Friday 20 March 2009

It is with an eerie atmosphere that today begins as peaceful sense surrounds and a delicate curtain of mist/fog descends on what otherwise would be a gorgeous beginning to a beautiful day. The air is not crisp and without bite, which makes for a morn more than comfortable.

Arrival at the station continues the weirdness as regular faces are missing from the platform huddle and when the train arrives it feels less filled than usual. This is a plus.

Alas my early optimism soon bites me on the arse as the ginger bearded twat from a couple of times a couple of weeks ago decides to, on cue, sit opposite me. Fortunately today he is not wearing his starch soaked pointed (daggered) long coat but his mere existence and stupid ginger beard still serves me to manifest unspoken contempt for him. I begin to close my eyes and pretend he is not there.

This gesture however is only topped when some stupid fucking bitch decides to sit next to me despite the abundance of empty seats spread through the sparse carriage. Really there is some unwritten rule amongst commuters that you no don’t unnecessarily sit next to a person, surely! Or did I just invent just a common sensical rule and approach to proceedings.

Well, as fail to respond to her taking the seat next to me (ie not budging over) eventually she gets the message after brushing elbows with me one too many times as she reads her annoying fucking newspaper. As she moves to the seat next to the ginger guy (ha ha) she makes some comment in the process but this is drowned out by the Collings And Herrin podcast playing on my iPod. My only conclusion can be that she isn’t quite yet clogged up and is currently experiencing the squalling pain of one of the final blobs.

As a result of this it would appear now that karma should dictate that a real behemoth would now take said seat at the next stop (Kelvedon). Surprisingly however this does not happen and I begin to take heart in the schadenfreude act, which should not be permitted. The ginger guy however gets in his final blow as he bashes me (by accident, I think) with his bag at as we arrive at Liverpool Street while I spend my time avoiding eye contact with the angry lady.

The train paused at Bethnal Green today meaning that once more on cue it is late pulling in at 8.04. My obsession with this clock continues.

Regardless of all this though this morning I feel excited and exuberant. For the first time in a long time things are feeling almost electrifying.

Compared to yesterday, today in the office is relaxed and lacklustre, the calm after the storm that has been the rest of the week. The operations manager makes comment on how I have joined the iPhone family (is this a metaphor for now fitting in that extra bit more with the work team?) and the MD is plainly in high spirits as he dishes out a bacon and egg sandwich to yours truly which I snort up in seconds.

The girl is late which makes me fearful as I read on Facebook yesterday that she would be catching up with friends last night and when she phones me up she tells me how she has ballsed up a short cut in Kensington Town. She means Kentish Town. When however the MD comes into our office brandishing her Barclays card that she has plainly dropped on the floor it means she would have been short of beer money last night. Relief. We watch as he places the blue card on her keyboard when really we should all be trying to work out what her pin number is.

Incidentally I recently had it pointed out to me just what a ridiculous term “pin number” is. PIN stands for “personal identification number” so when we use that term we are in effect saying “personal identification number number”. FAIL.

Today I am mainly dotting Is and crossing Ts (or rather “crossing Is and dotting Ts” as I said the other day) and as a result I never really get going as there isn’t really anything to sink my teeth into. This is the calm before next weeks storm as another deadline for next Friday is beginning to loom already.

At lunchtime I have fishcake and shortly afterwards I prolapse twice. That’s not a good sign. Fortunately the other person to have the fishcake also does not display such symptoms.

During our “hour” the office is suddenly obsessed with the new Google Streetview website as everybody except me gets to show off pictures of their home on the internet. The photos do not even stretch to the place in Harlesden. Instead I resort to showing off pictures of knocking shops that I know.

Ultimately it is a typical slow Friday afternoon. Soon we are the final people left in head office as I finally upload/publish the first entry on the new era of JGRAM WORLD even though I really dislike and feel embarrassed by the writing.

Towards the end of proceedings I find myself chatting to my boss as he feels the lazy day also. I become privy to various pieces of information in the act.

We leave slightly earlier on the usual time for a Friday evening and this becomes the first time this year that I ride a train home in the light. With it the ladies look prettier and train feels faster. The view leaving Liverpool Street is astounding – the gherkin looks radiant, the HSBC tower appears sturdy compared to the finances held within and the Stratford Olympic stadium is really beginning to take shape along with the constructions surrounding it. 2012 is already beginning to take shape.

As all things around me appear to enthuse and excite why does my mood take a distinct dip? As I begin to unravel I feel I need to get a grip on proceedings. Suddenly it occurs to me, this is FAD – Friday Afternoon Depression is full flow. On such a wonderful and luxurious evening, why is it that I am stuck on a train heading home to an empty flat? Once more I cannot help but fell only a couple of years ago I would have had somewhere to go and something to do on a gorgeous evening such as this. Apparently not.

