Monday 7 December 2009

It’s a bad start to the week as some annoying cunt woman steals my intended seat on the train this morning.  She is orange and nature should punch her in the face for being such a monstrosity of appearance and existence.  God, I offer my services.

When I get to London today the place fucking stinks.  As I stand on the tube platform I see a girl/lady pulling sexy faces from the opposite platform.  At first I actually think she is taking the piss out of me.  When the unsubtle come ons continue however suddenly I begin to think they are aimed at me after all.  Then unfortunately I look to my right to notice some dopey bastard reciprocating these gestures, saving them and putting them in his pocket for later.  He’s in for some loving.

Eventually I get into work into an empty restaurant.  Slowly people plough into the building and from here I have a so so day.  Again today the consultant is supposed to be in but then it transpires he is actually in Dorset.  Has he gone Reggie Perrin?  Does he know Zoë?

Today I decide that I am going to have a Tom Waits Christmas.

At the end of the day The Girl drives us to Bloomsbury where we head towards the Bloomsbury Theatre for the BBC Comedy Christmas Extravaganza.  As she drives along Euston Road she is fearless and I sit terrified.  To her though it seems rush hour London is a doddle.

We arrive at Tavistock Square while parking enforcements are still in place and for a while we toy with sitting in the car for 20 minutes until it is safe to leave the car but eventually common sense prevails as she pumps some money into the parking machine and we head off looking for a place to get a drink. 

As ever when I walk through Bloomsbury I find myself gushing at the lush classic buildings that encapsulate there area and tonight for once I have an audience to indulge me as I point out what I consider is Disney London.  As we walk towards Russell Square I point up at the apartments and proclaim that is my dream place to live, within walking distance of Central London and high above any problems that may occur below.

Eventually we wind up in some grotty pub attached to the Tavistock Hotel.  With her wanting to smoke she drags us outside to sit on even grottier benches while we watch coaches ferry foreigners in and out of London.  Everyone is so fucking loud and all the tourists are dressed crazily.

Over a drink we shoot the shit and slowly dismantle our company struggling to come up with any other conversation topics apart from that and Christmas.  I feel like a real bore in the process especially in the light of her making such an effort to chat (more than the usual person I come across).

For a while we toy with the idea of getting something to eat but with the show having an early start I figure it is best that we get to the theatre in good time.  Upon arriving The Girl thankfully appears impressed by the theatre and as we get another drink I point out all the posters of cool comedians spread about the wall.

When we take our seats it becomes evident that I have scored well by snagging third row tickets.  Eventually the lights come down and the host for the evening is announced as STEPHEN K AMOS who I myself am pretty impressed by as I ask The Girl if she has heard of him.  When she shakes her head I respond “he’s funny.”

STEPHEN K AMOS rocks the house.  There is something distinctly old school about him while also being thoroughly contemporary.  It doesn’t take him long to begin ripping the piss out of proceedings, not least for the manner in which the Bloomsbury has been dressed up to represent a Christmas extravaganza.  From here he soon picks out his marks in the audience with a comedic grilling that proves as threatening as it does silly.  Here is a man you sense lacks a short patience or short attention span.  Or both.

After the introductions are completed the first act of the evening is wheeled out in the form of SEANN WALSH who plays the part of a young, dishevelled professional cynic, a snipey weirdo seemingly angry at something he does not know.  In his delivery he makes many good points not least by pointing out how social convention dictates that it is more important to react to misfortune (such as banging your head) than to ignore it and pretend it didn’t just occur (that is looks really insane).  At one point he flings his bottle of water across the stage and really makes a mess, he sure is surly.  It’s all good though because he is happy to share his experiences of getting erections on bus rides.

With the ball now properly running STEPHEN K AMOS returns to the stage as a king compere returning to teasing the peoples in the front rows.  The more information he is able to glean from them the more he is able to rip the piss out of them in a playful manner.

Following comes a physical comedian called THE BOY WITH TAPE ON HIS FACE.  With said tape stuck across his mouth his only method of communication is to make funny facial expressions that are led by his eyes.  With his physical comedy this guy feels a bit like a Blue Man Group audition, albeit without the paint and makeup.  Swiftly he drags members of the audience up/out onto the stage where the most cynical sat next to me suggests that they are in fact plants rather than marks.  Regardless they are real sports as they proceed to get royally humiliated all in the name of comedy.  I hate stuff like this, hate having to spend half the set with my eyes down hoping not to get dragged onto stage myself.

