Friday 14 August 2009

There is a Funkadelic song named “Friday Night, August 14th” on their “Free Your Mind & Your Ass Will Follow” record. That’s the stuff.

I feel exhausted this morning. When I awaken at 5.30AM by mistake my TV is still on and on it the most depressing of shows Scrapheap Challenge is playing out loudly and annoyingly. I just beg for more time, more sleep just so that I can stop feeling so rough and rotten at this time.

Its sunny again today and with my left contact lens still playing up I waddle to the station still half asleep with half vision depressed at the prospects that lay ahead of me today.

When I arrive at the station despite what the information screen displays it appears as if it is all back to business as usual. The train is bare today; you sense that sensibly most people have taken the day off work in response to more rail carnage.

I’m feeling a seachange at work currently. Am I falling out of favour with my boss? Did my refusal to work last weekend create a permanent bad feeling? He was unsubtly grouchy yesterday.

As the train nears Chelmsford a mist drops and suddenly the day takes a shocking spin on its head. This is a climate more fitting the mood of these times.

During the journey I read the Charlie Brooker column on The Guardian website ranting about/against iPhones and it almost makes me proud that I have a cracked, punk rock iPhone. The phone remains functional, it works, its just no longer soft and pretty. For persisting with this I think in some eyes I might be admired.

While my tube to St Johns Wood sits in the Baker Street platform I see an Azmei lookalike and chilling memories occupy my mind, wrench my soul and belittle my day. Good god this lady is beautiful.

Ironically today is both the IT Guy and The Girl’s birthday. She comes in flying to which we provide a song with cakes to match. Good times.

As it get announces that it is all our birthdays in August (including the two today) the posh boss steps into the office and hands us each a bottle of champagne. This is a distinct step up on last year.

After yesterday’s blip today I am tackling troublesome areas and it isn’t coming easy and with progression being slow before I know it the time is lunchtime. Very much today is the climax of a tough, testing and tiring week.

I feel blue today.

Ultimately the most productive thing I wind up doing all morning is a Nick Cave quiz on Facebook which involves taking his song titles to describe me. This is “My Life According To Nick Cave” and is the latest thing to sweep through Facebook for all the cool kids to do. It is noticeable how it is all my Gringo Records era types doing the quiz and not something any of my old school reunitions are indulging in. Ultimately I am proud of the job I do.

All in all doing this fun thing on Facebook I guess makes a change away from my current anti USA and pro NHS rants. That Daniel Hannan guy should be shot for treason, the NHS is certainly flawed but my god it is a hardworking institution often doing great things on a shoestring budget helping out the lives of so many people.

For lunch I have fishcake for the first time in weeks. As I head downstairs I am witness/privy to a ridiculous argument between the manager and the bartender about Liverpool versus Porto. I watch as the argument descends into throwing ice cubes at each other before the manager pulls rank and orders the bartender to clean/tidy the cubes up. I find myself raising an eyebrow, mildly disgusted at this.

The afternoon holds some success as I sort (fudge) all but one of the major trouble areas. This I will now hopefully nail on Monday when I possess some kind of clear mind to approach/attack it with.

In the early afternoon I get an email from Canongate Publishing announcing the Nick Cave promotional dates for The Death Of Bunny Munro. Immediately I set about attempting to snag some tickets for his conversation with David Peace at the Purcell Rooms. When the internet fails me repeatedly the phone wins as I snag a couple of tickets in the third row. High times.

Eventually the working week comes to a climax and we get released to head home. My boss corners me into after work drinks that really I am too tired to indulge in. As a result I doubt I am good company as the boss puts in a lot of effort into conversation. He talks about an old location/site at Hanover Square at the beginning of the 90s, the arse end of the yuppie era and the start of the brave new dawn just before the realities of Generation X hit.

He begins telling me how he thinks the consultant has had swine flu, which is slightly more flattering than our recent suspicions of him being an alcoholic.

By the end of the session the boss is offering to pay to repair my iPhone. I have been flashing it around senior types for sympathy recently but I just can’t accept such a gesture.

Fatigue and hard liquor fuck me this evening as I get out around 6.45PM and stagger to the station in the process. On the way an Asian lady asks me how to get to the tube station. Its nice to know that I am still approachable.