By the time the ride reaches dusk the view is painfully beautiful enjoying the most flattering of lighting schemes – the detailed blemishes are hidden while the shape and soul of the world remain. The red sky I view on my train journey home is the one to thrive for, to desire and wish would last forever.

As the Kurt Vonnegut documentary podcast I am listening to (Tank Riot) ends I scan through the negativity of the tracks and artists on my iPhone and through them the beacon of positivity is A Love Supreme by John Coltrane. This record makes me tingle.

Arrival back into Colchester is full of bittersweet envy. As I trudge along with my fellow commuters I found myself pining and wishing for some of their lives.

On the way home I stop by my parents who are still wrestling/struggling with Ryanair.

During today mum tried to return the copy of Rock Band I accidentally bought from GAME last Saturday. She tells me that she has been successful in them taking it back but they deemed it damaged and used as apparently the disc was scratched and had a finger mark on it. As a result of this they would no longer be able to sell the title, as new and instead they would have to sell it as used. Fuck me, I never realised that discs were so fucking delicate. So now what are they saying by taking the disc back, my smudge might stop it from working but that’s ok if someone buys it as a used disc, when purchasing a used disc from GAME it does not come with a guarantee that it works? This confuses me slightly so when I try confirming that they gave me a full refund on my debit card mum responds “no, they gave me a voucher for £20.” The game cost me £25. Suddenly just like that GAME has made £5 out of me from nothing. This really is not a normal way of procedure in commerce and retail and I feel the store (GAME) has royally taken my naïve mother for a ride. Not believing that GAME has pulled such a fast one I keep asking mum if she is joking and it turns out she’s not, GAME has just taken the piss. Obviously if I am not happy with this I should have just gone and sorted it out myself but as I express my shock and disgust at what has happened my old man gets fucked off at me and throws a fiver at me to make up the difference. I try to explain that I am fucked off at GAME instead of them but I don’t think they believe me.

Not long afterwards tired I head home for a dead Friday night in once more. As I drive out of their complex a car cuts out on me and suddenly just decides to park in front of me. I refuse to drive around because he should not be parking where he is but he just gets out and waves me around. Already pissed off I got up the fucking wall. So what do I do? Do I jump out of my car and shout at him? Do I drive my car straight into his heap? Nope, as I drive around his car and pass him I honk my horn a couple of times. What a fanny.

Unsurprisingly by the time I finally get home my day has managed to dip from happy to anger by a ridiculously bipolar degree/level. Rubbish.

Thursday 19 March 2009

Weird dreams: only in portions and lacking cohesion the two thinks that struck me last night were finding myself walking down Pier Avenue in Clacton only to find myself passing my American friend and her weird Merchant-lite looking boyfriend. Nothing happens. This is then followed by another meeting at work similar to yesterdays, with the Baker Tilly dude telling me he has found a new problem with the accounts. It appears that work is now not only cutting into my private/personal life it is also rearing its head in my subconscious. I am obsessed with these things!

Today’s date is a big deal to me as it is the first anniversary (of many) that I left Baker Street. With hindsight so much went wrong with that job and in my defence the majority of woes were not my fault. I think there were two major errors beforehand in a) my desperation to take the first job offered to me (a six grand salary hike in one leap would be tempting to anyone) and b) the rushed manner in which the employment agency conducted itself and the apparent lies it told me about the role and portfolio I would be inheriting. I should have perhaps taken it as a sign when on my way to the second interview a train on the tube derailed.

I still remember vividly this day last year. The woman that made my life hell for seven months barely left her office all day on my final day and as I left the office the sneering evil look that Mr Dales gave me was an indication with hindsight of the problems that I would have getting my final paycheque out of the company coupled by some kind of bogus acusation (sic) of my speaking to a client about fees.

So here I am one year later full of regret of going to that place at all in the first place. It still baffles me as to what went wrong. I guess not being what I would call a “Stepford employee” went against but just as to why to frosty lady from Shropshire (Moriarty) thought she could get away bullying me in the manner she bullied my predecessor out of the company also (apparently) is a mystery. At the same though the company obviously works in the manner it operates even if by appearance it is built on sand. I feel a lot of anger and resentment towards the company at times but ultimately it is disappointment of a failed opportunity to potentially strike gold for all parties involved.

Otherwise though, away from such reminiscing and analysis I feel good this morning. In a false economy my clothes feel baggy and as a result I feel lighter. XXL will always do that to/for a person.