CHRIS ADDISON follows and my god he looks skinny onstage.  To accompany this reality he tears into material about going to the gym which seems like a subject ripe for this audience.  His tales of fail and woe continue as he relives days of sporting failure from his time at school (some weird school, nothing like yours or mine).  It is strange seeing CHRIS ADDISON do stand-up after being used to him being Olly for long.  His set does feel very different to the remainder of the bill, more being a portion of a longer set rather than a complete short set designed for such bills.  Being the person I was most looking forward to seeing tonight unfortunately works against him as despite being OK he isn’t as amazing as I was hoping he would turn out.

At this point AMOS calls interval on proceedings where The Girl and I sit struggling for conversation.  She tells me that she is enjoying the show and it sounds sincere.  When she pops off for a fag and toilet break I feel this is a reprieve on my part.  Upon her return I then take the opportunity to have a piss myself.  Away from work I sense we really do not have very much in common.

STEPHEN K AMOS returns to begin the second half of the show and warms up the audience before AVA VIDAL takes to the stage.  She is perhaps the tallest comedienne I have ever seen in my life.  Her set tears through a hard description of raising kids that comes devoid of sentimentality.  She expresses the kind of everyday gallows humour that occurs within working class families and parental methods that might appear unconventional to the middle classes but conventional for a black South London family.  There is no time for remorse or being wet as she tells us how she just fucking lets her kids have it in order to keep them on the straight and narrow.  I really warm to her recognising much of what she is saying and doing.  She’s a tough lady.  Attractive too.

The night ends with MILTON JONES who is a pun personified in a Hawaiian shirt.  His style is classic, non-offensive and very silly.  Early on he hits the audience with a barrage of Grandfather jokes many of which come with a sting in the tail/tale.  With his smarts word play he comes over like a Tim Vine with crazy hair, his jokes come at a quickfire rate and are often more clever than actually funny.  When a member of the audience chooses to take a toilet break during his set he puts it on hold, preparing to get the guy with a set up upon return.  Ordinarily pulling such a stunt would probably kill a set and its momentum but by this point in proceedings MILTON JONES truly has the audience in his hands, bringing them in on the joke with a level/degree of participation that feels inclusive and communal.  In the end though the guy takes too long in the toilet and blows the gaff probably through doing a guff.  The set flies by swiftly lending the audience many puns and jokes to return to the office with in the morning.

Closing the night STEPHEN K AMOS returns to the stage and casts his blessing over what has been a great night.  He thanks his stooges in the audience, the chav, the posh guy, the person that works at Madame Tussauds before SEANN WALSH jumps out on stage to point out how AMOS looks like a black Alan Sugar.  Oh yeah.

In high spirits we emerge back out onto Bloomsbury where I walk The Girl to her car which has neither been stolen nor ticketed.  I feel my gestures lack gratitude but never mind.

From here I head home via Euston Square ending up catching a 10.48PM train to Colchester.  Tonight I had started to feel poorly during the second half of the show so the journey is something of a dicey and rocky one.

In the end though I get home, back to Colchester around midnight.  Pathetic.

Sunday 6 December 2009

Dream: for some reason I find myself walking around the streets of Iran.  It is much more advanced than a person would imagine and a real party town (the locale of which escapes me).  I’m there on some kind of business and I am looking to meet up with a contact.  The details of this also escape).  It is Friday evening and I wind up in some town centre where everyone is blowing off steam after a tough week.  This is not what I had been lead to believe a Muslim country would be like.  I stand opposite a bank as it remains open and people continue going in and out to do their banking etc.  There is an ATM but it isn’t actually an ATM it is like a reverse jukebox where people play their own music (CDs) and it gets broadcast on an amateur radio station.  I later discover that this is BBC8, a free for all radio station they have here in Asia but not in the UK.  The Western branding follows me seeing every bar in the city having Sky Sports bursting with football from every television.  The latest guy that places a CD plays “Puss” by The Jesus Lizard.  Initially I think someone is playing Nirvana but when I realise just what the song is it astounds me that I am hearing it at this place.  When it finishes I go over to the guy and tell him what an amazing song that was.  He appears little interested in my props for him.  Then I notice an old school friend called Nathan hanging out as part of his group.  I go over to him and say “hello”.  He responds in a friendly but cagey manner.  He tells me that he comes here to party as his wife and child are now in Turkey.  Then I see Racton passing and I introduce the pair of them saying “he was out our school” but then I realise that Racton did not go to our school.  Suddenly my confusion towards the whole situation hits me.  Why are so many worlds clashing in front of me?