I end up on the 7.30PM train to Norwich which feels super slow this evening. Opposite me is some ponce with sensible hair and hard frame glasses who proceeds to pull out copies of GQ and The Economist, the first of which he appears to read very closely and intently. Partway through the journey I feel a foot/shoe rubbing up against mine and I panic for a moment thinking that it is him before realising that it is actually my own foot rubbing against my other own foot. Surely I didn’t have that much to drink.

When I get in tonight it is with the sole intention of watching Big Brother. Already on the train Nina and I find ourselves texting about who we think might go and with tonight being Marcus up against Freddie it is a sad and two of the most likeable housemates are up for the chop. It is genuinely hard to decide who is going tonight. These two represent a less pandering element in the house, a more antisocial set and quite frankly recently Freddie has been acting like a loon.

Tonight the pair of them gear up for eviction in their own ways. Freddie for some reason is wearing face paint, which I don’t necessarily think is a good or healthy look.

Eventually the decision comes in and it is Freddie who goes. I however pass out before he is able to dish any dirt.

He should bite their legs.

Thursday 13 August 2009

The sad news today is that all signs point towards a soul destroying day ahead.

There are another pain of train strikes scheduled for today and tomorrow but despite the nuisance they cause this week they have garnered next to zero press coverage. These unions (with even more involved today) have really scored an own goal by not getting what they are protesting for and instead creating even more ill feeling towards them and their cause due to the reality that they already provide a shoddy service that pisses off their customers. Pushed to this brink you could see/understand an eventual assault by a commuter/passenger/customer on a National Express member of staff except for the fact that this is England and there is something about our national psyche that causes us to just lie down, take this shit and get on with things. This is the blitz spirit gone wrong. This is not the country that saved the world in two world wars.

When I finally get online Ben is pointing me towards the Carling Cup draw. Initially I think he means that Millwall have got Colchester but when I check the BBC website they have got West Ham away. Oh shit, I didn’t think the police allowed that fixture anymore.

Today the train stops at Ingatestone and nobody gets on. What was the fucking point of that, adding that stop to the journey?

At Shenfield a smug dickhead I have seen before brings his kid in a pushchair onto a packed strike ridden train. Immediately I hate this guy, he is so well adjusted reminding me of so many successful brownnosers I have met and known over the years. He should get a job at Baker Street. He also should be in a Wii advert.

Swiftly this guy is followed onto the train by a man and his mailorder bride resulting in one of the most annoyingly chatty trains ever. The fucking blitz spirit, sometimes it does not serve us well.

Someone on this train smells of KFC wet wipes today.

The train eventually pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.12AM and it could easily have been later. As I plough through the station to catch my tube I catch glimpse of the Chinese OCD Man pointlessly straightening the messily stack copies of The Metro.

It is a fairly staid journey to the restaurant this morning and when I arrive I am first one in.

The day ahead was always going to be a slog but this is not assisted by my boss stomping around like a bear with a sore head this morning. By the time we reach lunch I am feeling sorry for myself so I have a feeling sorry for myself burger and chips for dinner. Feeling sorry for yourself tastes good!

All in all the day is spent having people do my fucking head in.

Later The Girl gets onto the subject of incoming birthday presents and then the other one says something odd related to this and valentines gifts. Suggestion.

The consultant bowls in earlier than announced but later than is sensible. When he arrives I am not ready/prepared to deal with him at that time and he catches me on the hop. Things with him are frosty and depressing. I sail out the afternoon trying to put right what the outsource guy has fouled up but in order to reconcile my figures things are proving impossible without any grounding to start on.

In the end of the day I get out ten minutes late which ultimately is far from ideal considering that the strike is still in full flow. By the time I get to the train (6.30PM to Norwich) it is already rammed. I find myself having to stand until Chelmsford at which point I get the privilege of getting out of the way in order to let everybody off before finally getting back on the train and finding a seat. These strikes are making rail travel and genuinely miserable experience.

During the journey it gets announced that there will not be a strike tomorrow. We won! The commuters won! Despite the hassle the RMT decided to through at us as a collective us commuters endured the inconvenience in order to still get to work. FUCK! YOU!

I begin to wonder if the end of the strikes counts for the two scheduled for next week also. It must do.