The walk to the station is painless although the debris I see on the way causes concern. First I pass a car number plate followed by a taxi badge, quite possibly from the same vehicle. Next the flattened Pringles tube is a little more to be expected but is still representative of some kind of aggressive act and this carnage is finally completed by puke at the bus stop outside the train station trickling into the road that I have to tactically step over – what the fuck was going on last night?

On the train the lady from Colchester that Warren from Baker Street used to work with and introduced me to exactly one year ago sits next to me. Talk about coincidence. We do not bother to acknowledge each other though, that would take effort.

The train pulls into Liverpool Street eight minutes late. I am now finding myself becoming fucking obsessed with recording how late my train is every morning.

(CENSORED)

As I emerge from St Johns Wood station towards the restaurant I notice a Gym Mum with an absolutely insane fanny bulge. It looks as if her snatch is larger than my cock! It is only noteworthy as an example of how Gym Mum’s really should find something else to do with their days after dropping their spoilt brat off at school. So what is it exactly that I find attractive about these things?

Despite stepping into work with much apprehension it all turns out OK. The highlight of the day for everyone is when I fall off my chair reaching down to pick up a piece of rubbish off the floor that the girl threw at me in the first place.

Today my heart pops.

As I leave work I chat with the manager for an extended period and then my boss comes down on his out also and we briefly take the time to have some wind down drinks. As a result of this I find I am a little bit pissed on the train ride home.

While walking home via the olds Staff creeps up behind me just as I am losing my shit to the Wackness mixtape DJ D-Nice did for the movie. It’s great to bump into him even if conversation is a bit stunted but friendly after we have both obviously had tough days.

Stopping by my parents’ place to see the dog I pull the teenagers trick of pretending to have not had anything to drink at all.

After a microwave burger I am somewhat sobered up and ready to head home to very little other than bad TV and comfortable bed.

Wednesday 18 March 2009

I emerge this morning from some kind of dream but I forget it almost immediately after arising.

I would really have liked to have stayed in bed today, as the alarm screams to awake it coincides with something of an unfortunate cosy state. The ability to remain in bed on a weekday is a luxury that I have long since been able to indulge.

Today once again I consciously decide against my kickboxing class this evening. As my foot heads towards fully healing (I believe) I sense attending the class would only serve to set it off back down to pain city.

Despite the suggested summer state of the day I am somewhat shocked when I have to scrape frost off my car window. Still!

Only the train ride into town a (not literally) beaten up looking woman sits opposite me with the look and expression of a lady that has been raped. Hard. Unfortunately this is what I have to sit staring at all the way to Stratford – damn these commution journeys.

Likewise at Kelvedon a woman with her daughter (apparent) sits next to me. They are obvious amateurs to this rush hour lark as I watch the pair of them get their stupid women’s magazines out, the ones that have problem pages aplenty and numerous stories where women have become victims of one ailment or another, the ailment usually being begat from man. These magazines are the print equivalent of Loose Women. Once you pass the gloss of the photos of models and Jade Goody dying the subliminal message appears to be screaming “do not trust men, give them a hard time at every opportunity you get.”

Anyway, to the woman sitting next to me I pay her no mind until I notice that she fucking smells. When they thankfully get up and get off at Chelmsford I look up at the great riddled pair and acknowledge that I would still do her up the arse should the mood take me to such a place (yeah, as if I would ever be capable of doing that to anyone or anything).

Eventually we arrive at Liverpool Street only to sit outside the station for five minutes with our thumbs up our arses. By this point the rape woman is getting her revenge on me as her empty coffee cup that she left behind on the floor keeps banging into my new DC shoes.

As I hurtle towards North London on the tube I feel my body grind to a halt as the long days catch up with me and I begin to sag.

On the tube at Kings Cross I find myself being accosted by some black woman storming me as I take the seat she was previously sitting it before getting off. At first I think she is turfing me out of the seat for some reason but then she gargles something about a ticket. Tightly I grip my iPhone as it all appears a scam to rob me. Luckily she soon fucks off onto the streets of Kings Cross. Was my reaction racist?

At Baker Street once more I see the Baker Street Dwarf yet again. Is this becoming my equivalent of the Ally McBeal dancing baby?

On the tube from Baker Street to St Johns Wood I find myself confronted with the sight of a kooky lady finishing off what appears to be a large jar of mustard by scooping it out with a large spoon. Of course it is probably some kind of home made yoghurt but eating in such a fashion with such a coloured food, it is just fucking odd looking. Soon she is done in what, judging by the size of the spoon and jar, must have been a lengthy process in total. Then she flosses.