Today I am up at 8.30AM and early I begin writing.  This week Armando Iannucci is on Andrew Marr and during the interview he gives away the ending of last night’s Thick Of It before I have had the opportunity to watch the fucker.

Unhindered by this I soldier on with the writing.  One day I will have this shit complete, have something to show for my efforts but right now my creativity only resembles something of my own private Synecdoche.

As per routine I head over to the olds for Sunday lunch at 3PM and the usual grilling and questioning.

On Sky this afternoon is Everton v Spurs which turns out to be a surprisingly good game being tetchy and open with a bit of bite in the Premiership for a change.  Tim Cahill is as ever top entertainment, he will always be a legend.  Meanwhile I can’t decide whether Fellaini looks more like a member of the MC5, At The Drive-In or the Jimi Hendrix Experience. 

Just after half time Defoe finally scores after Lennon feeds him so many chances all game.  Later Dawson adds a second until late on Saha pulls a goal back and Cahill (obviously) eventually scores a late equalizer.  Eventually a great game ends as Howard saves a Defoe penalty in injury time.

While I slouch on my parents’ sofa I flick my iPhone to the 100 Days To Make Me A Better Person where I discover that it has mentioned my Facebook Cull blog.  High praise indeed, I appear to be doing something right for change.  Tremendous.

Tonight I give repairing dad’s computer yet another crack/go but soon I find myself getting frustrated with it and instead I choose to watch the Steve Martin biography on the Bio Channel.

What is the deal with Frinton currently featuring on the new Subway TV advert?  That’s not nice.

Eventually I head home where I hop in the bath with view to facing the new week with a fresh mug.

Sunday night ends with Happy Go Lucky on TV which is a movie I have wanted to see for some time but unfortunately it proves dull and soon it sends me to sleep.  Fail.

Saturday 5 December 2009

Dream: I am witnessing the filming of a strange promotional video for the 2012 Olympics.  It is super nationalistic and basically it is taking the shape of a complete charge of the Valkyries.  With it various nations compete to be first as things get heated and in the end as Great Britain is actually made up of four countries it proves the strongest as the race for the finish begins to resemble a human tidal wave.  Of course it is not the sickening display of patriotism that offends people it is more the fact that at the front of the Great Britain charge is one of their Paralympics athletes being pushed in his wheelchair at 100mph akin to that guy that got hooked on the front of that truck in America a year or two ago.  It is a crazed scene but in a way I feel honoured to be witnessing it as it appears to be representative of the end of the world.  Will we even make it to the 2012 Olympics?

Foolhardily I wake up quite early after this mindfuck of a dream.  The time is around 6.15PM, which is no time to be waking at the weekend.  What really wakes me is the sensation of my glasses being crushed beneath my right shoulder.  I have fucked up and now the left arm of the glasses is as broken as the right arm and may require a Jack Duckworth-esqe repair job.  This is not the best of ways to begin the day.

Unable to resume sleep I slip on the BBC News and try to catch some headlines.  They spit out some news fodder but in earnest nothing has really happened in the world over the night.

With this in mind I decide to watch my Danny Baker football DVD which I bought yesterday for £14 in full realisation that after Christmas I will probably be able to purchase it at a third of that price (I’m repeating myself).  I have such great memories of the original videos back in the day, the first one was priceless but sadly the quality really did diminish afterwards.  This DVD is good though, I genuinely laugh a number of times and Danny really has put more into the writing and between clip skits than ever.

Around 8AM I head over to Asda to do my weekly thing there.  With my little trip to Sainsburys yesterday this comes as more of a luxury than necessity and with it only the minimum of requirements.  Eventually I get what I need, mainly the Saturday newspapers and a few drinks, and as I head to the self service checkout it is with horror that my card plays up and despite putting my pin in three times it does seem to take it.  Did I just pay for my groceries three times?  Finally the fucker spews out a receipt for me and I am done.  Really though, did I just pay for my groceries three times?