While sat down I find myself distracted away from my iPhone by some annoying posh boy with a poxed face and ridiculous woollen hat talking about tattoos. Despite evidently not having a fucking clue, yeah he has the world at his fucking feet.

Eventually I get off the train just after 7.15PM and when I do so the sun is still out in force and the evening remains a cool summer so I text Mark to see if he is about for some drinks.

We meet up at 7.45PM outside the Hogshead on what I would describe as a European evening. Tearing into some wind down drinks we trawl through the scrawl of our respective days.

For a Thursday night the pub is surprisingly and shockingly quiet. I guess this is the credit crunch coupled with supermarket prices keeping people at home in the evenings.

We call it a night around 10PM and I get home just in time to catch Big Brother and the sight of Bea having an odd breakdown accusing the newly smug Freddie and surprisingly sensible Marcus of bullying her. In the diary room she begins to resemble the twig Nikki Grahame from a year or so ago. Apparently somebody I used to work with at the studio was in “hospital”, “care” and “therapy” with Nikki. Meanwhile what the fuck is the deal with people named B?

Soon after this I pass out and put the day out of its misery.

Wednesday 12 August 2009

Wednesday has the most comfortable awakening that I have experienced in many a day. After the paranoia of last night’s bug attack I resume business as usual without having been eating to death by the killer insect although when I do think about it the itching resumes.

Today is the deadline for the first quarter accounts of/for the new company. By the end of play yesterday I was best part there so today looks and feels optimistic. There is a breeze in the air, which with it brings a freshness and the capacity to actually breathe again. This I should be able to capitalise on.

Calm morning.

The walk to the station is a breeze. The dull skies threaten rain but fortunately fail to deliver as these threats aren’t realised before I get on the train. Such is life.

On the train some skank tourist steals “my seat” this morning. I could take this as a bad sign/indicator for the direction of my day if I so desired.

The weird woman that looks like how I would imagine Kim Deal’s mum to look stares at me on the train today. Can I help her?

Eventually the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.03AM eternally and reliably late. As I hit the tube platform there is some announcement going around about disruptions on the Metropolitan Line but the lady making the announcements has a strong African accent and unfortunately I cannot understand her. It would appear neither can the numerous people surrounding/crowding her. It’s a loss for common sense, you need to have a clear orator when rocking Information Jimmy. Apparently the problem is at Kings Cross. The problem is always at Kings Cross.

Unhindered I board the first train that arrives at which point I find the gang from 7/7 sat around me. Seemingly unable to activate their rucksacks on a non-moving train shortly they scarper off the train much to my relief. Maybe I was wrong about those guys. I’m gonna miss them.

Eventually the tube gets moving but almost immediately upon leaving Liverpool Street it beaches outside the station. Suddenly I notice how warm and stifling the tube is this morning and how there feels like a distinct lack of air within the carriage. I feel like hyperventilating but there plainly isn’t enough air to service it.

Something strange happens today when I begin listening to “Harmacy” by Sebadoh – a number of females look at me and smile. Are the luscious tones of Lou Barlow having the affect on me that I find myself feeling tender and able to smile? Is this form of emoh the way forward for me? This has never happened before in four plus years of commuting in London.

It is a frustrating day at work to say the least. As soon as one thing is put right I find another thing wrong on the new company accounts, the figures put together by the outsource guy.

I stagger through to lunchtime when I have jumbo king prawns and couscous even though it is evident the dish just needs a little sauce. I come away from the dish with the conclusion that I don’t really like couscous.

My mood significantly droops in the afternoon. As more errors transpire on the accounts I depress further, not least with the big demoraliser that the outsource guy hasn’t bothered to set up the holding company of the new group on Sage. Suddenly head office costs turn into finger in the air stuff.

Late in the afternoon my iPhone rings and it is my missing neighbour asking to borrow my stepladder this weekend. I comply. When I tell him I’ll probably not be around as I’ll be in Cambridge he responds “what at the folk festival?” Why is it that every fucking thing he says to me winds me up?

By the time home time arrives I feel beat after almost falling asleep at the wheel (in my chair). I manage to get some accounts sent off to the consultant but they’re not satisfactory to me so most likely they won’t be satisfactory for anyone else. Oh well, we’ll see.

At this point it is now subtly pelting down and the walk to St Johns Wood station is a slightly wet one. This is bleak.