Flossing at the best of times is a slightly disgusting thing when shared with spectators but this woman looks fucking determined to max on oral hygiene. Judging by the food stuff from the jar it seems unlikely that there would be much from there to be flossing for so I can only but figure it is loose pubic hairs she is looking to remove.

As I get off the tube it is at the same time as a little black school girl with her hair in bunches and when the pair of us notice the crazy lady following behind us we both speed up our ascent out of the station to get away from the trailing loon.

Today is the day of “cuddles in bed.” When I checked my Facebook first thing this morning two people had become “fans of cuddles in bed.” To me this only proves how a) relationships and b) social networking websites can turn brains to mush. From here I proceed to rant to the office (room) about how wet such a public gesture is and how this is potentially the end of civilisation. Surprisingly I feel I get a fair amount of support.

This Wednesday is a hell day all about make manoeuvres and gestures towards keeping the bank happy. Unfortunately this also coincides with the occurrence of every distraction known to man. At one point however when assisting the FD I notice one of the other directors browsing on Facebook. Skillz.

I stay back a little after the 5.30 home time just to make sure that everything is all right and if I am needed, I am still around. And indeed I am as I assist with a quick computer/email problem before heading home.

As I leave I am thanked for my help. After a day of tidying up errors I inherited but have never been able to get a handle of due to the rushing of jobs, I have tended to find myself feeling my performance has been distinctly sub par and were I in the boots of my employers I could be tempted to start looking elsewhere.

Getting off the tube at Liverpool Street this evening I notice Adam from Baker Street, a timely reminder and ghost from my recent past.

I return home late, briefly stopping by my parents’ before arriving home to Bohemian Grove exhausted. On TV I begin watching Interview With A Vampire but it is a slow boring dog of a movie and I never got into gothic stuff anyway (unlike some of my strange friends and their Paradise Lost record collection).

Tuesday 17 March 2009

It’s St Patrick’s Day I believe but being neither Irish, a Guinness drinker or a Leprechaun, it really does not fuss me. This is the kind of occasion my previous co-workers would/must love to celebrate, a pointless excuse to become part of the mooing mob in a politically correct charged occasion, a now rendered almost pointless Hallmark holiday especially when indulged outside of its home and country of origin. This is the Irish Christmas and, much like Eid, that is where it should stay. If you disagree with me you are probably a green clown hat seller with an additional agenda all of your own. I really hope they do not celebrate with fireworks in this current resurgent climate.

This morning I come out of my slumber without having experienced any weird dreams! I think….. Unfortunately later in the day I do recall a dream where I make one of my current co-workers cry. Sounds like me.

I actually manage to leave my crib one minute early this morning, which means the walk to the station, is almost leisurely and relaxed. As I get to the station on time it feels like an eternity waiting on the platform for the train to arrive to chariot me to London.

An otherwise boring train journey into town this morning would have been the usual boring hotchpotch occasion were it not for the funny looking woman sat opposite going fucking mental just as the train pulls out of Chelmsford. As she jumps and swings her head/hair like she has rabies it knocks me out of a quick forty winks and suddenly I begin to fear for my own safety, especially as the marks (birth) on her neck suggest disease and her weird style does not look by design. Fortunately she is with her other half sat to her left (they are in almost matching attire) and he grabs something up in a tissue from off her seat and saves the day the fanny. When we get off at Liverpool Street it turns out her little fit had been brought on by a fright from a spider. She is absolutely mental.

Shock fucking horror, this morning the 7.30 train actually arrives into Liverpool Street for the first time this year as the clock shows 8.00 upon arrival. Surely this is the best of signs for an optimistic day. Even the fat fucker with crap facial hair that cuts in front of me at the barrier cannot upset my mood as I kick him in the heels in acknowledgment. Today is not going to be his day.

About ten minutes later as I stand on the tube I find myself facing a young Frank Bruno lookalike in a suit. It’s a look.

As I arrive at St Johns Wood and turn the corner onto Loudoun Road and as with every morning the yummy mummies are doing the morning school run. Today I see the absolutely perfect arse, perfect in shape, perfect in size. For the longest time I can’t help but gawp at it’s peachy beauty until I realise that I am in fact gawping in the direction of a school and bordering on looking like a nonce. Being a Yummy Mummy though, that is the life: drop the kids off at school, pop to the gym and then for the rest of the day do FUCK!!!! ALL!!!!!

It is a busy morning and once I get going I work solid non-stop but still do not really manage to accomplish anything. These can be frustrating times. Beyond lunch the afternoon turns out to be more of the same.