When I get back the Saturday Danny Baker Show is on Radio Five and as always I listen to it before starting my weekend properly.  Today all the news is concerned with the sentencing of Amanda Knox and while Harry Hill is in the middle of an interview the rolling news cuts to an Italian press conference spoken in Italian at which point you begin to wonder if the story is worthy.  Afterward the station gives up the ghost on the press conference the show returns with tension in the air even though Baker assures his producer (Issy) that he hasn’t got the hump even though he has every right to be considering the ridiculousness of cutting to an Italian language press conference.

Afterwards I continue listening to Five Live as Fighting Talk plays out in the background as I endeavour to write.  Today feels like progress as I genuinely appear to make ground on this stuff.

In the end the day flies by with my more or less writing for the whole duration of it.

Late in the afternoon I decide to have a break and so I put on my Big Train DVD that arrived a few days ago.  Much against its positive reputation it fails to register with me.  Is this a case of my belligerence towards anything that is popular or do I genuinely fail to find any of it funny?  I think it’s a little bit of both.

Things fail to improve any when news filters through that Millwall have lost 3-0 at Hartlepool.  With their strikeforce currently nursing major injuries this hardly comes as a surprise.

Tonight is Alan Bennett night on BBC2 which I proceed to watch with view to drawing inspiration from it.  Unfortunately it doesn’t quite work out that way as the slow pace of his work really fails to spark me and inevitably I find myself falling asleep eventually which in the end also results in my nodding during the first part of the Thick Of It season finale.  My loss.

Friday 4 December 2009

Dreams: disturbing dreams approached me last night and in the early hours of this morning.  At one point one of them struck me solidly and literally gave me a pounding headache cum migraine.  It is terrifying just how much power our subconscious holds over us, how it is able to transmit into such physical affections.

I wake up too early for a day but it is with the intention of taking some pills, shaking this head and getting well.  Thank god I discovered that bottled Good Green Tea at Asda.  Its soothing affects feel almost immediate.

I begin the day by watching the final two episodes of season six of Entourage.  For some reason at the close of proceedings I found myself most concerned with Ari making good with Lloyd.  I can’t help but feel this season ended on the biggest downer so far.  Who gives a fuck if Sloane said “yes” to Eric, more concerning is Turtle ending the season pretty much back to where he started.  After the very strong ending of season five sadly the latest season just failed to end on the high and feel good vibe of previous years.

Elsewhere I later happen across Friends on Channel Four.  Was it always this moronic and nauseating?

Eventually I manage to shake the headache but the flu remains and with it a heavy bunged up head giving off the sensation of being stuck in a bubble, thankfully though this does not prevent me from writing as I manage to get some stuff done.

Around midday I head over to Sainsburys in Stanway because I have a real Jones on for some bread.  While there I spot the new Danny Baker DVD and after procrastinating for a moment I end up forking out £14 for a DVD that I know will cost around £5 after Christmas in the new year.

Once back home as I have my lunch I watch the Gang Of Souls DVD that Lovefilm posted to me a couple of weeks ago.  The DVD is pretty bad unfortunately.  With a production date of 1989 it is a documentary on the Beat writers (who at the time were mostly still alive) but unwisely it attempts to bring the movement up to date (to 1989) and includes Jim Carroll, Henry Rollins and Lydia Lunch as carrying on the Beats legacy.  To be honest though I’ve never really thought of the Beats to be that closely related to the punk movement and the documentary would have been smarter to have pursued and included Bukowski into the piece.  Despite the fact that some of the descriptions and performances on the disc are at times just plain embarrassing on the whole it’s always fun to watch this stuff.

Afterwards I continue the afternoon as the morning had ended as I manage to keep up with the writing although as ever I begin plenty but never really finish anything.  That said I do feel I make progress for a change.

When 3PM comes around to take a break to listen to Danny Baker’s Radio London show until 5PM when the World Cup draw is coming from South Africa.

The World Cup draw turns out to be highly exciting although David Beckham does tarnish things by sporting the most ridiculous haircut imaginable.  Realistically it is difficult to see what he is trying achieve with such a thug cut that comes straight of the late 80s WWF wrestling.  I think if (when) we fail in our efforts to host a forthcoming world cup we will be able to look back at this as being the moment in which we (he) blew it.