For the entire duration of the tube journey I have to stand all the way to Liverpool Street. This is guaranteed to put me in a shit fucking mood. Then again this I hope is what will keep me awake.

In the end I get the 6.20PM train and it’s all about familiar faces. When I see the red faced Adnams man (Angry Adnams) I begin, as ever, to quake slightly. Here’s hoping we don’t get a repeat of the Kelvedon incident.

Shortly after his arrival the loud annoying black beast woman with the double sized arse and Dom Joly phone etiquette decides to sit opposite me. I try to pretend I didn’t see her but I fail.

For the longest time nobody takes up the empty window seat next to me but eventually it happens and as I stand up to let them in I notice Epiphany Girl sat a few rows down. This officially spooks me.

During the journey once it becomes evident to me that I desperately need some time off. I have no work play balance anymore, almost everything I do now is work and this is not a state I am conditioned for.

It would appear that I am not the only person on the train feeling tired this evening as the woman sat next to Angry Adnams appears to have passed out and her snores now proceed to drown out my iPhone. While pouring himself another plastic cup of his favourite brew Angry Adnams gives her the kind of glare that suggests he just wants to kill.

By the time I am back in Essex the sun is out and subsequently my walk back to is more comfortable than expected.

Back at my parents’ crib we watch Holland v England on TV but there is no point to this match. Holland score twice through defensive errors and for both goals John Terry stands on the line allowing it to go past as if he were as hollow as his skull would suggest. Fortunately for England Defoe comes on at halftime and energises his mediocre talent into two goals scoring twice to end the game at 2-2.

Later when I knock over an unopened can of Dr Pepper foolishly when I eventually open it I forget to open it over a safe surface and predictably it fizzes and goes everywhere when I open it including my crotch. As I do this I swear my father witnesses this and probably just thinks to himself: “my son the idiot.” I hold the can in my lap to prevent it going on the carpet creating a horrible mess out of my Gap trousers. When I return to watching the football mum notices the wet patch and earnestly enquires “did you spill your drink or piss yourself?”

Dad tells me today that he has spoken to the Terry Sutton guy who says that dad is no longer a director of the tin pot residents company and that Companies House has in fact made a mistake. A quick look on the Companies House website shows that dad’s resignation just went through two days ago on Monday despite him actually resigning back in June.

Not longer afterwards I head home for Big Brother which tonight is a bigger pull for me than the football. It’s mainly to be voyeuristic and see which depths of hell Freddie has been taken to today.

Tonight I fall asleep during Ugly Betty only to be awakened by Teachers. Damn where are these actors these days, they were super talented. Despite their talent though soon I fall back to sleep.

Tuesday 11 August 2009

Dream: I am at the Edinburgh Festival with friends staying in a house with Racton, Pauly and Pappy’s Fun Club who are now veterans of the events and its traditions/conventions. I’m just a hanger on to proceedings, the Turtle of the group staying in a cramped, over populated house/apartment. Next Dad is at the festival dressed in his wedding garb from last weekend gearing up (and trying too hard) to do a standup comedy show. Naturally he is old school in style and just by nature a different brand of comedy/comedian. I’m half excited and half sensing embarrassment.

This morning I wake up with a headache, a mini hangover. Outside the climate/environment remains muggy and very stifling being heat combined with a threat of rain – the worst of both worlds.

Off the back of mum’s criticism I am now fearful and self conscious that I might have been gobby last night when I met up with Ross and Fiona. As a result if this is the case then it won’t make for me being much fun to be around. Additionally I don’t think the gift of the Luke Haines book when down very well.

Today is the day they announce the names (and therefore profiles and history) of the Baby P killers. A witch-hunt will now ensue as the parents of the world, especially the mothers, will go into some kind of media driven frenzy. The powers that be at GMTV will be the leading the way. These people are fucked on arrival.

I am in one of my XXL tops today and it is worryingly snug. I need to detox, to escape the restaurant and concentrate on getting well before it is too late.

The boss isn’t in for part of today but I can’t remember if it is scheduled for the morning or the afternoon.

On the train I manage to get “my seat”. At Witham unfortunately some man decides to sit in the one next to me and cuddle up against me. As he lodges his armpit into my side things become squishy and disgustingly uncomfortable as I begin to feel borderline indecently assaulted. I look at the guy and he is tall and lanky so I guess for him now life is about taking what he can get, especially off the back of having such a prematurely receding hairline. Trapped in my seat I just become his bit of rough for the morning.