Riding home the train is a normal and as we pass through Shenfield the pace/momentum of the train makes me suspicious. Eventually unsurprisingly the fucking thing stops moving altogether not long afterwards, sitting just outside Chelmsford. With each passing day it is fast becoming evident to me that I could drive the train much better than these clowns.

Today the new Apprentice contestants are announced in the free evening newspapers – not a looker amongst them.

On the journey home I am listening to the Tank Riot podcast about Devo and slowly I feel myself become VERY exciting about seeing them twice in May.

Gradually as the train pulls into Colchester North Station (late, obviously) a kid in/with an Afro steps right on my new shoes. I highlight this to him and he pats me on the back as if to say “its all right boss.” Sensibly I should have patted him back on the fucking skull.

On the way home I stop by ‘rents feeling hungry and exhausted. The dog is acting strange. After our initial mess around he begins to keep going quiet. It later turns out that this is down to him having boners.

Today I am officially invited to my cousin’s wedding this summer. It is now panic time as the reality of having to find a date for the date kicks in. I do not want to attend the occasion off the back of being part of my parents’ invite; I want my own plus one. Also neither do I want to be there as the “weird single cousin now into thirties” desperate for somebody to dance with. Also unlike Justin and Helen’s wedding, I don’t want to be put on the kids table at dinner during the reception – I’m a grown up in my own right! When I spoke to my cousin about the wedding last summer, shortly after he had made the proposal, I did have somebody in mind but things have now long since gone tits up in that area which is a real shame because my wrinkles aside, should the weather hold out, the occasion will be absolutely beautiful. I now have worry.

In addition to this my parents now ask me about my suits. The sad truth is it is now over four years since I was wearing suits for work and those that I own have now probably since shrunk (or me got bigger – you decide). In reality the best and easiest plan (and probably the eventual) will be for me to buy a new suit for the occasion but part of me thinks it is probably better to try and trim down and fit back into my old suits before I have to begin shopping at some Tall And Fat shop despite being something of a short arse. Pressure.

Eventually I head/get home and manage to scrape a little writing out around an episode of Californication.

This evening Millwall wins 1-0 at Milton Keynes Dons, a team that by rights should not exist. This is a true top of the table clash and after the 1-0 loss to Leicester on Saturday it is unexpected and worth its weight in gold

At 10PM I watch the red button TV feed of 606 with Danny Baker who is wearing a great Millwall retro shirt – I want one of those now. Early into the show while some caller harps on he looks direct into the camera and kisses the Millwall badge letting off the biggest of taunting smiles, it is classic. For one split second the entire football supporter world gets put in its place. The best end to the day possible.

Monday 16 March 2009

Dream: I am back in Notting Hill. The recording studio now owns and runs a charity shop on Portobello Road. In my accountant capacity I make a visit to it to check on the stock. I head into the backroom where I discover Mackenzie Crook working at the shop behind the scenes. It appears that I am the only person that recognises him and when I question him on it he says it is research for a role. I could read into the Mackenzie Crook portion of the dream but I think it might not be a good idea. At another point in the dream I am hanging out with Tracy Morgan, itching to ask him about 30 Rock.

I wake up feeling depressed this morning. On a brighter note my foot is beginning to feel better it is just the remainder of me that is fucked. My self esteem has hit somewhere around rock bottom at the moment and the discomfort caused by the heat will only serve to heighten this for the next six months.

Despite this, much like many of my co-commuters I start out the day wearing my big coat as there is a snap in the air to the mornings still.

On the train this morning reading Thom’s Twitter it reports the latest death wrestling being Test. That’s a drag I thought recent press coverage meant there would be no more such deaths to these guys.

I have apprehension attached to work today. However as I reach the restaurant I find 50p on the steps just outside. I pick it up, surely a sign of good luck. Behind me I swear I hear through my iPod the school kids shout “Jew!” at me. That old un-PC trick still hasn’t died from my days at school.

Unfortunately the office girl does a no-show, which re-affirms my cautious approach to the day. When it is pointed out that she is at the hospital looking after her nephews while their sister is ill the response is “they’re not her kids.” I can see both sides of the situation.

Fortunately though the work panic suggested by the climax of Friday is not initially realised as the pace remains as per usual. I do however find myself in meetings covering old ground. The meetings literally make my head spin.

When I find myself in a meeting with the fiery boss for the first time I brace myself for a bollocking to the point that I gee myself up for a ruck. I guess it is fortunate when it doesn’t happen/come, it would probably have only reduced me to tears.

At lunchtime I have balsamic vegetables as some kind of gesture towards healthy eating. My body responds badly but my energy levels appear to rise.

Sara sends a text apologising for not replying to my Facebook message. I don’t mind.