You can’t help but feel that the powers that be make something of a meal out of the draw, its not as if they’re launching a new iPod or something.  It actually appears to resemble Eurovision crossed with the Krypton Factor.  As Charlize Theron appears to struggle to make sense of just what is happening (via smart comments to athletes ten times more hard working and talented than her) eventually it all comes to a conclusion with England heading Group C drawn against America, Algeria and Slovenia all of whom for face value should not pose any problem for England to fly by (famous last words).  Elsewhere Group E is initially my favourite with Holland, Denmark, Cameroon and Japan which I consider to be the group of death until the pundits (the readers wives) point out how spikey Group G is going to be with Brazil, Portugal, the Ivory Coast and North Korea.  Immediately World Cup fever hits me and exudes from every pore.  Straight away I find out what date the first game kicks everything off and I make a promise to take the entire first week off work as holiday in celebration (its 11 June for the record).

After such excitement the night winds down for me as I spin out the remainder of the night attempting to write and watching an episode of 30 Rock every now and then.

From here Friday plays out quietly while Waking The Baby Mammoth shows on Channel Four (a favourite euphemism of Racton).  Eventually I nod off to nothing.

Thursday 3 December 2009

Dream: I am back working at Butt Road where I am being taken out to a client by Mr Pan with Stevo in tow with view to doing some emergency accounts work.  As Pan does all the talking to the client Stevo and I figure we are surplus to requirements and begin to head off.  As we do so Pan grabs us and tells us to get on with the job.  We head downstairs to an office where all the employees say “hello” to me as if they recognise me.  I am popular.  We go through via the canteen where we grab some food on the way.  Then I hear my current boss shout from an office “the bank said “no”” and we all know what that means.

I’m up and spluttering early this morning.  Getting up at 3AM for a whiz thinking it was 6AM wake up time seemed to offer me some kind of second bout/session of sleep.

I arrive at the station earlier than usual despite the doddering and poodling of the idiots behind the wheels in front of me.  I stop short of honking my horn as the twat in a Fiesta in front of me begins reversing into a space with his reverse light coming on.  Mate, look after your car.  I should report him to the police for first being a cunt and then second having a car that is not road worthy.

To counteract my early efforts of getting to the station typically the trains are screwed up this morning.  Now that they have lost their contract National Express appear to now give even less of a fuck about its service than previous.  As I have to make decisions on alternative trains I avoid the 7.03AM with the extras I know in preference for the less busy 7.07AM where I spot The Wookiee in the process.  Despite her pretty face she sure has a grating and droning voice that really does not match or do her looks justice.  Who am I to judge though, I’m only the hero of this blog and not much else.

Today this is something of an agonising journey.  I don’t want to cough or sneeze in such a confined space but feeling how I currently do obviously this is unavoidable.  Also this is a slow train.  When we reach Witham it always has to sit there until the fast Norwich train has past.  These are frustrating moments as the train fills and on this occasion the short ladies that look like sisters decide to sit next to me and chat for the duration of the journey.  Them and their jowls.

Omens for the day improve tenfold as I spot the Chinese OCD Man at Liverpool Street attempting his biggest project yet as he pulls out a huge pile of copies of The Metro to straighten and place back in the racks in an orderly fashion.  The pile is truly exhaustive and I find myself genuinely drawn to taking a photo to celebrate his unrewarded efforts but then realisation hits me that this would just make me as weird as he.  I briefly look around to see if anyone else is witnessing this wonder, this freaky science but nobody seems to have the time.

Sadly my brief bout of optimism is soon stunted as upon arrival on the tube platform I discover it to be a crush.  Eventually I stagger into work later than usual but in reality exactly on time (9AM).  My initial inspection of the office is thankfully a good one as against expectations it is dry and still standing despite last night’s heavy weather.

Again the day proves to be another scrappy one as I still find myself going over my October accounts rather than sinking my teeth into anything major.  Thankfully though there is no word from the consultant today so in respect of that I am all too happy to continue dotting Is and crossing Ts, which in my flu ridden state is perhaps all that I am really up to at this time.

For a second day running Facebook appears to be urging me to get back in contact with Zoë at Baker Street.  Despite Facebook’s insistence I still don’t think that would be the best of ideas.