The journey feels long and arduous this morning but ironically the train manages to pull into Liverpool Street at 8.01AM, a little less late than the usual now clockwork late. What happened?

Later on the tube I spend the entire duration of that journey sat opposite a bald David from Big Brother lookalike. He is fucking terrifying.

Thankfully Nora is back in work today. It’s been hell without her.

Elsewhere there is no word from the consultant today. Thank God.

Likewise there is no word from the old studio types as our vague plans to meet up are not acted upon but to be honest I am too tired to approach meeting up with any real gusto.

The day is spent further ploughing through more new company stuff. The job is coming on slowly because the starting point, where I have attempted to pick it up from the outsource guy, is extremely poor.

For lunch I have penne with chicken. Afterwards it sits heavy.

During the afternoon I continue to plough through the figures and finally they begin to take shape but they don’t look good.

While I am doing this The Girl is hassling me into buying the office treats but I don’t bite. First thing they’re hassling you for treats, the next they’re hassling you for god knows what.

As a substitute we sample the sweet booze that Nora brought back from Tunisia and it is strong stuff. Basically I end the day FUCKED!

The end of the day eventually arrives and I opt out of Millwall and decide to head straight home. On the tube to Liverpool Street a rough as fuck family boards the train. They look straight from Haringey.

I wind up on the 6.20PM Norwich train well ahead of time to the degree that I could have caught the 6.08PM Clacton train.

For some reason no one appears to want to sit next to me tonight. Eventually some fierce bloke with a busted arm takes the seat. He has a heavy bag that I put in the holdall above for him. See, I’m a nice guy really.

As the yuppie wannabe yaks on his mobile phone for the majority of the journey I watch as the broken arm man scribbles some notes on his napkin. The handwriting is fucked which clearly suggests he isn’t using his correct hand and the one in the sling is his natural side of leaning. The notes include:

“Hardcore corporate street fighter

Forensic accountancy

Basket case

Property assets

Shit load of money”

It would appear evident that he hates the yuppie just as much as I do. In the process he just might be my new hero. I then take another look at the state of him and swiftly retrain my decision and mind. I do wonder though, this reaction, is it representative of some kind of breakdown he is experiencing?

Later when broken arm gets up to go to the toilet he apologises for being a bad passenger but he doesn’t know half of what I have to put up with on a daily basis. He begins telling me how he broke his arm. It was in Belgium. I don’t really want to get into conversation at this time, etiquette and conventions generally ensure that after a soul destroying and crushing day at work commuter trains are generally the realms of silent contemplation. He asks me where I am getting off and if I will get his bag down for him when I get off. I’m happy to help but weirded out by the request and general stranger conversation. My demeanour will only ever be awkward and standoffish when faces by such matters.

I exit the train at Colchester giving the guy the thumbs up as I get his luggage down from the holdall above.

Back at the olds at Balkerne Heights things are sedate. Something is up but I don’t want to jinx things too soon.

Not long afterwards I am back home at Bohemian Grove. This is a perfect evening and I wish I were somewhere else at this time. I can envisage in my mind the perfect place and the perfect person to be around. For a while back there I almost had, almost found myself ahead in the game winning and living the life that I always wanted to and dreamt about. It would be good for me to be in London right now, a place where life seems to step up a gear for me and makes me move faster and generally up my pace and perform as a much better person.

Tonight I am listening to Radio Five and a show hosted by Mark Chapman reminiscing about the 1990 World Cup in Italy. Guesting on the show are Paul Parker and Tony Cascarino and I hold the fondest memories of that World Cup as we were holidaying in Mallorca for the beginning of the tournament and I remember so many fun nights spent as a kid watching all the games in various bars.

While writing a HUGE bug flies into my apartment. It’s like a cross between a cockroach and a killer wasp. In the end I get it with my hoover Ghostbusters style to which Allen later points out on Facebook is likely to now ferment eggs in the hoover bag and help it expand/multiply. Immediately upon hearing this I fill with pest paranoia.

Big Brother is troubling tonight when it appears Freddie’s breakdown/meltdown reaches full fruition and completion at the hands of Bea. Girls called B, tut.

