immediately I find myself getting back in my car and heading out on the Saturday newspaper run driving from Layer Road to Layer Road in the process. This must be a new level of laziness on my part.

As soon as I get back I have three things I have to do: charge phone, polish shoes and have bath.

Today Facebook really takes the piss out of me by making a friend suggestion to me of/for Moriarty. This makes me feel physically sick. Did she get a corresponding friend suggestion at her end? Jesus, really what was her problem? This is pretty insensitive of Facebook to highlight a person that caused me so much grief and hassle. As a result it causes me to do one of my infamous “Dear Facebook” rants. This ranks up there with Facebook the other day suggesting to my dad’s account that he befriend Mindy. Yeah if he wants a fake plastic friend that will repeatedly blow him out and waste his time before finally dropping him like a shit when a more accommodating doormat turns up, then be my guest.

With all this in mind I find myself dragging a bit and when mum phones me at 11.40AM dragging me out of the bath and asking me where I am I go up the fucking wall on the phone to her. With the reality that I am going all out to make it to there place for the scheduled midday I really do not deserve this kind of hassle. Stupidly she says she thought it was midday already and it just serves to piss me off.

Minutes later I rush out of the door not really as prepared as intended. By the time I arrive at their place to put on my suit I am fucked off and grumpy and immediately I begin to let her have it. First I find myself wondering what the mentality of being given a short sleeved shirt is. Who the fuck wears a short sleeve shirt with a suit? Next with a chip truly on my shoulder I try on my suit and it fits funnily, only serving to make me feel uncomfortable and low about myself, in a bad mood to face proceedings. After the phone, after the Facebook shit and all the rushing I now have to put up with this shit. Harsh.

One positive point is that I have chosen to wear mauve tie that we all wore for Justin and Helen’s wedding three years ago. This is now my traditional wedding tie, the smartest in my collection with the best luck and fortune attached.

When I arrive dad is out picking up one of mum’s sisters and when he turns up with her I am continuing my rants before I realise that there is this little woman stood behind him. Immediately I change tact and say hello after having already ashamed myself.

As we drive to the church I am in a fucking mood. Somehow typically I have already descended to stroppy teenager status headed towards a family gathering verging on playing up. The others try speaking to me but I don’t want to come round I just want to get things over and done with so that I can go back to being treated (and acting) like an adult.

Despite threats of rain on the forecast we arrive at the church with the skies a brilliant blue and the sun out. Slowly we head up towards the entrance where I see my cousin waiting looking nervous. He tells me he was nearly sick on the way to the church and I manage to crack a funny about the best man’s driving being “that bad.”

Inside the church it is a strange experience for me. It looks tiny and I genuinely cannot recall the last time I was last in one. Still feeling slightly out of sorts a Damian/The Omen-esqe reaction almost takes me as I begin to get tetchy.

I watch as the congregation sing songs in anticipation for the start of the show. What are these people about? Is this what it is to be truly religious? Are these people professionals or is this their idea of fun? It is noticeable how they are all old, they are a dying breed. I watch them for the trumped up air about them before I realise that one of the women singers is giving me evils as if she sees through me and knows of my sins.

As we sit in the pews my parents and their generation get reacquainted and catch up in that Royle Family kind of way. I occasionally get introduced into proceedings and slowly I begin to come around as I endeavour to turn on the charm and not make a fool of myself in front of the family. Smiles all around.

Eventually wheels get rolling on proceedings as the organ kicks into life and Phil’s wife to be drags her train to the alter where they tie the knot. It is all very adult and quite frankly the whole occasion terrifies me, the bombast of being so centre of attention/proceedings would be something I don’t think I would be able to carry off.

Soon we are again standing supposedly singing hymns but as dad and I muddle through the hymn book looking for the correct song and page the pair of us can be heard to be generally humming and mumbling our way through songs as by the time we finally get to the correct page the songs are almost halfway through.

With impression confidence my uncle takes to the stage and does a reading in front of the whole congregation. When he finishes I feel short-changed when we do not get the opportunity to applaud him. Later the bride’s mum does something similar but on that occasion I don’t feel like clapping.

As more hymns get played it is funny to watch my cousin’s new wife (my new cousin in law) sing heartily along. Is she a religious freak? In a way this is what would be suggested.

Eventually proceedings come to a close as vows get exchanged and up front books get signed and the deal gets sealed. With this the newly married couple leave the church heading out for the customary photo shoot.

Today bad weather had been threatened but the gods prove forgiving as the sun remains out and the skies stay blue. As people mingle into their various groups I get lumbered with my parents and their generation. With this my parents continue to treat me like a children and I resume acting as such. In the long run I don’t feel this will do me any favours whatsoever.



Gradually as the photos finish and the procession heads towards a vintage car parked outside the church slowly the weather begins to turn and the skies begin to spit. On the way however my mother and aunt make a point of searching out their parents’ grave. There is a real family tradition attached to this church, one that I feel uncomfortable for not living up to. I must look pathetic walking around overweight in my pathetic suit rented suit acting like a child, the crap black sheep of the family. Then again nobody is paying any attention to me, its not my day. Perhaps it should be though.