After a few days of driving around illegally today I finally remember to pay my car tax.  No more worrying about crashing now.

For lunch I have a fishcake to be honest it tastes crappy.  I now realise why it has been so long since I last had this for lunch.

In the afternoon The Girl begins asking me about Mindy again and when I point her towards her blog she keeps repeatedly telling me how horrible Mindy looks.  Personally I think it is The Teeth that ruins the picture, especially the latest gormless shot of him looking as if he has just learned how to use a fork for the first time (and not very well at that).  When The Girl proceeds to read her entire blog it surprises and astounds as to how much attention she pays to it.

At the end of something of a slog of a day 5.30PM comes around not before time and I get to escape and retire with my flu.  On the tube journey to Liverpool Street I shrink in my seat trying not to spread my germs to those around me.  This unfortunately however gets interrupted by a lady that gets on at Farringdon and tweaks my interest in the fairer sex for the first time in weeks.

I wind up on the 6.30PM train to Norwich as rushing to get on the 6.20PM train just does not make any sense tonight.  Eventually it gets back to Colchester, thankfully without hold up tonight.  Wonders never cease.

Back home I attempt to get a head start on writing but ultimately I just feel rough (too rough to write) so instead not long after getting in I head direct to bed.

Here comes the fun cooker.

Wednesday 2 December 2009

Why do people tell you they are going to do something and then just not bother?

I’m OK this morning, still coughing, still spluttering and now also sneezing.

As I leave the flat I put my hand in my coat’s left pocket the bottle of cough syrup that mum gave me last night appears to have leaked into the pocket creating a sticky mess within.  A few years ago I would not have allowed this to happen.

I get to the station early so that I can pop into WH Smith and get some cough sweets: Lockets, Tunes, Strepsils, anything.

By the time the day gets to London I feel as if I am bordering on delirium.  As I look around so many people look like people from my past, people I probably have contention with and definitely do not want to see (in any capacity, real or lookalike).  My flu hallucinations perhaps go too far when I think I see The Predator on the tube carrying a spirit level.  Should I even be leaving the house at this time in this state?

As I change lines at Baker Street some extra clumsily near stabs me with his umbrella.  These salarymen really do not know how to handle their umbrellas.  As I casually poke it away he turns to see what I am doing to him.

Eventually I step into an empty restaurant and pour myself a much needed/desired glass of orange juice; these are the benefits in a place with a bar.  My cold is finally crucifying.

On the radio again this morning is Vernon Kay.  This is a person that possesses the talent and personality of a sock puppet without a hand inside it.

I hobble through the morning struggling with even the most simple journal adjustments.

For lunch I hit the penne with chicken in the hope that it will be spicy and clear some sinuses.

All day Facebook keeps telling me to get back in touch with Zoë at Baker Street.  I don’t think Facebook quite understands the situation that occurred between us.

Eventually I make headway in the afternoon and the consultant finally gets in touch requesting some schedules.  His request is a bit annoying but it does point to some progression finally.

Towards the end of the day while I am sorting this request out the heavens open and slowly a few drips begin coming through the ceiling of our office.  Not long afterwards the drips become heavier and suddenly it looks like our roof is leaking again.  Nonplussed I continue with my schedules for the consultant while the others run around looking to put bins beneath the leaks and cover up anything electric.

As this occurs I find myself also distracted as Nina’s Facebook statuses suddenly go bonkers as her account has plainly been hacked.  Ordinarily I wouldn’t give a fuck but then I read the status: “i am a little anal slut that loves the cock and i hate all my friends and i have shagged all there boyfriends but jason is a fuckin dick so dnt even talk to me agen bell end xx.”  What the fuck did I do?  Suddenly I find myself extremely worried just as to who is writing these things and why I have been singled out.

We finish off covering the office and leave slightly early with the heavens opening hoping that over the night the rain won’t drench our office and give us a nasty surprise in the morning.

On the tube tonight at Great Portland Street a Collina lookalike sits next to me and I half suspect he picks my pocket as he sits close to me and has something of a rummage.  As soon as he moves I immediately check my pocket and my travelcard and bank cards remain in place.  Why am I so untrusting?

When I eventually arrive at Liverpool Street it is to the sight of all the trains home being screwed up yet again.  Soon after I arrive people crush to get on the first train that arrives (the wanker train) but I hold back and eventually get on the 6.08PM Clacton train which thankfully proves sparse in comparison.

