Monday 20 July 2009
The new week begins drenched in sun. Outside there is a distinct optimism attached to proceedings even though there are showers suggested for later on today. Personally my own enthusiasm for the day is middling but at there is some hint and indication that things are going to work out and when I find a top that has been missing for a couple of weeks now omens suddenly perk up and look good.
The walk to the station is a glowing one as my morning is again soundtracked by the instrumental tracks from “Ill Communication.” When I reach the pedestrian crossing on the way a cyclist says “good morning” to me. Are people suddenly taking to me?
So generally I am in something of a better mood today. Thinking about work I should be starting on the new(ish) company today but the adjustments the consultant gave to me on Friday afternoon are just nonsense so I suspect my existing work will follow through. I actually had dreams about reconciling these accounts last night.
For some reason on the train today nobody wants to sit next to me – do I really take up THAT much space?
So many people look broken on the train this morning. Every face looks weary, half of them are asleep (or attempting) and the remainder look haggard having put little effort into their clothes or appearance. I feel a fully paid up member of this club, unfortunately.
After getting to Liverpool Street and ploughing through the tubes to get to St Johns Wood as I walk up Loudoun Road towards the office once again I see the big red Jack and Stan double decker bus. I almost cheer/applaud its existence and today I notice it is for MCC staff.
The working week begins with builders finally knocking through the entire roof of the toilet/bathroom, somewhat later than schedule. Soon afterwards in a rant reminiscent of Jamie from Thick Of It/In The Loop the big boss starts (rightfully) barking at the builders.
My boss is stressing about doing work on the new company today but I still want to dot Is and cross Ts on the existing company’s June accounts. We are supposed to be royally tearing into the new company but that is nowhere in sight.
A moment of light relief occurs when the operations manager uses the term “my shit” and I inform the room that in fact used to have a band called My Shit, which causes the whole room to laugh. Fortunately when I mention this moment on Facebook a sudden re-interest in the band occurs and a strange sense of confidence about the band exudes even to the point that the heavy metal manager offers to drum for us.
In an attempt to steer the media course bound Girl away from the Channel Five documentaries she loves so much (and appears to envisage herself working on) I try to get her to check out Adam Curtis instead and something with meat and substance. Ultimately I think my recommendation falls on her deaf ears.
The afternoon turns out to be very productive as I move onto new stuff slightly ahead of schedule. Away from work I discover the Tron soundtrack on Play.com for £3 and I begin to wonder whether this is going to be bargain.
On Facebook I discover that Adam Yauch has sadly got cancer and like a fool I say in my status “get well soon Ad-Rock” before realising five minutes later that it is MCA that has cancer. Sometimes I am truly a huge fucking idiot.
Boarding the tube at St Johns Wood I find myself nearly getting killed as some poodling old guy in front of me just gets in the way as the jaws of the carriage slam shut. This is not the first time in recent memory that this has almost happened to me. Has somebody taken a contract out on me? The old FC maybe?
When I am back home, after a brief stop off at the olds in Balkerne Heights, I watch the latest Big Brother show for the Marcus and Noirin saga. This is education right in front of our eyes. It looks like Noirin is taking great delight in using him as an emotional tampon, leading him on royally.
The night ends with BBC1 showing an English called The Gigolos. I think I was probably one of about 50 people that actually saw this movie in the cinema when I saw it in the Prince Charles in between jobs interviews at Metropolis Studios and some grotty pub owned by one of the owners of the Brixton Academy.
Set in Mayfair The Gigolos is a really strange film and not one I would expect to be seeing on BBC1. It’s a strange story of a male escort service that caters for rich old ladies, strange in how the main character (the main gigolo) actually looks like Armando Iannucci to me. It does however make London look amazing in the process and when a scene plays out with “Clevor Trevor” by Ian Dury in the background I can’t help but love the experience. In the end however there does not feel much cohesion to the plot as it becomes easy to lose track of what is occurring and the film commits a kind of cinematic suicide. I like it though.
That said before the movie ends I find I have already fallen asleep and slipped into slumber, more a bad reflection on me than the movie.
Monday, 20 July 2009
Sunday, 19 July 2009
Sunday 19 July 2009
Dream: I am at the Latitude festival with my friends and am having a bad time that is coupled with bad weather. I leave early before it ends.
This morning I awaken at 7.15AM. As I check my watch I fear it is earlier so there is some slight relief attached to the hour.
Initially I do/did wake up in pretty high spirits but as the morning continues the reality that the feelings are made up of false optimism hits home and soon I begin to shudder and slump.
All in all it is an hour too early to actually do anything so I proceed to watch the first episode of The Trap by Adam Curtis. It was perhaps a bit too early to be doing this also as the man broaches another worrying subject with great depth and a lengthy spread of information. The research that must go into these documentaries has got to be around the clock, the kind of homework only Satan himself could order. Who in their wildest imaginations would have been able to link the NHS reformation to Robert McNamara via the guy from RAND. The amount of information that Curtis crams into one hour of his documentaries is so dense that the viewer really needs to be on their feet otherwise they will lose the thread. Welcome to my Sunday morning.
My morning continues with some writing (as ever catch up stuff). When I feel I have done enough to warrant a break I watch my Not The Nine O’Clock News DVD that has been hanging around for weeks and immediately find myself witnessing two sketches that it would appear some of my friends have borrowed from heavily in their show. In the end I laugh out loud much more than I was expecting to at the show and find it hard to imagine a time when it would have been shown, its not like anything that is on TV these days. Firstly the faces do not look “television” enough. Secondly the sketches/jokes and their targets hold a degree of fearlessness, which these days might suffer from being snuffed out for fear of legal action or retribution. Obviously the show has dated but in that now fun grim eighties way. Eighties nostalgia is all the rage now.
Unfortunately before the end of the disc I have to admit/concede to falling asleep as some kind of weird fatigue once more kicks in. Later when I awake the day is now well into the afternoon and is well and truly wasting away. I hate Sundays, they are caked in guilt.
Not really up to doing anything more productive today I end up putting on the Richard Herring “Oh Fuck I’m 40” DVD before heading to the olds at Balkerne Heights for Sunday dinner.
When I get to the olds at 3PM it is with the realisation that my hair has been cut too short. I look at my reflection and it is awful, I am turning into one of those people I have always despised.
I arrive to the sight of my parents watching some dumb TV movie about Christmas on one of those god awful free movie channels on Sky. This is such tripe. And then I find myself getting suckered into also. Drug of a nation.
The dog is bouncing today, he is more excitable than ever these days and has more energy than the three of us combined.
Eventually I manage to commandeer the TV and on goes my Walk Hard DVD but it doesn’t really cut it. I still prefer it to Walk The Line though.
In the evening when I get home to Bohemian Grove just after 8PM it is to another amazing summer evening. Inside my apartment all is peaceful and shadowy.
I watch the second episode of The Trap and again struggle to keep up with it and invariably in a comfortable state/frame of mind I fall asleep.
When I reawaken on the verge of turning in for the night I begin watching Big Brother and it is suddenly fascinating stuff, painfully close to experiences I have had in the past as the Irish bird (Noirin) begins to string along two guys at the same time giving Marcus the cold shoulder as a better model in Tom suddenly shows up in the house. You can learn from this.
I try to stay awake for Factotum but after slogging my way through bad TV comedy I eventually end up falling asleep and missing the movie.
Dream: I am at the Latitude festival with my friends and am having a bad time that is coupled with bad weather. I leave early before it ends.
This morning I awaken at 7.15AM. As I check my watch I fear it is earlier so there is some slight relief attached to the hour.
Initially I do/did wake up in pretty high spirits but as the morning continues the reality that the feelings are made up of false optimism hits home and soon I begin to shudder and slump.
All in all it is an hour too early to actually do anything so I proceed to watch the first episode of The Trap by Adam Curtis. It was perhaps a bit too early to be doing this also as the man broaches another worrying subject with great depth and a lengthy spread of information. The research that must go into these documentaries has got to be around the clock, the kind of homework only Satan himself could order. Who in their wildest imaginations would have been able to link the NHS reformation to Robert McNamara via the guy from RAND. The amount of information that Curtis crams into one hour of his documentaries is so dense that the viewer really needs to be on their feet otherwise they will lose the thread. Welcome to my Sunday morning.
My morning continues with some writing (as ever catch up stuff). When I feel I have done enough to warrant a break I watch my Not The Nine O’Clock News DVD that has been hanging around for weeks and immediately find myself witnessing two sketches that it would appear some of my friends have borrowed from heavily in their show. In the end I laugh out loud much more than I was expecting to at the show and find it hard to imagine a time when it would have been shown, its not like anything that is on TV these days. Firstly the faces do not look “television” enough. Secondly the sketches/jokes and their targets hold a degree of fearlessness, which these days might suffer from being snuffed out for fear of legal action or retribution. Obviously the show has dated but in that now fun grim eighties way. Eighties nostalgia is all the rage now.
Unfortunately before the end of the disc I have to admit/concede to falling asleep as some kind of weird fatigue once more kicks in. Later when I awake the day is now well into the afternoon and is well and truly wasting away. I hate Sundays, they are caked in guilt.