Late in the day I begin to get leaned on for work I have not had time to complete (being a person down) but fortunately as leaving time hits there is another meeting occurring, one that I am not invited to and as a result I am able to sneak out.

I rush to St Johns Wood tube station and when I get off at Baker Street I see the dwarf that nearly attacked me the other morning. Once more he is rushing. He has aggro written all over him.

When I arrive at Liverpool Street it is to the notification that the 6.20 to Norwich has been cancelled. After shrugging I notice there is a 6.22 to Clacton instead so I hop aboard that one. On the train some Indian dude in sandals sits opposite me and his bare feet gross me out. It is a squashed train.

After hic-cupping a couple of times leaving London the train eventually stops at Shenfield having broken down and this only confirms to me that god hates me.

When the next train comes along it really is not prepared to take a second train’s worth of passengers. As we all squeeze onto the new train it very much becomes a Hillsborough train. I end up getting stuck between a cunt and a rucksack. As ever which such uncomfortable situations I decide to humour my co-commuters by playing my music loudly – tonight’s choice being “The Boatman’s Call” followed by Grinderman.

As the train eventually nears Colchester the battery on my iPhone begins to run out – this isn’t something people tend to talk about or mention regarding the phone.

Just before pulling into Colchester I check my Twitter account and it looks as if they have removed my Fritzl stationery joke. Rubbish.

When I finally get home the daily visit to my parents’ is a brief one. The dog’s new trick/joy appears to be to scrap at my chest and face with his claws. This hurts. If the next time you see my I am deformed, you’ll know what happened.

Finally as I get home to Bohemian Grove I actually muster up some energy to do some writing. To compliment this I run a bath to chill out in and for once upon returning home from work I actually display mature, civilised and adult traits.

All things pause when Stewart Lee’s new TV show comes on and despite my nodding off asleep towards the end he nails it, this is some of the funniest stuff I have ever seen him perform. It is definitely the funniest TV I have seen in a while. As he repeatedly lays into that mediocre hack Chris Moyles (The Korean’s favourite) my heart flutters. It is a shame that the book he tears apart is the follow up to a book dad bought me for Christmas in 2007. I love my dad but I wish he understood.

Afterwards I soak in a late bath feeling that the world is suddenly a better and happier place, regaining some edge.

Eventually I fall asleep watching Family Guy and Gavin And Stacey somewhat contradicting my comedy sensibilities of only an hour earlier.

Sunday 15 March 2009

I have nothing but regret for my past and future actions.

So, after last nights somewhat weird exchange with Sara, I awaken this morning emerging on the other side of a dream where I have found myself being held hostage by terrorists for 21 days. Upon release my main concern appears to be my loss of earnings due to my going past the regulated five absent/sick days in a row. When I am released I sneak home and attempt to steal an extra sick day at home recuperating without notifying my company.

There is absolutely no indication in my dream as to just who the terrorist organisation is. Being my racist (apparent) temperament you would expect it to be Islamic but that’s not how I recall it as the memory fades and dies and becomes distant in my sea of insanity and mental issues.

I awaken far too early once more today, especially for a Sunday. I guess I did crash out early last night but to be up at 7.15 on a Sunday morning really does defeat the point of the Sabbath. And annoying such a jagged time means I miss the headlines on the news when I flip the TV on, not that anything appears to have occurred in the meantime. Didn’t I say this yesterday?

Today the survival instincts are kicking in this morning as I begin to consider/form a contingency plan and calculate just how far my resources would survive me this year should I become unemployed. The reality is initially rosy and suggests I could have a summer of fun but my conscience versus my mentality of responsibility in reality would not allow it even if I do feel inclined to dream it.

These days I am able to reconcile and justify my winsome and playful (really, slacker) weekends with the reality that I spent my weekdays working my bollocks off coupled with four hours squeezed onto trains with other commuter cattle and equally despicable members of society.

Early morning writing is the thing for me, a real winner in the face of potential misery. Watching the clock I decide to write and watch episodes of Californication until 10AM when I will do a newspaper run and maybe snag Guitar Hero 4. The plan is a great success as what I write is gold.

Venturing out is a breeze. I aim for the Sainsburys at Tollgate because to go to Tesco would just mean busy roads and entertaining the idea of road rage and Sunday morning aggro. As I drive along a Stanway road I see a person walking a Westie. Then mere seconds later I see two more people walking Westies and it is a beautiful thing, each looking like Snowy and Bobby while also looking different. Every dog looks happy and playful though. When did West Highland Terriers become the apparent dog of choice for/in Essex?