Afterwards You Have Been Watching is pretty good but I do come to the conclusion that Frankie Boyle now appears to think that his beard has given him the wit and execution of Daniel Kitson. I would disagree.

Eventually I pass out watching The Wire.

Monday 10 August 2009

It’s a rough start to today. The heat isn’t suffocating like the past two mornings but still its bad enough, enough to keep a person from getting the required in order to fully function.

When I check my phone this morning there is a message from Ross, which is good news and means it looks like our meeting tonight is still on.

I exit Bohm Grove a little late this morning and annoying the first thing I hear when I get into my car and turn it on is Vernon Kay. This fucking hack brings me down at the best of times but being right at the beginning of the working week could there possibly be a more mentally decapitating way to start the week?

Regardless of all this I still make it to the station on time in spite of much worrying huffing and puffing.

Today’s train appears to be about returning faces – are the summer holidays over already? Obviously The Wookiee scowls/frowns at me, there would be something wrong with the world if she didn’t. Also today on the train there is yet another adult reading a Harry Potter book – are these things fucking government issued with view to keeping people stupid and immature?

The train gets into Liverpool Street with boring predictability at 8.04AM. I’d complain but who is listening?

When I board the tube at Liverpool Street it smells of piss – welcome to Monday.

There is a blind guy on the tube and briefly it makes me feel optimistic for the human race as so many people/passengers offer him their assistance. Also add to this that he is Asian, which only serves to add that I truly believe that the UK is the least racist nation on Earth.

Eventually I stroll into the restaurant long ahead of the rest of my department. Today the stairs are being carpeted which pretty much means we are stuck/trapped upstairs until the guy is finished. I hope there isn’t a fire.

Today the stairs are being carpeted which pretty much means we are all beached upstairs until he is finished. I truly hope that there isn’t a fire.

I should be busier with things but I’m on accounts clean up. The Girl is posting invoices but I am not fully confident that she is actually doing it right. Then the posh boss decides to sit opposite me and being that he possesses one of the short attention spans in history he is soon distracting me with comments and jokes.

For lunch I have tomato soup as a gesture of effort towards healthy eating. With this I also have the prawn starter in chilli lemon sauce. Surely that isn’t too unhealthy.

On the radio today for some reason Radio One is playing “Breaking Free” from High School Musical. This is probably the best constructed song of this century so far. Shortly afterwards Radio One then plays “Come As You Are” making it the second working day running that Nirvana are played on the radio. Things are looking up.

The afternoon pans out OK as I concentrate and continue with balance sheet stuff, the troublesome area, the area that takes all the time.

Eventually the end of the day comes around and I arrange to meet up with Ross and his new girlfriend at Oxford Circus for 6PM.

On cue we meet up and head to Kingly Street. As we head in the direction I see one of Mark’s Japanese friends Chika who ironically is usually part of the party when I drink in Kingly Street.

Confidently I lead us to the regular haunt only to find it closed. Instead we head to The Red Lion, which is quiet and has an empty upstairs, which suits us.

It’s a pretty laidback evening, catching up and ticking boxes. Slowly I get drunk and gobby, which isn’t necessarily a good thing when it comes to me.

Both Ross and I have birthdays over the next few weeks and as a result we have gifts for each other. This rules! We exchange books and they are both books. Ross gives me the latest Tony Hancock biography by John Fisher which is an enormous tome and I figure is best approached when in a healthy frame of mind as I have heard that it is quite comprehensive, bordering on intrusive. In exchange I give Ross my book of the year in Luke Haines’ Bad Vibes book. I get the impression from Ross that he was never a fan by the way he reacts to it but I endeavour to ensure him it is good stuff, especially the chapters about recording with Steve Albini.

The night ends with my waxing lyrical about writing and my new book and my old book. I get the feeling that I don’t make a good first impression on his new girlfriend.

Walking from Kingly Street back to Oxford Circus it is a magnificent evening, the climate/environment is just right and there are not too many people around to ruin in.

We head back just before 9.30PM and I manage to get the 10PM train to Ipswich which then subsequently feels like one of the quickest journeys home I have ever made/experienced. Soon I am back in Colchester and walking to my car.