Not really up to doing anything more productive today I end up putting on the Richard Herring “Oh Fuck I’m 40” DVD before heading to the olds at Balkerne Heights for Sunday dinner.
When I get to the olds at 3PM it is with the realisation that my hair has been cut too short. I look at my reflection and it is awful, I am turning into one of those people I have always despised.
I arrive to the sight of my parents watching some dumb TV movie about Christmas on one of those god awful free movie channels on Sky. This is such tripe. And then I find myself getting suckered into also. Drug of a nation.
The dog is bouncing today, he is more excitable than ever these days and has more energy than the three of us combined.
Eventually I manage to commandeer the TV and on goes my Walk Hard DVD but it doesn’t really cut it. I still prefer it to Walk The Line though.
In the evening when I get home to Bohemian Grove just after 8PM it is to another amazing summer evening. Inside my apartment all is peaceful and shadowy.
I watch the second episode of The Trap and again struggle to keep up with it and invariably in a comfortable state/frame of mind I fall asleep.
When I reawaken on the verge of turning in for the night I begin watching Big Brother and it is suddenly fascinating stuff, painfully close to experiences I have had in the past as the Irish bird (Noirin) begins to string along two guys at the same time giving Marcus the cold shoulder as a better model in Tom suddenly shows up in the house. You can learn from this.
I try to stay awake for Factotum but after slogging my way through bad TV comedy I eventually end up falling asleep and missing the movie.
Saturday, 18 July 2009
Saturday 18 July 2009
Dream: I find myself in a second hand record store that specialises in CD singles. As some kind of event occurs outside the building I find myself discovering some real gems from my musical past including a CD single EP of “Her Jazz” by Huggy Bear, even though I don’t even think this ever existed in the first place. I pick up another a CD and want to purchase them but suddenly it appears that I do not possess the means to do so. Suddenly I find myself back at Baker Street and working for that painful company. There suddenly appears to be some new kind of hierarchy set up that almost resembles a classroom, which would fit in with The Korean’s comments of how our the notes from our “manager” were “like being back at school” in addition to the red ink scribble/scrawl she would love to cover my work in. Luckily however our “team” is at the back of the room but in a way that means there is more scrutiny on us. We have some kind of company meeting that resembles a class show and tell basically playing out the wares of our music clients. I have no interest in hearing the latest soft rock Coldplay wannabe or weak release from some Britpop casualty. It would appear my disdain is obvious as from across the room Zoe suddenly hurls some criticism in my direction along the lines of “if you have something to share Jason…..” All of a sudden her under the surface nastiness has shed through the surface. She is commenting on some notes that I have been writing and I respond “they’re just personal” which obviously is frowned upon the masses being some kind of inclination/indication of individualism. Zoe is paying real attention to me, she appears annoyed by me and angry with it. Finally I sense some passion, too little too late. Unfortunately with my delicate frame of mind when it comes to the opposite sex I welcome and get excited by the renewed degree of interest.
At this point my self confidence rises and I begin to speak out some more. I do not speak out with controversial opinions, more better judge what I say and construct some kind of version of what my bosses want to hear in addition to a sensible and rebellious argument. Is such a mannerism possible? Perhaps this is where I am failing in life. As a result I get picked for on location assignment with the Yes Boy in my team. It appears to be some kind of video shoot in Italy by some faceless, dullard act being hyped in a manner that the public is responding to. There actually appears to be very little work involved, just making lots of positive comments and observations. Suddenly it occurs to me that I am beginning to resemble Toby Young from “How To Lose Friends And Alienate People” when he is on the way up (a very small portion of the book/film). At the end of the photo shoot the kid of one of the people involved suddenly needs a piss and the mother finds a hole in the ground right next to where we are standing. As the mother drops his shorts and he begins his business I make the faux pas comment that “in England you would be arrested for doing that” and risking my standing/position I somehow get through as with my new persona this is taken as a cutting edge joke rather than a criticism. Suddenly I have found myself on the winning team after years of being a person to whom such a comment would be their downfall. With the shoot over for the day the Yes Boy and I board an old fashioned train at different ends with view to seeing who can snag the best seat. This is a really old fashioned train, inside resembling something of a private members club with lots of wooden furniture and old stuffy things inside (mainly the passengers). As I walk through the carriages there are no seats empty and as I reach the other end of the train it begins to become apparent the Yes Boy is not on the train and I suspect I have been sent packing. Is the train about to be the ending of me?
I awaken from the dream confused. Suddenly I find my heart is fluttering for Zoe once more and for a few strange moments I actually consider getting in touch with her attempting to rekindle something that there never really was in the first place (but it was close). Luckily I soon shake off the disorientation and remember that it is almost 18 months now I last saw her. Still, regret kicks in as for the Nth time I begin analysing how and why I blew that opportunity.
Today I really need to get my haircut. I am also supposed to be attending the roller derby event in Earls Court but my work colleague’s first match is at 11AM and there is very little chance of my actually arriving in time for that. Priorities first though and that’s the haircut which means I am up at 7.30 (on a Saturday!) washing my hair and shaving for the occasion. Sometimes I think I put more effort into going to the barbers than I do meeting up with females.
I emerge into the Saturday 8AM and I genuinely think that this is my favourite hour of the entire week.
As I look into the mirror I notice that I have put my v-neck jumper on backwards. It is very fortunate that I noticed this before leaving the house.
Eventually I leave the house just after 9AM and head straight down to Holland to get a haircut but first I have to stop and get petrol from somewhere meaning an additional stop at Asda on top of my grocery session later on.
When I get to Colin’s I am first in today and with it he is chatty but as I respond and make conversation I don’t think I do myself any favours.
In very quick succession I soon get my hair done and within an hour I am speeding back to Colchester. Once back in town I head to Asda to do my shopping. In there it is a very slow day, which pretty much matches my own movements.
When I get home I do a bit of writing before pulling myself together with view to heading to London and the roller derby at Earls Court.
I head off with view to catching the 1.03PM train. This week when I hit the car park I am fully prepared with change for the machine. Typically the kindness of strangers sees a guy about to leave handing me his ticket. This is the way the world works. I think I thank the guy for his gesture to the point that he wishes he hadn’t have bothered in the first place.
Riding the train to town I listen to the second half of “Get In The Van” for the first time in more years than I wish to remember. Much like listening to the first disc last week with my own experiences of touring I know find I have a much different perception of the things Henry Rollins is speaking about with the book. Now I tend to pick up on the hyperbole a bit more swiftly.
Upon arrival into town I quickly fly over to Earls Court via Notting Hill Gate with surprising ease. As I exit Earls Court I experience some kind of wicked seedy nostalgia and almost half an urge to search out where Michelle and I had some fun one time.
Leaving the station I text the heavy metal manager to see where he is currently at and just what he is up to.
Arriving at the Earls Court exhibition centre for the ROLL BRITANNIA event is a surprisingly intimidating thing to do. Spread outside the venue are a number of roller derby teams already licking their wounds having been skating since 11AM.
At first I walk straight past the venue when I see the other exhibition centre is today housing a Sci-Fi convention. For a moment I consider checking that out as well as numerous people dressed up in geek clothes and costumes waddle past me. Then outside I feel I hit the jackpot as Darth Vader stands with several Stormtroopers at his side guarding him. This is exactly the kind of event I would have died to attend when I was younger, especially considering I was batshit crazy about Star Wars when I was little. It is funny when I get a photo that looks like a Stormtrooper telling an Asian guy to “fuck off” adding a racist angle to The Empire.
Eventually I man the fuck up and head back towards where the roller derby event is happening. Outside it is still brimming with alternative types with tattoos and piercings and quite frankly without stepping a foot inside I just know that I will stand out by a mile not least for having a fresh haircut.
When I step into the building the Roll Britannia event is already well underway. Inside the box office nobody appears to want to serve me and when I finally get to pay the woman in the booth quizzes “you know it’s for the roller derby and not the comics right?” This only emphasises how out of place I am.
Stepping into the hall where the games are progressing screaming echoes resound around the aircraft hangar-esqe acoustics. This is an intimidating scene to an outsider.
I have sold the premise of roller derby onto people by describing it as being like “rollerball without the motorbikes.” This is a full on contact sport to which the rules seem muddled to the outsider and much like wrestling to the unqualified what happens on the oval resembles little short of carnage. The participants are ferocious and exciting people, into loud gestures and loud music often covered in tattoos, which supposedly in many people’s minds make them game for almost anything. If an apocalypse occurs in the near future these speed demons will have a head start on the rest of us.
Excited by proceedings I send out another beacon text to the heavy metal manager in the hope that he will be joining me. A little while later he gets back to me with “Cool, just gotta sort a couple of things then ill b there:-D” which I later discover is code for him fucking his girlfriend as he eventually never bothers to turn up.
When I finally spot the people I work with they are happy to see but fuming over the fact that they (the London Rockin Rollers) lost their first game against Glasgow Roller Girls 59-48 due to a foul up with the scoring meaning that 15 they had scored were accidentally allocated to Glasgow. For some reason this turns out to be a mistake that cannot be overturned and due to their lose they are no longer able to qualify from their Group (Group C) and go through to the finals tomorrow. With this comes a distinct sense of loss and anger, one that shows these players take their sport very seriously.