As I park up in Sainsburys and get out of my car I feel I should be wearing sunglasses as I smile at a sagging sexy lady with her shopping parked next to me. My demeanour and attitude today really does not match the reality of my appearance.

Things take a slight dip in fortune when once more the ATM/cash machine rejects my dogged Natwest bank card (just like it did on Friday when I was getting whore money). One lick of the chip later though and we are back in business. Ironically when I take my newspapers (Observer and Times) to the checkout I discover I have the correct denomination of change in my pocket anyway. Oh well.

I return home after tailgating a pension for most of the journey/ride – at what point this morning did my demeanour/attitude go sour? Back inside the sun suddenly comes out in full strength and unfortunately I know feel resignation at being stuck indoors now for the remainder of the day.

To compensate for such a potential low I put on “Fun House” at an unsociable level before chomping on my final four cocktail sausages.

Today is that Sunday in the month that Observer does its Music Monthly magazine. On the cover is that bland moose Adele (music for people who hate music), the thing that my American friend saw at the Roundhouse just before Christmas in an extreme act of mediocrity and banality. Her company that evening explained everything. I receive much derision and mockery from my friends for digging this magazine even though I admit it is not very good but realistically what the fuck else are you going to read on a Sunday? Fortunately the “Fun House” record is still playing as I read it, the perfect soundtrack to act as a timely reminder as to how the bands in this magazine should sound and act. And just as I type this I look down to see Iggy Pop rooted firmly at the bottom of the monthly downers section for his sell out act of advertising car insurance. There are another 1000 words somewhere else to be written about this little (BIG BAD) decision and moment in time.

Upon returning home I soon begin writing like a mofo getting a lot done for the second day running. There is only a certain amount of gratification from writing for myself and as I edge closer to completion of book #2 I find my heart pumping and my mind enthusing.

I continue to watch episodes of Californication season 2 until I run out of them. It’s a really likeable show, if a somewhat fantasy version of Generation X come good as beautiful people. When those episodes run out I switch to watching old Japanorama shows.

After overdosing today on vitamins and green tea I cannot face my Sunday can of Relentless so I never quite experience that final rush/high before having to leave for Sunday lunch.

Arriving at the olds for 3PM I am met by a very happy dog to see me. On screen the game on Sky is Tottenham vs Aston Villa but it soon gets boring. Afterwards when channel hopping I come across the American Office on Paramount and a particularly killer episode with Dwight having to do public speaking followed by the heartbreaking “take kids into work” episode with its subtle reference to Shockheaded Peter (this always reminding me of the Tiger Lillies and my tenuous link to them via Michelle in Earls Court).

Eventually once more I head home and finally manage to get my Freeview box and aerial working which sees me watching the climax of the original Superman. My god Christopher Reeve was smug and arrogant in that cape.

I fall asleep watching Talladega Nights which takes me back, reminiscing about the weekend I saw the movie in Leicester Square which was coupled with Jenny’s wedding, waking up in Harlesden, exchanging health tips with ladies of the night, watching Clerks 2 in Streatham and living a killer poker night that ended with me passing out on a bath mat in their toilet. Where/when did my life go wrong and stop being like that?

Saturday 14 March 2009

This morning I get rudely awakened at 8AM (on the dot) by somebody ringing my intercom buzzer. As I never have any visitors to my flat I suspect it is either a person pressing the wrong number, a neighbour locked out or somebody fucking about. At this time I was wide asleep in super slumber experiencing the kind of dream you only live once in a lifetime and never get to relive. I am quite literally cursed when it comes to having a lie in at the weekends, if it is not my fucked up body clock it is some fucked up individual ringing my bell both physically and mentally.

As I pick up my intercom phone ready to shout there is a knock at my door. It makes me jump, not least due to the fact I have jumped out of bed butt naked devoid of morning glory. While I scrap around trying to find something to wear the sound of a nuisance waiting outside is booming. When I finally grab my dirty Tony Soprano dressing gown and wrap it around my rude bits I open the door to the sight and sound of a postman saying “Mr Graham?” shoving an unexpected box in my face. I am barely able to open my eyes and thank him before quickly closing the door. I thought my time had come.

The box is terrifying. Its not from a business, it is personal. Is it my birthday? You know and I know that it isn’t. Did I win something of such size on Ebay recently? Nope. Hesitantly I open the box and once in after tearing through the streams of cellotape, the box is full of newspaper – evidently such a sized box was not required.

It is with a gulp that I plough through the newspaper half fearing that any second a swarm of bugs may come flying through the refuse or a body part may suddenly expose itself, removed and severed from its owner’s body.