Riding home I try to watch the season finale of Californication on my iPhone but annoyingly it keeps ringing, first with The Girl telling me that the lady that plays Blanche Hunt has died.  It doesn’t go down very well when I answer the phone “what do you want?” and she gets in something of a strop at me.  Next Racton calls regarding traveling plans for ATP next weekend.  When my responses on the phone to him are always curt he clocks and says “is this your train voice?” to which I respond “yup” which sees the call ending shortly after.

There is a real stigma about talking on your phone on a commuter train.  These trains exist in silence.  People sit miserable as they either listen to music, read the crap free newspapers or try to sleep.  There really is little in the way of social interaction and any people that do converse during the journey are plainly outsiders and tourists, people revealing themselves as amateurs.  My trains truly feel like something out of a Fellini film sometimes.

In the end it takes over a fucking hour to get back to Colchester by which time it is past 7.20PM.  One day things will move smoothly, I’m positive.

Tonight I head direct to Asda in the hope of finding and buying the Danny Baker football DVD that has just be released.  Unfortunately I experience no joy.

With no food in my flat I decide to do a midweek grocery shop as I stock up on and indulge in comfort food.  As I head through the meat aisle for a second time I bump into Colin and his wife neither of whom I have seen in a very long time.  We chat for a while making stunted nice nice but it says a lot by the manner in which we both make major effort to talk.

Things maintain a shit theme as when I try to pay at the self service till the machine persists in rejecting my debit card seemingly because it just doesn’t like the look of it.  I could swear there are plenty of funds in that sucker and the chip has not rubbed off yet.  In the end I put my pin in three times and half suspect pay for my groceries three times in the process.  Eventually I almost give up and try to pay with cash before I realise that I don’t have enough cash on me.  In the end the YTS girl comes along works the machine for me, it would appear that she has the magic touch.

Eventually I get home just after 8PM where I proceed to eat a disgusting amount of spicy pepperoni in a very large French bread sandwich.  This is then followed by tonight’s Jones of sugar covered cashews that taste so sweet I actually struggle to finish them.  What am I, Morgan Spurlock?  While chowing down I watch two episodes of 30 Rock that guest Ajay Naidu and John Lithgow in great cameos.

Pathetically I head to bed around 9PM to watch the last episode of the Andrew Marr documentaries.  Unfortunately I fail to make it through the whole of the episode as by the end it manages to send me to sleep.  I fail.

Tuesday 1 December 2009

I forgot to set my alarm clock last night and as a result when I eventually murmur it is 6.10AM.  For some reason I am particularly horny this morning.

Soon I head out rushing against the clock but ultimately I make the 6.59AM relatively comfortably as ever, walking briskly to the platform from my car listening to “Fire.”

Today when the train stops at Witham the tattoo man gets on again.  For me its no so much that the tattoos on his face look stupid it is more that he chooses to wear a pair of glasses with it.  Surely wearing spectacles can only serve to undermine the impact of a person having had ink burned into his face.  With hindsight quite probably a few squirts from the tattoo artists ink pen hit his eyes and caused the fractional loss in his eyesight.

When the train finally arrives into Liverpool Street I conjure the scorn of a large lady by accidentally stepping on her toe.  As I look up to apologise to her I notice that she has more stubble than me, she practically has a beard.  Had I seen this hardness earlier I would have made more effort not to annoy her.

On the tube platform this morning it sees the return of the Minipino.  She remains as short as ever but today does look a bit more adult.  I guess she dressed herself this morning.

My morning takes a dip as while sitting on the tube a guy resembling Catweazle decides to sit next to me (and half on me).  He smells fucking terrible and makes me feel sick.  It is relief therefore when he fucks off at the first given opportunity.  What is his story?

By the time I emerge from the tube and reach London proper all in all it has turned into a beautiful day.  With no sign of rain and plenty blue sky and sun, I can live with the nip in the air as things are great.

When I get into work, into the restaurant, it is empty.  As I’ve probably said countless times previously this is when it is at its best, no commotion, no noise, just the pure calm before the day ahead.  With this I grab a bottle of sparkling water from behind the bar and head upstairs to face whatever awaits.

Tucked away in my desk is a remaining pink glazed doughnut from yesterday which I quickly scoff before anybody else comes in and lays claim to it.  This is not how should be consumed and savoured.