As I arrive Glasgow are back on the oval playing again, this time rolling against Rainy City Girls. Even though both teams “look knackered” Glasgow have quickly skated into a commanding lead and as I get the rules explained to me by Ruth they eventually end the match winning 88-29 meaning qualification for them out of the group into the knockout tournament here tomorrow.
After this game my friends in the Rockin Rollers head off to prepare for their final match while I wander around drinking beer and watching other games take place.
The next squirmish I find myself viewing involves the London Rollergirls taking apart Team East Angrier, who I guess are my local team (in geography only). The London Rollergirls I am led to believe are the premier in England and the match attains farcical proportions as the London Rollergirls reach 200 points but the crowd are instead enthusing Team East Angrier onto double figures. Eventually the carnage ends at a score of 202-11.
Feeling as if I am standing out by a mile, like a sore thumb I eventually take my perch with a beer as I watch the Leeds Roller Dolls take on the Berlin Bombshells. It almost seems apt that this sport is popular in Germany also as there is a true Deutschland vibe to the concept.
While sitting drinking my beer and reading my programme I reach some kind of epiphany, a moment of clarity, as I wonder just what I am doing here. I make a few phonecalls to people in search of answers but doesn’t feel appropriate to me and how the heavy metal manager has blown me out really suggests he is not somebody that can be trusted any longer. This is definitely not my scene or what I am about even though it is fun and exciting. Dare I even suggest that I feel shady and shadowing being here at this time in an environment so explicitly titillating?
Regardless of my issues in front of me Berlin is having a very exciting game against Leeds and as both teams battle out and begin to flag towards the end a close match ends with the Berlin Bombshells beating the Leeds Roller Dolls 103-93.
Eventually the London Rockin Rollers return to the oval and begin getting ready for their second match. I head back over and say “hi” to my work colleagues before they tear into the Rainy City Rollergirls having unfortunately not been able to overturn the scoring mistake of earlier.
In the end the London Rockin Rollers pummel the Rainy City team taking an early lead that they never relinquish and only to proceed to add to more and more as the game rolls on.
The star of the London Rockin Rollers is Von Bitch who is incredibly skilful when taking up the roller of jammer. Often when she finds herself clear of the blockers as she speeds past the seated crowd she jeers on the audience to cheer, working the room and creating the best support.
The game finishes with the London Rockin Rollers winning 137-46. At the end of each game the ritual of the rollers speeding around the track occurs as high fives get lent out by the crowd to both teams and good sportsmanship rules out only moments after the two teams have been pummelling each other.
Afterwards I head over to my friends and tell them they were awesome and how great the game is. With adrenaline running high I get a big sweaty hug as I head home back to Essex feeling exhausted from the experience.
Outside the Earls Court exhibition centre the rain is starting to trickle down. Earls Court truly is a strange place that offers up revealing moments to me.
Rather than returning to the Earls Court tube station I cross over to the West Brompton station sat opposite. At this point completely randomly “Brompton Oratory” by Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds arrives on my iPhone and all feels right with the world. Drama comes easy with me.
I head back across London to Liverpool Street where I eventually board a 7.38PM train heading back to Colchester. Enthused and invigorated on the train I come up with a description and write up of JGRAM WORLD for Marceline to eventually put it in her Asking For Trouble online shop. Tonight I feel inspired.
Upon getting back to Colchester exhausted I sail out the evening with bad TV before passing out relatively early. Today was a day.
Dream: I find myself in a second hand record store that specialises in CD singles. As some kind of event occurs outside the building I find myself discovering some real gems from my musical past including a CD single EP of “Her Jazz” by Huggy Bear, even though I don’t even think this ever existed in the first place. I pick up another a CD and want to purchase them but suddenly it appears that I do not possess the means to do so. Suddenly I find myself back at Baker Street and working for that painful company. There suddenly appears to be some new kind of hierarchy set up that almost resembles a classroom, which would fit in with The Korean’s comments of how our the notes from our “manager” were “like being back at school” in addition to the red ink scribble/scrawl she would love to cover my work in. Luckily however our “team” is at the back of the room but in a way that means there is more scrutiny on us. We have some kind of company meeting that resembles a class show and tell basically playing out the wares of our music clients. I have no interest in hearing the latest soft rock Coldplay wannabe or weak release from some Britpop casualty. It would appear my disdain is obvious as from across the room Zoe suddenly hurls some criticism in my direction along the lines of “if you have something to share Jason…..” All of a sudden her under the surface nastiness has shed through the surface. She is commenting on some notes that I have been writing and I respond “they’re just personal” which obviously is frowned upon the masses being some kind of inclination/indication of individualism. Zoe is paying real attention to me, she appears annoyed by me and angry with it. Finally I sense some passion, too little too late. Unfortunately with my delicate frame of mind when it comes to the opposite sex I welcome and get excited by the renewed degree of interest.
At this point my self confidence rises and I begin to speak out some more. I do not speak out with controversial opinions, more better judge what I say and construct some kind of version of what my bosses want to hear in addition to a sensible and rebellious argument. Is such a mannerism possible? Perhaps this is where I am failing in life. As a result I get picked for on location assignment with the Yes Boy in my team. It appears to be some kind of video shoot in Italy by some faceless, dullard act being hyped in a manner that the public is responding to. There actually appears to be very little work involved, just making lots of positive comments and observations. Suddenly it occurs to me that I am beginning to resemble Toby Young from “How To Lose Friends And Alienate People” when he is on the way up (a very small portion of the book/film). At the end of the photo shoot the kid of one of the people involved suddenly needs a piss and the mother finds a hole in the ground right next to where we are standing. As the mother drops his shorts and he begins his business I make the faux pas comment that “in England you would be arrested for doing that” and risking my standing/position I somehow get through as with my new persona this is taken as a cutting edge joke rather than a criticism. Suddenly I have found myself on the winning team after years of being a person to whom such a comment would be their downfall. With the shoot over for the day the Yes Boy and I board an old fashioned train at different ends with view to seeing who can snag the best seat. This is a really old fashioned train, inside resembling something of a private members club with lots of wooden furniture and old stuffy things inside (mainly the passengers). As I walk through the carriages there are no seats empty and as I reach the other end of the train it begins to become apparent the Yes Boy is not on the train and I suspect I have been sent packing. Is the train about to be the ending of me?
I awaken from the dream confused. Suddenly I find my heart is fluttering for Zoe once more and for a few strange moments I actually consider getting in touch with her attempting to rekindle something that there never really was in the first place (but it was close). Luckily I soon shake off the disorientation and remember that it is almost 18 months now I last saw her. Still, regret kicks in as for the Nth time I begin analysing how and why I blew that opportunity.
Today I really need to get my haircut. I am also supposed to be attending the roller derby event in Earls Court but my work colleague’s first match is at 11AM and there is very little chance of my actually arriving in time for that. Priorities first though and that’s the haircut which means I am up at 7.30 (on a Saturday!) washing my hair and shaving for the occasion. Sometimes I think I put more effort into going to the barbers than I do meeting up with females.
I emerge into the Saturday 8AM and I genuinely think that this is my favourite hour of the entire week.
As I look into the mirror I notice that I have put my v-neck jumper on backwards. It is very fortunate that I noticed this before leaving the house.
Eventually I leave the house just after 9AM and head straight down to Holland to get a haircut but first I have to stop and get petrol from somewhere meaning an additional stop at Asda on top of my grocery session later on.
When I get to Colin’s I am first in today and with it he is chatty but as I respond and make conversation I don’t think I do myself any favours.
In very quick succession I soon get my hair done and within an hour I am speeding back to Colchester. Once back in town I head to Asda to do my shopping. In there it is a very slow day, which pretty much matches my own movements.
When I get home I do a bit of writing before pulling myself together with view to heading to London and the roller derby at Earls Court.
I head off with view to catching the 1.03PM train. This week when I hit the car park I am fully prepared with change for the machine. Typically the kindness of strangers sees a guy about to leave handing me his ticket. This is the way the world works. I think I thank the guy for his gesture to the point that he wishes he hadn’t have bothered in the first place.
Riding the train to town I listen to the second half of “Get In The Van” for the first time in more years than I wish to remember. Much like listening to the first disc last week with my own experiences of touring I know find I have a much different perception of the things Henry Rollins is speaking about with the book. Now I tend to pick up on the hyperbole a bit more swiftly.
Upon arrival into town I quickly fly over to Earls Court via Notting Hill Gate with surprising ease. As I exit Earls Court I experience some kind of wicked seedy nostalgia and almost half an urge to search out where Michelle and I had some fun one time.
Leaving the station I text the heavy metal manager to see where he is currently at and just what he is up to.
Arriving at the Earls Court exhibition centre for the ROLL BRITANNIA event is a surprisingly intimidating thing to do. Spread outside the venue are a number of roller derby teams already licking their wounds having been skating since 11AM.