As I reach the bottom of the box it turns out to be the bootleg Nirvana seven-inch “The Triple Platinum EP” I won on Ebay two weeks ago. Why on earth didn’t the seller just put it in a seven-inch mailer? Plonker. The single looks fantastic though, complete with nonsensical track listing on the reverse. This is a fetish item, a music rarity it is very possible to feel orgasmic about/over.

With my now wide open from the rude awakening I switch on the TV in an attempt to snag the morning’s news. Nothing has occurred overnight.

Just before 9AM I head out to do my weekly shop at Asda. By coincidence as I drive down Balkerne Hill I see dad walking Bobby (or vice versa) and it is a beautiful sight.

I do Asda with no fanfare or occurrence – it just turns out expensive! This is where the credit crunch is, its not on the high streets, those empty high streets, it is in the inflated prices of the supermarkets.

Inside Asda I see the guy Jess that Bella used to like and he once blew her out on going to see Incubus. He still works there, what a life to lead.

It is before 10AM when I return home and I listen to a bit of Adam And Joe on Radio 6 before generically flipping/switching to Jonathan Ross on Radio 2. This has now become my Saturday routine and a habit I hate to break. Regardless the morning is time well spent as I write a lot of stuff I am actually happy with.

Around midday Chris hits me on Facebook with a message about being a reference for him regarding a housing association thing or something. My understanding is that this house is with his current housemates including the guy I used to do Gringo Records with so naturally my gut instinct is not to want to help out but I will, I’m a good guy even if it is shooting myself in the foot instead of cutting off my nose.

I head over to my parents house where the Sky telly is for the Manchester United vs Liverpool game and by the time I arrive it is already 1-1. However I manage to miss most of the game as the old man bugs me about a letter he wants to send to Ryanair regarding the accidental three pairs of tickets he ordered. Unlike me dad didn’t do an NVQ (wahey!) in Business Administration so I end up re-writing most of the letter for both style and content. By the end of it, I am fucking proud. Unfortunately when it comes to printing the letter off the reality of HP printer drivers hits me and I end up spending almost an hour trying to get his printer working. When I finally do there are about six minutes of the game remaining and Liverpool are on their way to somehow trouncing Manchester United 4-1. I feel the score line flatters them but I wasn’t really watching.

After the game I head into town to bank some money. On the way to the bank I am almost accosted by a street mugger from Amnesty. The smug cunt with a clipboard has the balls to say to me “you look like a friendly person” to which I respond by profusely shacking my head at the cheeky fucker – wasn’t the scowl message enough already? The guy wouldn’t speak to me a normal run of life in a social situation so why should we now?

From here I feel the need to exercise retail therapy and this sees me winding up in Game looking for the Guitar Hero games. Noticing Rock Band Solus on promotion I snap it up but unfortunately upon returning home and putting it in the Wii it does not work with a Guitar Hero guitar, which I swore I read on the Internet was otherwise. Epic fail.

So instead of this I find myself watching The Slog Movie in order to avoid the Millwall v Leicester score. When mother comes into the room with her knitting suddenly the rebellion of the hardcore punk on show in the movie begins to feel impotent.

In the end Millwall lose 1-0 to Leicester reversing the score from earlier in the year. A victory wasn’t expected, only hoped for.

When I finally return home to Bohemian Grove it is to the sight of Sara trying to contact me on MSN. Oddly I had just been thinking about her and back in the day while working on Gestures earlier in the day. While I wrestle with (and loss) against my Freeview box to watch the finale of the new Minder, Sara begins snapping at me, seemingly fishing for an argument. This evening though morale is high and I’m not looking to argue back, I am actually really happy to hear from her.

Our exchange is strange. As ever she belittles the UK while expounding on the virtues of Dubai but honestly I wouldn’t want to live under the thumb of the restrictions of an Islamic regime that resembles a building site as it quickly tackily begins to resemble Las Vegas. Then I get the whole spiel about how great love is and how get it is with her other half. With this her typing is shit and out of character, I suspect she is tipsy/drunk.

Eventually I call her up on things “is there something up you want to talk about?” and she lets slip that she is fine but her parents are not and her dad is “suicidal”. She then stops short, saying she can’t tell me anything. She asks if she can call me and I give her what I think is my landline “I think”. The “I think” part appears to offend her as she disappears in an apparent strop. Pathetically the truth is that it has been so long since anyone has called me on my landline, I seriously have forgotten it. With that though, that is it and I do not hear from her again. I send a message of concern via Facebook but with it being the early hours now in the Middle East, she is gone.

My Saturday night revolves around the Eastern Bloc documentary on BBC2. In other words my social life remains somewhat wanting still. Unfortunately the documentary is VERY dry and I soon fall asleep during it.