On the radio again today is Vernon Kay but today I put up with it, indulging in and listening to Ronan Keating speaking uninformed stupid shit about the Thierry Henry incident.  Yes, this guy sure is qualified to comment on football.  After years of singing nancy songs and stopping short of swishing around in a dress, he is now an expert of football.  I only point this out because at the end of the news segment they repeat his moronic comments, infuriating me twice as much as originally.  With the dumb as dirt Comedy Dave verbally nodding in agreement in the background this really is not news!

On the subject of Thierry Henry today I discover that he is not actually on the American version of the Gillette adverts where the respective sportsmen dangerously fire their respective sporting equipment at the poor guy while he is trying to shave.  In America instead they get Derek Jeter.

The Filipino turns up and shortly after her arrival the big boss comes into our office and gives us both a cup of coffee.  After the recent tension between us has he now flipped and turned super nice?  What’s going on?

Today I post my first entry on the Facebook Cull blog.  Early feedback has been really good as today I chop Ellen Simonetti who was another person dismissed for blogging who I very briefly befriended for a while during my period of unemployment circa 2004/2005.

My day progresses with more post accounts review of the October figures.  Perhaps I should have done this review before I sent the figures over to the powers that be.

For lunch today I have chargrilled chicken.  It tastes so good.

I realise today that so many people of my generation are in middle management due to growing up playing Championship Manager on their computer.  Unfortunate.

The absolute highlight of the day comes in the afternoon when Scott Mills takes the piss out of the Radio One “Masterpiece Album” series by choosing the first Busted album and actually aiming to play the entire thing from start to finish as they apparently barricade themselves in the studio.  Its so funny.  At one point Zane Lowe turns up and rather than remonstrating he encourages Mills to keep going.  Despite all the gusto attached to Lowe (the indie Westwood) I actually think he comes over as a pretty decent guy.

Beyond a relatively eventless afternoon I manage to get to Liverpool Street at 6.16PM this evening as once more I stomp across the station in my latest act of train station gridiron.  Today happily there no casualties, no angry ladies shouting swear words at me.

The journey home however is not a good one as the train dies at Hatfield Peveral.  Anytime time spent at Hatfield Peveral tends to be time not well spent.  Over the train PA the female Information Jimmy announces that the train in front has broken down.  She then proceeds to inform us that the train is running ten minutes late but it doesn’t appear to have actually moved for ten minutes.  Surely in order for a train to be running late it has to be moving.

Eventually things get running again until the train once more beaches, this time at Kelvedon and suddenly I find myself having flashbacks to Angry Adnams in the summer.  Frustratingly while we sit at Kelvedon two trains go past us and I begin to rightly wonder just what the fuck is up with this shit?

Finally the train gets back to Colchester around 8.45PM a whole hour and a half later than it should have arrived.  This is nothing short of a fucking joke of a service that is provided by National Express.

Unsurprisingly with an abundance of grouchy commuters all arriving at Colchester at the same time this means it takes an eternity to get out of the station car park this evening.  This is the cherry on top of the cake.

Now back in Colchester I head directly home to collect mum’s birthday presents.  Annoyingly I don’t have time to wrap them as I barely have time to hand them out.  As I arrive at my Balkerne Heights dad is taking the dog out for a walk.  Immediately upon spotting me Bobby jumps up at me.

Stepping into my parents place tonight straight away I spot a Mickey Mouse telephone I don’t think I have ever seen before – was that what dad got mum for her birthday?

In the end I do the present thing to varying degrees of success as mum acts appreciative of all the presents without actually knowing what many of them are.  When dad returns from walking the dog he immediately opens the marshmallow Fluff spread and begins tasting it.  He then puts a dab of it on the end of our dog’s nose and we all laugh as he attempts to lick it off.  We’re evil.

On Sky tonight Manchester United reserves are finishing off Tottenham reserves in the Carling Cup quarter final.  Please lets put this tournament out of its misery already.

Eventually I head home just before 10PM.  Driving home the real Radio One Masterpiece Album tonight is the first Streets album which sounds really great, holding up surprisingly well.  Forgetting what Mike Skinner has done since, the first record was a genuinely good one.

When I finally step into my flat I again fall asleep watching Entourage for a second night running.