At first I walk straight past the venue when I see the other exhibition centre is today housing a Sci-Fi convention. For a moment I consider checking that out as well as numerous people dressed up in geek clothes and costumes waddle past me. Then outside I feel I hit the jackpot as Darth Vader stands with several Stormtroopers at his side guarding him. This is exactly the kind of event I would have died to attend when I was younger, especially considering I was batshit crazy about Star Wars when I was little. It is funny when I get a photo that looks like a Stormtrooper telling an Asian guy to “fuck off” adding a racist angle to The Empire.
Eventually I man the fuck up and head back towards where the roller derby event is happening. Outside it is still brimming with alternative types with tattoos and piercings and quite frankly without stepping a foot inside I just know that I will stand out by a mile not least for having a fresh haircut.
When I step into the building the Roll Britannia event is already well underway. Inside the box office nobody appears to want to serve me and when I finally get to pay the woman in the booth quizzes “you know it’s for the roller derby and not the comics right?” This only emphasises how out of place I am.
Stepping into the hall where the games are progressing screaming echoes resound around the aircraft hangar-esqe acoustics. This is an intimidating scene to an outsider.
I have sold the premise of roller derby onto people by describing it as being like “rollerball without the motorbikes.” This is a full on contact sport to which the rules seem muddled to the outsider and much like wrestling to the unqualified what happens on the oval resembles little short of carnage. The participants are ferocious and exciting people, into loud gestures and loud music often covered in tattoos, which supposedly in many people’s minds make them game for almost anything. If an apocalypse occurs in the near future these speed demons will have a head start on the rest of us.
Excited by proceedings I send out another beacon text to the heavy metal manager in the hope that he will be joining me. A little while later he gets back to me with “Cool, just gotta sort a couple of things then ill b there:-D” which I later discover is code for him fucking his girlfriend as he eventually never bothers to turn up.
When I finally spot the people I work with they are happy to see but fuming over the fact that they (the London Rockin Rollers) lost their first game against Glasgow Roller Girls 59-48 due to a foul up with the scoring meaning that 15 they had scored were accidentally allocated to Glasgow. For some reason this turns out to be a mistake that cannot be overturned and due to their lose they are no longer able to qualify from their Group (Group C) and go through to the finals tomorrow. With this comes a distinct sense of loss and anger, one that shows these players take their sport very seriously.
As I arrive Glasgow are back on the oval playing again, this time rolling against Rainy City Girls. Even though both teams “look knackered” Glasgow have quickly skated into a commanding lead and as I get the rules explained to me by Ruth they eventually end the match winning 88-29 meaning qualification for them out of the group into the knockout tournament here tomorrow.
After this game my friends in the Rockin Rollers head off to prepare for their final match while I wander around drinking beer and watching other games take place.
The next squirmish I find myself viewing involves the London Rollergirls taking apart Team East Angrier, who I guess are my local team (in geography only). The London Rollergirls I am led to believe are the premier in England and the match attains farcical proportions as the London Rollergirls reach 200 points but the crowd are instead enthusing Team East Angrier onto double figures. Eventually the carnage ends at a score of 202-11.
Feeling as if I am standing out by a mile, like a sore thumb I eventually take my perch with a beer as I watch the Leeds Roller Dolls take on the Berlin Bombshells. It almost seems apt that this sport is popular in Germany also as there is a true Deutschland vibe to the concept.
While sitting drinking my beer and reading my programme I reach some kind of epiphany, a moment of clarity, as I wonder just what I am doing here. I make a few phonecalls to people in search of answers but doesn’t feel appropriate to me and how the heavy metal manager has blown me out really suggests he is not somebody that can be trusted any longer. This is definitely not my scene or what I am about even though it is fun and exciting. Dare I even suggest that I feel shady and shadowing being here at this time in an environment so explicitly titillating?
Regardless of my issues in front of me Berlin is having a very exciting game against Leeds and as both teams battle out and begin to flag towards the end a close match ends with the Berlin Bombshells beating the Leeds Roller Dolls 103-93.
Eventually the London Rockin Rollers return to the oval and begin getting ready for their second match. I head back over and say “hi” to my work colleagues before they tear into the Rainy City Rollergirls having unfortunately not been able to overturn the scoring mistake of earlier.
In the end the London Rockin Rollers pummel the Rainy City team taking an early lead that they never relinquish and only to proceed to add to more and more as the game rolls on.
The star of the London Rockin Rollers is Von Bitch who is incredibly skilful when taking up the roller of jammer. Often when she finds herself clear of the blockers as she speeds past the seated crowd she jeers on the audience to cheer, working the room and creating the best support.
The game finishes with the London Rockin Rollers winning 137-46. At the end of each game the ritual of the rollers speeding around the track occurs as high fives get lent out by the crowd to both teams and good sportsmanship rules out only moments after the two teams have been pummelling each other.
Afterwards I head over to my friends and tell them they were awesome and how great the game is. With adrenaline running high I get a big sweaty hug as I head home back to Essex feeling exhausted from the experience.
Outside the Earls Court exhibition centre the rain is starting to trickle down. Earls Court truly is a strange place that offers up revealing moments to me.
Rather than returning to the Earls Court tube station I cross over to the West Brompton station sat opposite. At this point completely randomly “Brompton Oratory” by Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds arrives on my iPhone and all feels right with the world. Drama comes easy with me.
I head back across London to Liverpool Street where I eventually board a 7.38PM train heading back to Colchester. Enthused and invigorated on the train I come up with a description and write up of JGRAM WORLD for Marceline to eventually put it in her Asking For Trouble online shop. Tonight I feel inspired.
Upon getting back to Colchester exhausted I sail out the evening with bad TV before passing out relatively early. Today was a day.
Thursday, 16 July 2009
Thursday 16 July 2009
Dream: I am in an office I do not recognise with a blonde I do not know. We flirt a little and I begin feeding the pony. Personality wise she reminds me of Michelle (Earls Court). When I pull my fingers up they are covered in juice. At this point our apparent supervisor comes into the room barking orders/commandments while I have goo on my fingers.
I almost feel ashamedly euphoric emerging/awaking from this dream today. I really should be getting some in the real world; I am so primed right now. That said I am genuinely beginning to sense a seachange at the moment, people appear to be turning more receptive to me and I’m beginning to feel more expressionate in a good way, in a way that is more attractive and confident.
The walk to the station is worryingly painful this morning as my legs ache and I genuinely near getting out of breath. Maybe I shouldn’t have ditched kickboxing.
It’s another bright sunny day but all points suggest rain later. As a result of this with the fear of being too hot rather than too cold (or wet) I am dressed for the former. Suspicions are that I am likely to regret this decision later.
I need a shave. Things once more are grizzly but somehow coupled with my messy hair it’s feeling as if the bushman look is working for me. This won’t win me any points or get me a job but for now it’s fine.
There is an air of apprehension attached to work today. As ever I find myself being pulled in different directions and usually it is what the bank is pressurising us for most that takes priority. This is not an ideal way of working, I really want to install a system but at this time under these pressures it is something that does not appear workable/feasible. I had always intended to get things tidied after three months when I joined the company. Obviously that didn’t happen, being under the command of a shyster with no accounting talent or intellect. The worry for me though is that things still feel/appear messy and in a couple of months time it will be a year since the old financial controller was let go and I half stepped into his boots but on the whole things do not feel as if they have improved to any great degree. Indeed my role feels similar to what it was previously and my boss now appears to have to had to take back former duties the old FC used to undertake that perhaps I should be dealing with at this time. Then again the old FC never did his role correctly and was getting involved in areas and duties that equated to his running before walking, avoiding the groundwork and just building on uneven surfaces from the off. All food for thought working in the finance department of a restaurant.
I begin listening to Nick Cave on random and the first song to appear is “Far From Me” which is one of my favourite songs of his and it floors (and flaws) me today, which is the usual affect it has on me as I seldom tend to listen to it when I am in a good mood. This song reminds me of my American Friend containing the line “it’s good to know you’re doing so well but really can’t you find somebody else that you can ring and tell” which completely fits when thinking of that email she sent me at the beginning of the year that was the end of things.
The train pulls in at 8.06. Late.
On the tube around Euston Square I begin to feel short of breath and something that could be a mini panic attack. Then I yawn and once again I feel pretty much better, almost. At this point I notice the person sat behind me in the carriage has an iPod that is drowning out my own. This is the nuisance train.
When I change lines at Baker Street the tube suddenly has an abundance of men in and wearing their silly little Lords ties on their way to the Ashes today. St Johns Wood is going to be very busy this week.
Just as I get to the restaurant I see a big red double decker bus just like the one Stan and Jack had. I can’t help but smile at this sight.
This feeling is somewhat brief as work feels paranoid and dark this morning. There is a mystery woman chatting to the posh boss in a booth and I barely get a response from any of the other bosses when I saw “good morning.” Was she being lined up as my replacement?
The Girl happily trots in at 9.20AM with the news that she just hit a girl on a bicycle with her car. She was all right though.
Today proves to be a very busy day with the consultant in confusing proceedings and barking orders, some of which are necessary and some of which are not.