We all get in cars to head over to the university where the reception is being held in one of the fancy halls. Inside the reception is a champagne one where I aim dead on for free hooch. Suddenly I feel (rightly or wrongly) in my element. In a strange way I appear to large it and come out of myself in that horrible way that alcohol will induce you. Not that conversation flows as I attempt to strike a nerve and nail some kind of nice nice but as ever only manage to sound obnoxious and ridiculous. The more I trip over my words the more I feel the necessity to drink.

Eventually we get directed into the hall where food is being served. I find myself sat at the head of Littlegate table where it suddenly occurs to me that I am an outcast of the family. I sit at the head of the table where I large it as the youngest person by probably thirty years. This really is not my demographic, its my family but not a circle or crowd I should feel comfortable conversing with. I act cheeky in an adult fashion that at the time I think was mature but in fact it was probably quite camp.

Regardless the dinner is amazing, roast with an effort and flavours that my family are not used or familiar to.

Too many times we make jokes at mum’s expense until the eventual strop. Truly though it would/could not be a family do without mum throwing a wobbler.

Soon it comes to speech time where recognisable relatives go through the motions. It weirds me out slightly to see my younger cousin acting so adult. Its funny how his bride’s family are proper northerners and funny with it, all things quite the clash of cultures.

After the speeches dinner begins to gradually wind down and people head to the bar. As our family appears to linger in no rush to move (instead happy to reminisce and gas), now properly drunk I find myself stealing all the chocolates from the tables that have been left behind. Also I begin taking flowers from the displays and offering them to my aunts. Just what am I trying to prove with this?

By the time we reach the bar things begin to slow down. Stuck with people twice my age and I hardly thrive having now socialised as much as possible with this group of people (my elderly relatives). And unfortunately I’m not a mixer and despite there being people of my age at the event/celebration at the age of 33 ridiculously I am too shy to go anywhere near them.

Now sufficiently drunk I stop drinking and eventually en masse we all head into the disco where we proceed to sit in a corner like a group of coffin dodgers. By now a few more relatives have turned up and for a while I sit chatting with my uncle who I get my middle name from when I sense across our table one of my aunts (now freshly arrived) just looks at me with disbelief as suddenly I resemble some kind of man child. Damn, she should have seen me earlier at the head of the table, I was cleaning up then (I think).

The disco is a strange one, a proper wedding set playing naff love songs from the eighties. It’s a weird selection and one that hardly inspires me to get into proceedings. Instead I remain with the biddies around me gawping silently at events. I begin moaning (whining) that DJ hasn’t got a clue and they need to be playing “Come On Eileen” or something. For children of the nineties I really thought my cousin and his new wife would have requested something different. Was I really expecting nothing but non-stop Blur?

Eventually they have their first dance and it is to a Nick Drake song which I think is pretty great. Around me all the oldsters begin asking me what the song is and I don’t know the name I only know it is by Nick Drake. In reality Drake is more of their generation and were they really a bit more savvy or, dare I say, cultured they would have known.

My late night and early start begins to catch up on me as finally I begin to flag. Again to this I don’t respond in the most mature of manners, even making gestures to falling asleep at the wedding there and then. Fuck it I’ve fallen asleep at gigs in recent years, how is this any different? Actually it is very different, it is fucking rude.

Almost immediately mum begins flapping half offering half threatening to take me home, seemingly angry at my childish behaviour. I don’t want to leave but I don’t feel like I can continue either. Perhaps were we not just sat in the corner of a disco like plums and actually conversing maybe things would be better. My family, what you going to do?

I ensure I stay at the wedding until at least 10PM but finally off the back of barely a few hours sleep I ask if mum minds driving me home. I guess I appear to be crapping out from drinking too much but genuinely this is down to fatigue. Fatigue and being out of my comfort zone.

As mum and I head out it suddenly appears that the real activity is occurring at the bar where my old man is holding court. Perhaps I should have reconvened with him and got back involved with proceedings for another hour but by this stage the idea of bed and sleep just appeals far too much. Frustratingly I feel I waste the opportunities given to me with my invitation to such a great event.

Heading out I thank my relatives for inviting me to the wedding, looking to outweigh rudeness with gratitude. The truth though is I am just all familied out.

The drive back home is not a fun one. It is night driving and mum always struggles with this. Also there is a sense that she is in a mood and that I have done something wrong. I guess I went to the well one too many times by cracking jokes at her expense. That or she truly has clocked this evening just what a social leper and outcast I truly am, my wallflower state isn’t looking to go away anytime soon.

I am disgusted with myself to admit that part of the appeal of heading home at this time is due to Channel Four showing Will Ferrell starring in You’re Welcome America which is a live one man show of him reprising his role of George W. Bush from SNL. Quite frankly it sounds amazing. Unfortunately once more, with relief combined with being pissed and having had no sleep I pass out without minutes of it.

I don’t think I will ever have a wedding.