Back at home in Bohemian Grove I eat a tub of Jalapeno hummus. Unsurprisingly a little while later I cough up a bit of sick.

Didn’t even have to use my AK, I have to say today was a good day.

Sunday 9 August 2009

It is another incredibly warm morning. As a result I do not feel the desire to get out of bed. It is Sunday after all, what is there to do on a Sunday anyway? The Christians have already managed to squeeze any potential fun out of the day by traditionally declaring the day can only be open/functional by six hours.

Instead I decide to stay in bed where I watch my Bang Bang, It’s Reeves And Mortimer DVD. This was an amazing series, it featured the nightclub comedy before Phoenix Nights happened and had the Tom Fun and Derek characters that were stupid to the max. I find myself laughing out loud more than I was expecting to so its not a bad Sunday after all.

Once I have finished watching all six episodes of the series back-to-back (to think we once watched them weekly with anticipation) I get behind the keyboard and endeavour to do some writing. It happens but to a limited degree.

Around lunchtime Big Brother Little Brother is on TV and it is shocking to see Brix Smith on there. She really has experienced a rebirth this year off the back of a Gok Wan endorsement. I never had him down as a fan of The Fall.

As per routine I head over to the olds for Sunday lunch and the Charity Shield on Sky. I have to say the prospect of Manchester United vs Chelsea does not fill me with too much excitement. Watching the game it doesn’t appear like either Manchester United or Chelsea can really be arsed either. When Nani scores relatively early it looks like a good season lies ahead for United but slowly/gradually Chelsea come back into the game and almost win it except that Rooney snags an injury time goal, as is the Manchester United way. When the game eventually goes to penalties Manchester United completely and utterly choke, embarrassing themselves as they go down 4-1. They should feel shame.

Afterwards while channel hoping I come across Brewster’s Millions on Channel Four. This movie is fantastic and definitely holds up. Richard Pryor is without fail amazing and coupled with the gone too soon John Candy it all makes for a great example of what was something of a golden age of comedy after Saturday Night Live appeared to inspire a whole genre of fresh new comedy films in the first half of the eighties.

The evening’s Simpsons are all Moe themed episodes which is always a gnarly experience for me as I feel more by the year I am closer to resembling Moe than ever. He is the world’s cutest sociopath and he can’t help it. Apparently he’s based on Rich Hall but no he is most like me.

Eventually I head home to my summer Sunday evening of attempting a bit more writing before beginning the working week. This possesses a limit degree of success.

Beyond that I run a bath, hop in and out before catching the latest Louis Theroux documentary where this time he is following around people involved in a Crystal Meth epidemic in California. As ever his non-judgemental drip persona allows him to step into their homes with ease and gain enough footage of him giving them rope to hang themselves with. It is a far better episode than that nonce prison was.

Saturday 8 August 2009

Dream: I am hanging out with Lydia Lunch and we are really getting on well. She’s interested in mummy love but I am interested in dirty love. I show her some of my writing. I don’t hang or stick around to see/hear her response.

Today opens with me feeling exhausted and guilty. Outside with the hour barely 8AM the day is already radiant. The idea and concept of going into work today would have been an awful, I would have resented every uncomfortable second of it.

Life expectancy is rising by six hours a day according to the news. Wow, think of all those over 100 year olds walking around ahead of us. Surely they will just shrivel like prunes, pass out and die due to the full affect of global warming when it takes hold. Connect the dots people!

Work has made me feel down.

The car park at Asda feels like Mad Max 2 this morning, cars everywhere trying to ram me (it seems).

I stagger around Asda this morning not really up for the journey or interested in buying anything. I feel dehydrated and about to pass out, did somebody slip some drugs into my Berocca this morning? It wouldn’t put it past the person that recommended it to me to want to poison me.

After picking up the newspapers (The Sun and The Guardian as ever) I actually find myself also buying Viz for the first time in maybe ten years. This is due to it having on the cover: “Blakey The Ripper” and our hero from On The Buses being accused of something most heinous.

Agh!!!!! After yesterday morning’s incident with the fucked up kid saying “Jesus” guess what is on TV this morning? Whistle Down The Wind. God is fucking with me! Then again his scheduling of Soccer Dog 2 afterwards suggests someone up there might like me.