In a way I cannot believe that it is Thursday already. This truly is the Tuesday Thursday Blur in action.
Around 1PM a positive meeting kicks off just as lunch is served. The meeting gets rushed so that I can get to my plate of king prawns and couscous, which I am back on with view to at least attempting to eat something healthy. There is a whole bowl of chips knocking about which I invariably wind up tearing into thus nullifying all my good intentions with the original dish.
In the afternoon The Girl suggests in all seriousness that I should get a mail-order Thai bride. Said in front of a lady from the Philippines this is surely an offensive comment for her.
Slightly I kick off feeling offended at the attack on my apparent inability to find a partner using traditional methods, means and resources. I moan about the meeting people in a club route telling her that it is just for Chavs. She then tells me her brother met his wife in a club. I ask her if this is the brother that named his daughter Lanesra (Arsenal spelt backwards) and is currently in prison. That is not at all Chav. Naturally I get pummelled when she responds/reacts, I am soft like that.
The day ends with jobs still unfinished; the argument with The Girl really knocked the wind out of my sails. With The Girl about to move on and start her poxy little college course she is beginning to become a bit smug and cocky about things when her actions are also very likely to drop us in with regards to staffing.
Out of work when I get to St Johns Wood tube station it is full of cricket fans, many in stupid ties, many with picnic baskets and all (it would appear) are ignorant/oblivious to rush-hour tube etiquette.
When I get to Liverpool Street my 6.20PM train has been cancelled even though it is in its usual platform (platform 11). It now becomes the 6.30PM to Norwich. What the hell is going on here? Rumour has it that there is a broken down train and a thirty minute delay waits ahead of us.
While I sit waiting a blonde girl gets in the seat next to me and before the train has even left the station she has pulled out a small (fun-sized) screw top bottle of Pinot and is swigging it like a bottle of coke. Impressive.
Soon after I feel a pat on my shoulder and it is my cousin stepping past saying “hello” as he heads in search of his own seat. Maybe he could take this booze hag with him.
In the end we get home OK, only about 15 minutes late which is annoying but doesn’t ruin my evening.
As I reach the olds’ at Balkerne Heights I see dad returning from a walk with Bobby. The dog sees me immediately and begins dragging dad towards me.
When I get home I discover that Enea from work (the Albanian) has met my Facebook plea and created a Wikipedia page for me. He does a sterling job with a very quick/fast turnaround. Equally quick is the swiftness with which Wikipedia almost immediately pulls my entry down. Fuckers, I’m deserving of a Wikipedia entry with all my music experience and blogging. Really, who do I have to kill in order to get on that site? Is that what they want because that’s what’ll happen.
Settled in I drink a large can of Rockstar with Guarana with view to finishing off some writing this evening. I do it but have to work past 10PM in order to complete. This is my new writing fuel but I do fear it is also putting a real toll on my heart in the process.
The Martin Bashir with Michael Jackson interview is on TV tonight and I swear they edit out the tree climbing scene. That was the best bit!
As I look out the window in the distance this evening I can see lightening but no rain or thunder initially. Then it comes, hitting hard.
Question Time tonight comes from Colchester. Where on earth did they dig up these fucking weirdoes? I have to admit I do not watch the whole thing but when I do pay attention I do not recognise one person in the audience. I suspect they just might be actors.
Unwisely around 10.30 I boon a can of Sainsburys Bolt energy drink. When did I go so kamikaze?
Dream: I am in an office I do not recognise with a blonde I do not know. We flirt a little and I begin feeding the pony. Personality wise she reminds me of Michelle (Earls Court). When I pull my fingers up they are covered in juice. At this point our apparent supervisor comes into the room barking orders/commandments while I have goo on my fingers.
I almost feel ashamedly euphoric emerging/awaking from this dream today. I really should be getting some in the real world; I am so primed right now. That said I am genuinely beginning to sense a seachange at the moment, people appear to be turning more receptive to me and I’m beginning to feel more expressionate in a good way, in a way that is more attractive and confident.
The walk to the station is worryingly painful this morning as my legs ache and I genuinely near getting out of breath. Maybe I shouldn’t have ditched kickboxing.
It’s another bright sunny day but all points suggest rain later. As a result of this with the fear of being too hot rather than too cold (or wet) I am dressed for the former. Suspicions are that I am likely to regret this decision later.
I need a shave. Things once more are grizzly but somehow coupled with my messy hair it’s feeling as if the bushman look is working for me. This won’t win me any points or get me a job but for now it’s fine.
There is an air of apprehension attached to work today. As ever I find myself being pulled in different directions and usually it is what the bank is pressurising us for most that takes priority. This is not an ideal way of working, I really want to install a system but at this time under these pressures it is something that does not appear workable/feasible. I had always intended to get things tidied after three months when I joined the company. Obviously that didn’t happen, being under the command of a shyster with no accounting talent or intellect. The worry for me though is that things still feel/appear messy and in a couple of months time it will be a year since the old financial controller was let go and I half stepped into his boots but on the whole things do not feel as if they have improved to any great degree. Indeed my role feels similar to what it was previously and my boss now appears to have to had to take back former duties the old FC used to undertake that perhaps I should be dealing with at this time. Then again the old FC never did his role correctly and was getting involved in areas and duties that equated to his running before walking, avoiding the groundwork and just building on uneven surfaces from the off. All food for thought working in the finance department of a restaurant.
I begin listening to Nick Cave on random and the first song to appear is “Far From Me” which is one of my favourite songs of his and it floors (and flaws) me today, which is the usual affect it has on me as I seldom tend to listen to it when I am in a good mood. This song reminds me of my American Friend containing the line “it’s good to know you’re doing so well but really can’t you find somebody else that you can ring and tell” which completely fits when thinking of that email she sent me at the beginning of the year that was the end of things.
The train pulls in at 8.06. Late.
On the tube around Euston Square I begin to feel short of breath and something that could be a mini panic attack. Then I yawn and once again I feel pretty much better, almost. At this point I notice the person sat behind me in the carriage has an iPod that is drowning out my own. This is the nuisance train.
When I change lines at Baker Street the tube suddenly has an abundance of men in and wearing their silly little Lords ties on their way to the Ashes today. St Johns Wood is going to be very busy this week.
Just as I get to the restaurant I see a big red double decker bus just like the one Stan and Jack had. I can’t help but smile at this sight.
This feeling is somewhat brief as work feels paranoid and dark this morning. There is a mystery woman chatting to the posh boss in a booth and I barely get a response from any of the other bosses when I saw “good morning.” Was she being lined up as my replacement?
The Girl happily trots in at 9.20AM with the news that she just hit a girl on a bicycle with her car. She was all right though.
Today proves to be a very busy day with the consultant in confusing proceedings and barking orders, some of which are necessary and some of which are not.
In a way I cannot believe that it is Thursday already. This truly is the Tuesday Thursday Blur in action.
Around 1PM a positive meeting kicks off just as lunch is served. The meeting gets rushed so that I can get to my plate of king prawns and couscous, which I am back on with view to at least attempting to eat something healthy. There is a whole bowl of chips knocking about which I invariably wind up tearing into thus nullifying all my good intentions with the original dish.
In the afternoon The Girl suggests in all seriousness that I should get a mail-order Thai bride. Said in front of a lady from the Philippines this is surely an offensive comment for her.
Slightly I kick off feeling offended at the attack on my apparent inability to find a partner using traditional methods, means and resources. I moan about the meeting people in a club route telling her that it is just for Chavs. She then tells me her brother met his wife in a club. I ask her if this is the brother that named his daughter Lanesra (Arsenal spelt backwards) and is currently in prison. That is not at all Chav. Naturally I get pummelled when she responds/reacts, I am soft like that.
The day ends with jobs still unfinished; the argument with The Girl really knocked the wind out of my sails. With The Girl about to move on and start her poxy little college course she is beginning to become a bit smug and cocky about things when her actions are also very likely to drop us in with regards to staffing.
Out of work when I get to St Johns Wood tube station it is full of cricket fans, many in stupid ties, many with picnic baskets and all (it would appear) are ignorant/oblivious to rush-hour tube etiquette.
When I get to Liverpool Street my 6.20PM train has been cancelled even though it is in its usual platform (platform 11). It now becomes the 6.30PM to Norwich. What the hell is going on here? Rumour has it that there is a broken down train and a thirty minute delay waits ahead of us.
While I sit waiting a blonde girl gets in the seat next to me and before the train has even left the station she has pulled out a small (fun-sized) screw top bottle of Pinot and is swigging it like a bottle of coke. Impressive.
Soon after I feel a pat on my shoulder and it is my cousin stepping past saying “hello” as he heads in search of his own seat. Maybe he could take this booze hag with him.
In the end we get home OK, only about 15 minutes late which is annoying but doesn’t ruin my evening.
As I reach the olds’ at Balkerne Heights I see dad returning from a walk with Bobby. The dog sees me immediately and begins dragging dad towards me.
When I get home I discover that Enea from work (the Albanian) has met my Facebook plea and created a Wikipedia page for me. He does a sterling job with a very quick/fast turnaround. Equally quick is the swiftness with which Wikipedia almost immediately pulls my entry down. Fuckers, I’m deserving of a Wikipedia entry with all my music experience and blogging. Really, who do I have to kill in order to get on that site? Is that what they want because that’s what’ll happen.
Settled in I drink a large can of Rockstar with Guarana with view to finishing off some writing this evening. I do it but have to work past 10PM in order to complete. This is my new writing fuel but I do fear it is also putting a real toll on my heart in the process.
The Martin Bashir with Michael Jackson interview is on TV tonight and I swear they edit out the tree climbing scene. That was the best bit!
As I look out the window in the distance this evening I can see lightening but no rain or thunder initially. Then it comes, hitting hard.
Question Time tonight comes from Colchester. Where on earth did they dig up these fucking weirdoes? I have to admit I do not watch the whole thing but when I do pay attention I do not recognise one person in the audience. I suspect they just might be actors.
Unwisely around 10.30 I boon a can of Sainsburys Bolt energy drink. When did I go so kamikaze?
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
Wednesday 15 July 2009
A lesson has to be learned that it is not smart to drink fizzy caffeine drinks at night before going to be – especially when it is the cheap stuff as Sainburys Bolt.
Today is Dad’s birthday and before leaving home this morning I need/have to wrap up his presents/gifts. This is a royal ache because doing absolutely anything in the morning to divert my routine (even going to the toilet) will tend to see me leaving the flat late.
As I walk to the train this morning I see dog shit on the pavement – looks like the crazy Alsatian lady has been here.
I do not get “my seat” on the train this morning; instead the pretty Wookiee lady gets it instead. Why does she always scowl at me? If I sat in the seat near her then it would just be too obvious, so instead I risk the wrath from the Ric Flair lookalike who is super sensitive to iPod volume.
Before leaving Colchester the train sits in the station for an extended period and already it is plainly obvious that it will be agonisingly later than usual when we eventually get to Liverpool Street in an hour’s time.
Seating wise I find myself cornered today, strange people on this train all around me.
At Witham the middle aged divorcee sisters board the train chatting frenetically. The ginger one with heavy jowls suddenly appears to be sparkling and smiling – she is plainly currently getting/being dicked by somebody she probably met on the internet.
Later as the train stops at Shenfield the scary Andy Warhol crossed with Barry Humphries crossed with Skeletor guy boards still reading his Harry Potter seemingly as some kind of tool to entice minors.
The train pulls into Liverpool Street at the now irregular time of 8.04, painful as it is to a person with such OCD as me.
While standing at/on the Liverpool Street tube platform I think I see B but it turns out to not be her. I’m not really sure why I thought it might be her here today, there is nothing in the world to suggest she would be around here at this time.
As I board the Liverpool Street tube to Baker Street some fat old foreign momma seems determined to cut in front of me to board the train. Nonchalantly I bounce off the woman’s airbag tits to remind her of her place and hopefully twig some form of manners in/from her. At best she is a senile old fuck, at worst a mongrel Rose West.
Sometimes I feel like I live in an alternative universe, I don’t understand people and I don’t fully understand what the accepted conventions and machinations of the popular morals are.
Today I wonder if I have Asperger’s Syndrome.
It is a middling day. I get a lot accomplished but I always feel that there is something left to do. I spend the morning sorting out the weekly wages schedules just before being shown a new set of schedules and a macro to deal with them. Some people just have fucked timing.
For lunch I have penne and merguez sausage, a sure-fire sign that I am feeling sorry for myself and not conscious of the weight it may add.
In the afternoon it rains causing worry considering I have not come to London equipped to deal with this weather.
Ultimately I peter out in the afternoon.
The day ends with The Girl firing big words at us. Perhaps she should finish learning the small ones first though, not least after she queried the term “overfamiliar” when I used it the other day. Perhaps I should remind her that she doesn’t know what Hiroshima was also.
After getting let out slightly early I end up catching the 6.08 train to Clacton. I fall asleep on the train and when it stops at Chelmsford and I wake up the bald guy sat opposite is staring at me angrily – what did I do?
Later the train stops at Kelvedon but I think it is Witham and suddenly the fear kicks in. Disorientation is complete.
Once back in Colchester I pop around the olds’ at Balkerne Heights and do the birthday thing with the old man. I think dad is genuinely surprised with his gifts, it would appear to be more than he was expecting.
Dad picks up on my Asperger’s syndrome comment I made on Twitter/Facebook. He tells me that he doesn’t think I have Asperger’s syndrome and that in fact I am just ignorant.
Eventually I head home around 9PM. It is the most blazing and amazing evening, truly gorgeous and life affirming. Above me tonight the skies are genuinely breathtaking.
When I step through the door my Revelation X book has arrived from the Church Of The Subgenius. I had forgotten ordering this. It’s a pretty funny book, I can buy into this religion.
Beyond this tonight I fall asleep very quickly ending the day in a hurry.
A lesson has to be learned that it is not smart to drink fizzy caffeine drinks at night before going to be – especially when it is the cheap stuff as Sainburys Bolt.
Today is Dad’s birthday and before leaving home this morning I need/have to wrap up his presents/gifts. This is a royal ache because doing absolutely anything in the morning to divert my routine (even going to the toilet) will tend to see me leaving the flat late.
As I walk to the train this morning I see dog shit on the pavement – looks like the crazy Alsatian lady has been here.
I do not get “my seat” on the train this morning; instead the pretty Wookiee lady gets it instead. Why does she always scowl at me? If I sat in the seat near her then it would just be too obvious, so instead I risk the wrath from the Ric Flair lookalike who is super sensitive to iPod volume.
Before leaving Colchester the train sits in the station for an extended period and already it is plainly obvious that it will be agonisingly later than usual when we eventually get to Liverpool Street in an hour’s time.
Seating wise I find myself cornered today, strange people on this train all around me.
At Witham the middle aged divorcee sisters board the train chatting frenetically. The ginger one with heavy jowls suddenly appears to be sparkling and smiling – she is plainly currently getting/being dicked by somebody she probably met on the internet.
Later as the train stops at Shenfield the scary Andy Warhol crossed with Barry Humphries crossed with Skeletor guy boards still reading his Harry Potter seemingly as some kind of tool to entice minors.
The train pulls into Liverpool Street at the now irregular time of 8.04, painful as it is to a person with such OCD as me.
While standing at/on the Liverpool Street tube platform I think I see B but it turns out to not be her. I’m not really sure why I thought it might be her here today, there is nothing in the world to suggest she would be around here at this time.
As I board the Liverpool Street tube to Baker Street some fat old foreign momma seems determined to cut in front of me to board the train. Nonchalantly I bounce off the woman’s airbag tits to remind her of her place and hopefully twig some form of manners in/from her. At best she is a senile old fuck, at worst a mongrel Rose West.
Sometimes I feel like I live in an alternative universe, I don’t understand people and I don’t fully understand what the accepted conventions and machinations of the popular morals are.
Today I wonder if I have Asperger’s Syndrome.
It is a middling day. I get a lot accomplished but I always feel that there is something left to do. I spend the morning sorting out the weekly wages schedules just before being shown a new set of schedules and a macro to deal with them. Some people just have fucked timing.
For lunch I have penne and merguez sausage, a sure-fire sign that I am feeling sorry for myself and not conscious of the weight it may add.
In the afternoon it rains causing worry considering I have not come to London equipped to deal with this weather.
Ultimately I peter out in the afternoon.
The day ends with The Girl firing big words at us. Perhaps she should finish learning the small ones first though, not least after she queried the term “overfamiliar” when I used it the other day. Perhaps I should remind her that she doesn’t know what Hiroshima was also.
After getting let out slightly early I end up catching the 6.08 train to Clacton. I fall asleep on the train and when it stops at Chelmsford and I wake up the bald guy sat opposite is staring at me angrily – what did I do?
Later the train stops at Kelvedon but I think it is Witham and suddenly the fear kicks in. Disorientation is complete.
Once back in Colchester I pop around the olds’ at Balkerne Heights and do the birthday thing with the old man. I think dad is genuinely surprised with his gifts, it would appear to be more than he was expecting.
Dad picks up on my Asperger’s syndrome comment I made on Twitter/Facebook. He tells me that he doesn’t think I have Asperger’s syndrome and that in fact I am just ignorant.
Eventually I head home around 9PM. It is the most blazing and amazing evening, truly gorgeous and life affirming. Above me tonight the skies are genuinely breathtaking.
When I step through the door my Revelation X book has arrived from the Church Of The Subgenius. I had forgotten ordering this. It’s a pretty funny book, I can buy into this religion.
Beyond this tonight I fall asleep very quickly ending the day in a hurry.
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
Tuesday 14 July 2009
Wake up OK, relatively fairly comfortable.
As I leave my flat this morning I finally get around to questioning why it is that I have to leave by 6.41 – why is it not 6.40?
I feel uncomfortable in my clothes today, they feel tight and unflattering as if they do not fit me and will not cover my rim. This looks bad.