Today is the first day of the football season and with it the air feels that bit fresher and the world more exciting with it. This excitement is fuelled by Sky for some reason showing Southampton v Millwall at lunchtime. Hopefully this is a gesture by them to help ease Southampton’s financial worries, to display that corporate heavy football does still have a heart. Somewhere. Still, I fucking hope we paste them. Also I half fear that the additional revenue coming in from Sky today to Southampton will then also have a large chunk bitten out of it by the local police for additional men to deal with the Millwall supporters because we all remember Luton….only 25 years ago now.

As I get ready (dressed) to go out again I look out of my bedroom window to see a police riot van parked in our forecourt. Shit, did my comments about the police above suddenly cause them to materialise Candyman style? What the fuck, do I suddenly live in The Bronx or Compton. I look around and still all I can hear is crickets (I can’t really) but there is no indication of any requirement for such a vehicle/presense. I sense a juicy domestic and hopefully not a whorehouse or drug den in one of my neighbour’s apartments. That said though if they can accomplish such a feat in one of these box flats give them their own TV show immediately, this would some kind of feat of Jesus proportions. And I don’t mean Mel Gibson Jesus by that comment.

Eventually I head out to the olds to watch Millwall on Sky and as I pass through my frontdoor to the sight of a second police car parked directly outside the entrance to my apartment block. What the fuck is it that requires two pandas?

I pretty run from the scene after fearing the worst and when I arrive at the olds dad’s mate John the taxi driver is sat in the frontroom shooting the shit with the old man. Immediately he begins firing questions at me about work etc as I ask him as an Arsenal supporter if he is over “to watch a good team for a change.”

The game is fucking hard work. This is typical start of the season stuff, neither team is exerting themselves too much as their heads appear to be still on holiday. Eventually the plundering idiots of Southampton score a goal that is fucking offside. This is not a game that should be lost, Southampton are in the shit and there they are likely to remain considering the behind the scenes goings on currently occurring.

When Jackett brings on Price and Fuseini things pick up and change for the better. Just as the old man takes the dog out for a walk ‘Wall win a penalty, which Dunne promptly fluffs and fucks up. Thankfully Jimmy Abdou scores an equaliser with a looping header. Later we actually score a winner but somehow despite the ball going across the face of the goal the referee can see a player offside. Somehow for some reason the referees do not like us.

As the afternoon sails out it is fresh with the inclusion of a new word in my vocabulary for hoarding items: might need. The items are now to be described as being “might need” items as in “I’m not selling or throwing that away because I might need it one day.” That said if John saw my crib he would probably be horrified and disgusted.

After the football I hook up with Mark as we head to The Minories for endless cups of coffee sat out in the sun. We get that but we also find ourselves getting hit by a minor swarm of bees/wasps. Their nuisance is our discomfort.

In the end we play out a usual Saturday afternoon in Colchester at the height of summer, one that really doesn’t involve much in the way of opportunity or option.

Mark tells me that he has found a place in London, in Leytonstone for six months and that there is a spare room that he is considering getting someone in to fill in order to lighten his monthly rent burden. He floats the idea of me moving in and we repeat the Harlesden days and I jump at the suggestion. Quite frankly to take six months off the commute at this time would probably do me the world of good, to serve to rejuvenate my batteries and help me make up my mind as to whether I should move to London or not. I tell him “yes”.

Eventually we wind up in a pub beer garden. Its only a shame that other people have to be around to ruin it. In many ways though this is the best way to spend the day, these are the best of times because they used in a mentally cleansing manner that serve to remind work is not necessary all of the time.

Finally we it a night and I head back to my parents to scam some dinner before heading home for a blissful and tranquil summer evening. Unsurprisingly in the heat and the glow I fall asleep pathetically early.

As Big Brother plays out on TV I receive a text message from Nina saying “I hate her!” This then comes followed by “Are you out having fun instead of watching big brother?” It then turns out that Nina indeed hates Bea, which personally I think is Freudian and her telling me how much she hated Bella. Kind of.

She asks me “what aren’t you watching?” to which I respond “Had fallen asleep. I fancy Bea. I’d like my private parts and her private parts to do a high five” to which she responds “she would fuck you over.” With this fact now recognise we exchange messages late into the evening before I eventually turn in properly falling asleep to some Clive Anderson documentary about The Funny Side Of TV Talent.

Score draw.