The day begins with finally listening to the Collings And Herrin podcast covering Richard Herring having had his iPhone stolen out of his hand in Shepherd’s Bush. It was funny last week watching/reading the whole event unwind through his Twitter postings. Also it has served as a timely reminder as to how easily these things are snatched and now as a result I am stomping around London extra paranoid of someone nicking my iPhone so I am now holding onto it harder than I do my cock. The timing of this story/tale is so poorly timed as it has coincided with my final switch from old iPod Shuffle to iPhone as my main listening device in order to block out the sounds (and abuse) of the outside world while I stagger around it. No teenagers will ever mock or verbally take the piss out of me ever again as long as I am drowning them out with my iPod. If a tree falls in the forest and there is not a teenager there to take the piss out of it did it ever exist in the first place (or something).
At Kelvedon however my attention is drawn to a woman that boards the train with hair looking as if she has been dragged through a bush backwards (possibly her own bush, which I suspect to be quite a crater itself). And not a little, a lot! This hair is huge! Obviously she decides to sit opposite me, I’m a real magnet for these kind of freaks and with the benefit of a closer inspection I begin to wonder (worry) if her hair is going to adopt an existence all of its own and leap off her head and begin killing my fellow commuters. That would be cool, lending a bit of excitement to the morning and making life a little more lively.
When the train stops at Chelmsford and a herd of extras board the guy that decides to sit next to me appears to spend the entire journey intent on prodding me in the side (where my ribs should be) while reading his free newspaper (The Metro) very closely and intently as if all the words are very big. Snuggled. When I notice how crap his suit is I tolerate him a little more, he plainly does not have much of a life to cling on to.
Later at Shenfield a badly suited man that looks like a drunk Barry Humphries in a Warhol wig boards and stands reading a Harry Potter book ironically just as those movies are being discussed on the Collings And Herrin podcast I am listening to. The guy is very creepy though, I wonder if he got the book from the kid he killed.
Meanwhile the blonde redhead sat opposite continues playing footsy with me. Then she begins kicking me. Who the fuck sits cross-legged on a train anyway? At this point I make a conscious decision to step on her foot when I get off the train at Liverpool Street. Suffer.
The train actually manages to get into Liverpool Street by 8AM this morning. It is a sweet rarity and as I exit the train there is a skip of victory in my step even if I don’t manage to inflict too much pain or annoyance onto the woman sat opposite me.
Just as we pull into Liverpool Street my boss forwards a text from The Girl to me informing us that she won’t be in again today. That one needs wrapping up in cotton wool she is so fucking delicate. Wrapping up in cotton wool and then throwing off a cliff.
As a result of her absence I get to choose the radio station again today and once more we are back on XFM and finally today they play a Nirvana song with “Lithium”, not before time. Elsewhere on the station they play “What’s The Story (Morning Glory)” by Oasis and it still sounds like a Dinosaur Jr song to me (musically and not vocally of course).
Today is a quiet day. Not being hassled I find myself able to tear into the June accounts even though they are now past deadline. However without pressure I find myself more productive than otherwise.
For lunch I have linguini but this is disrupted by the Brazilian/Mexican/Albanian chef bringing in another Brazilian (waiter) from another sight with a query on his wages and why he has not received his pay for the past two weeks. A quick enquiry shows his bank details were wrong when his starter form was completed and the money has flown into a bank account that none of us recognise. The waiter can barely speak English so the chef in affect serves as an interpreter as we try to resolve things in a manner other than “tough luck.” Eventually a cash advance gets approved although usually we have to wait for the money to get returned/bounced back to our account. This comes about from the chef’s interference and leaning on our department for a quick resolution.
Don’t get me wrong (a high risk with this following point) but I can never understand why people like this come to our country to work. Surely there are enough restaurants in Brazil for him to work in/at. This job is hardly the stuff of dreams or the height of career goals. Also surely if you want to thrive at your occupation common sense might kind of suggest that you learn to speak the language of your customers and the people you work with. Just a thought and suggestion.
The afternoon turns out to be very productive but after procrastinating with the wage floaters unfortunately this means I do not get the figures completed/finished by the end of play.
It is very warm on the tube tonight and with it I actually struggle to breath. As I stare at my reflection in the window it does not look good.
On the tube I also find myself in a “is she pregnant or is she fat” dilemma. As ever I play safe and err on the conclusion of the latter. My attention however is then distracted when a man with a “daddy’s the bruiser” tattoo on his arm boards the train. I guess I would offer up my seat to/for him. Really what kind of message am I supposed to take away from that tattoo though?
When I finally get to Liverpool Street it is earlier than usual so I hop aboard the 7.08PM train to Clacton. Immediately I sense that I have made a mistake as if feels like a sauna. Sitting to my right is a real suntanned slag of a female who I watch pull funny faces as someone decides to sit in the seat her handbag was sitting in.
Soon the clock hits 7.10PM and we haven’t even moved and suddenly my mistake at choosing this train is confirmed.
Eventually though after too much of my life being wasted sat on a non-moving train I get home and passing through my parents’ place on the way. At least the dog cheers me up and helps me get over the misery caused by the shoddy service delivered by my train.
When I finally get back to Bohemian Grove tonight on TV is a topical drama called Freefall about the credit crunch over zealous mortgage lending that has brought the country to its knees (and many families with it). It fails to deliver.
Elsewhere on TV is the second episode of You Have Been Watching with Charlie Brooker which instead does indeed deliver before my night ends with falling asleep to the horrible sight of the movie London To Brighton. I remember Catherine from the BBC really being interested in seeing this film when I briefly spent time with her and eventually I saw it at the Prince Charles Cinema just off Leicester Square on the day of the infamous Hold Steady gig at the Borderline. A more grim movie I could struggle to envisage.
Wake up OK, relatively fairly comfortable.
As I leave my flat this morning I finally get around to questioning why it is that I have to leave by 6.41 – why is it not 6.40?
I feel uncomfortable in my clothes today, they feel tight and unflattering as if they do not fit me and will not cover my rim. This looks bad.
The day begins with finally listening to the Collings And Herrin podcast covering Richard Herring having had his iPhone stolen out of his hand in Shepherd’s Bush. It was funny last week watching/reading the whole event unwind through his Twitter postings. Also it has served as a timely reminder as to how easily these things are snatched and now as a result I am stomping around London extra paranoid of someone nicking my iPhone so I am now holding onto it harder than I do my cock. The timing of this story/tale is so poorly timed as it has coincided with my final switch from old iPod Shuffle to iPhone as my main listening device in order to block out the sounds (and abuse) of the outside world while I stagger around it. No teenagers will ever mock or verbally take the piss out of me ever again as long as I am drowning them out with my iPod. If a tree falls in the forest and there is not a teenager there to take the piss out of it did it ever exist in the first place (or something).
At Kelvedon however my attention is drawn to a woman that boards the train with hair looking as if she has been dragged through a bush backwards (possibly her own bush, which I suspect to be quite a crater itself). And not a little, a lot! This hair is huge! Obviously she decides to sit opposite me, I’m a real magnet for these kind of freaks and with the benefit of a closer inspection I begin to wonder (worry) if her hair is going to adopt an existence all of its own and leap off her head and begin killing my fellow commuters. That would be cool, lending a bit of excitement to the morning and making life a little more lively.
When the train stops at Chelmsford and a herd of extras board the guy that decides to sit next to me appears to spend the entire journey intent on prodding me in the side (where my ribs should be) while reading his free newspaper (The Metro) very closely and intently as if all the words are very big. Snuggled. When I notice how crap his suit is I tolerate him a little more, he plainly does not have much of a life to cling on to.
Later at Shenfield a badly suited man that looks like a drunk Barry Humphries in a Warhol wig boards and stands reading a Harry Potter book ironically just as those movies are being discussed on the Collings And Herrin podcast I am listening to. The guy is very creepy though, I wonder if he got the book from the kid he killed.
Meanwhile the blonde redhead sat opposite continues playing footsy with me. Then she begins kicking me. Who the fuck sits cross-legged on a train anyway? At this point I make a conscious decision to step on her foot when I get off the train at Liverpool Street. Suffer.
The train actually manages to get into Liverpool Street by 8AM this morning. It is a sweet rarity and as I exit the train there is a skip of victory in my step even if I don’t manage to inflict too much pain or annoyance onto the woman sat opposite me.
Just as we pull into Liverpool Street my boss forwards a text from The Girl to me informing us that she won’t be in again today. That one needs wrapping up in cotton wool she is so fucking delicate. Wrapping up in cotton wool and then throwing off a cliff.
As a result of her absence I get to choose the radio station again today and once more we are back on XFM and finally today they play a Nirvana song with “Lithium”, not before time. Elsewhere on the station they play “What’s The Story (Morning Glory)” by Oasis and it still sounds like a Dinosaur Jr song to me (musically and not vocally of course).
Today is a quiet day. Not being hassled I find myself able to tear into the June accounts even though they are now past deadline. However without pressure I find myself more productive than otherwise.
For lunch I have linguini but this is disrupted by the Brazilian/Mexican/Albanian chef bringing in another Brazilian (waiter) from another sight with a query on his wages and why he has not received his pay for the past two weeks. A quick enquiry shows his bank details were wrong when his starter form was completed and the money has flown into a bank account that none of us recognise. The waiter can barely speak English so the chef in affect serves as an interpreter as we try to resolve things in a manner other than “tough luck.” Eventually a cash advance gets approved although usually we have to wait for the money to get returned/bounced back to our account. This comes about from the chef’s interference and leaning on our department for a quick resolution.
Don’t get me wrong (a high risk with this following point) but I can never understand why people like this come to our country to work. Surely there are enough restaurants in Brazil for him to work in/at. This job is hardly the stuff of dreams or the height of career goals. Also surely if you want to thrive at your occupation common sense might kind of suggest that you learn to speak the language of your customers and the people you work with. Just a thought and suggestion.
The afternoon turns out to be very productive but after procrastinating with the wage floaters unfortunately this means I do not get the figures completed/finished by the end of play.
It is very warm on the tube tonight and with it I actually struggle to breath. As I stare at my reflection in the window it does not look good.
On the tube I also find myself in a “is she pregnant or is she fat” dilemma. As ever I play safe and err on the conclusion of the latter. My attention however is then distracted when a man with a “daddy’s the bruiser” tattoo on his arm boards the train. I guess I would offer up my seat to/for him. Really what kind of message am I supposed to take away from that tattoo though?
When I finally get to Liverpool Street it is earlier than usual so I hop aboard the 7.08PM train to Clacton. Immediately I sense that I have made a mistake as if feels like a sauna. Sitting to my right is a real suntanned slag of a female who I watch pull funny faces as someone decides to sit in the seat her handbag was sitting in.
Soon the clock hits 7.10PM and we haven’t even moved and suddenly my mistake at choosing this train is confirmed.
Eventually though after too much of my life being wasted sat on a non-moving train I get home and passing through my parents’ place on the way. At least the dog cheers me up and helps me get over the misery caused by the shoddy service delivered by my train.
When I finally get back to Bohemian Grove tonight on TV is a topical drama called Freefall about the credit crunch over zealous mortgage lending that has brought the country to its knees (and many families with it). It fails to deliver.
Elsewhere on TV is the second episode of You Have Been Watching with Charlie Brooker which instead does indeed deliver before my night ends with falling asleep to the horrible sight of the movie London To Brighton. I remember Catherine from the BBC really being interested in seeing this film when I briefly spent time with her and eventually I saw it at the Prince Charles Cinema just off Leicester Square on the day of the infamous Hold Steady gig at the Borderline. A more grim movie I could struggle to envisage.
Monday, 13 July 2009
Monday 13 July 2009
With hindsight not getting to sleep until 2AM this morning was not a very good thing and always likely to become my undoing.
As I put on my retro iPod Shuffle this morning it splutters and dies randomly once more. Then it is not until I get on the train that fatigue hits me.
The real stress of proceedings is currently caused by the fact that it is dad’s birthday on Wednesday and I have no idea what to get for him.
It’s a morning of listening to Nick Cave on the train – I am just in that kind of mood.
The train hurtles to town only to get beached outside Liverpool Street for what appears to be a longer pause than usual. Will these trains ever cease to be disheartening?
At Liverpool Street tube platform I find myself smiling at an unconventionally attractive lady (she looks from Israel, sporting the best of both worlds) with a Costa coffee in hand. As we board the same carriage I watch as her face begins to contort in a screwy fashion indicating disgust/distaste. I hope that wasn’t my fault and I’m not responsible for that (emotion reaction).
Leaving Kings Cross station the train suddenly fills with the sound of some kind of jazz trumpet. I begin to wonder if it is coming from my iPhone but when I look up it is a nutter blowing a flute on the ponce for change so that he can sell the Big Issue. He stops playing and begins to tell us that he is hungry. It really does sound like a flute that is wired up to a DAT. For a few moments I actually thought it was the train driver pumping in music over the PA Shawshank style suffering some kind of breakdown. Fortunately the Pied Piper gets off at Great Portland Street before he bites anybody. He is the BBC’s problem now.
As I change tube lines at Baker Street I swear I see Robert Downey Jr.
Soon however I am away from the hells of public transport and firmly lodged into the working the day. When the boss turns up it is with the knowledge that The Girl isn’t in today. This produces the usual comments which indirectly I feel reflect on me.
I begin the day by sending my summer roundup stuff to Marceline for Diskant. I have gone a bit overboard with enthusiasm, which hopefully won’t be perceived as a bad thing. Things are good right now though, times are high and the stuff/material enhancing my life is of high quality.
With The Girl not bothering to come in it turns out to be a slow day, impossible to get motivated about work when it is so evident that others aren’t giving a crap and getting away with it. The office equilibrium needs to be maintained but seldom it is.
For lunch I have king prawns and couscous again, once more noting how dry they are and how they just need a bit more flavouring in order to make it a great dish. However the chefs don’t tell me how to cook the books so I won’t tell them how to cook the food.
Much like the morning, the afternoon is slow and arduous. As I leave the roller derby girl is chatty.
With getting dad a birthday present in mind I hit Oxford Street just before 6PM. And indeed as expected it is carnage, splattered with fat American tourists getting in the way and chatting with bubblegum in their gapping, drooling mouths. OK, maybe that is an exaggeration but still I have to do the tourist hurdles in order to get to any stores before closing time. Motherfuckers.
First I hit Borders to no joy. Is this a place where people cruise? Tonight it feels like it is. Regardless it is rammed full of pretty girls. There is also a proper tranny, which is less easy on the eyes.
With nothing purchased my next stop is HMV where I see a huge shop full of items that I could purchase significantly cheaper online. Soon unfortunately it hits me and becomes apparent that I have no idea about a gift for the old man.
Still empty handed I head down Berwick Street to Sister Ray and what used to be Selectadisc. Boy is this shop quiet these days. I remember when you couldn’t get to racks for people clambering to look at the seven inches. To think me and my old Gringo Records cohort used to make a post Christmas special trip/journey up to here and Rough Trade to buy records as a minor act of pilgrimage for a few years. Better times?
I don’t buy anything but I do manage to finally begin to relax and enjoy walking through Soho on a bright summer evening. This could be the best of places at the best of times. As I pass our restaurant on Old Compton Street it doesn’t look so great.
As I pass Dean Street I see the road is closed and the builders are in place repairing the street after Friday’s fire. This is where we interviewed Bobby Conn that time. Better times?
Nostalgia begins to grip me, to kill me, to belittle me, to stifle me.
Cambridge Circus is very busy this evening, lots of people, lots of tourists. So why then does our restaurant there look horribly quiet? Monday evening I guess.
Eventually and invariably I wind up in Fopp. Inside upstairs The Slits are just finishing off a book signing and packing up. In some eyes this would be a true wow. I’ve tried listening to “Cut” in the past and much like The Raincoats sadly it never clicked with me. It is however pretty exciting to be sharing space with post-punk royalty.
Obviously I buy more stuff for myself than the old man – who can argue with Seinfeld boxsets for £5 (season five and season six) which sets off some kind of undeserved retail frenzy in/for me.
As I leave the store I set off the alarms and find myself getting a little arsy with the security guard. However he is cool and I am a prick as he does have a point that the tag will only set off the alarms in any other store I step in. My bad.
I end up in the Charing Cross Road Borders frantically looking for a book or two for the old man. In the end I buy him a couple of rubbish computer books that are patronising to anyone under the age of 40. He however will be 64 this week so part of me thinks these should suit.
In the basement a gorgeous Asian lady (probably Chinese) sits at a desk seemingly doing her homework. When did Borders become a library?
Eventually I am done by 8.30PM. On the tube I witness as a girl sits reading Vice Magazine and taking it very seriously. Tonight the Central Line feels extra fast as it appears to take only six minutes to get from Tottenham Court Road to Bank. Did we ever have it so good ever before?
Tonight I catch the weird 9PM Lowestoft train home. This ride appears to be more orange than ever this evening and extra sickening with it. On the train are a couple of people speaking German, I think they might be from Germany.
Attempting to ignore them I watch the 3rd In Treatment episode of patient April and I find myself really beginning to warm to her as the show begins to grip me again.
Once back in Colchester as I walk from the station to my car I see the weirdest sight ever of a shirtless man on crutches stopping for his friend to pull down his trousers so that he can have a piss up the wall of Wickes. For a moment I thought the dude was about to give him a blowjob. Speedily I walk off, not waiting around to see the conclusion of this action.
While this is all occurring I am listening to “Down On The Street” from Fun House. There couldn’t possibly be a better soundtrack for the image as I snag one of those rare moments that my iPod perfectly syncs with life.
Other than that ugliness walking to the car tonight it is the most beautiful evening as time quickly heads towards 10PM.
When I get home it is to six CDs have been delivered in the post – two bad self releases and four rubbish CDs that I have ordered from Play.com for £1.99 in an extended moment of work boredom.
I fall asleep watching Ali G Indahouse and suddenly I recall how spookily he stole my middle name and surname combination – did you know that his full name is Alistair Leslie Graham? And this is my dad’s middle/surname combination also. I literally feel cloned. With this in mind I soon fall asleep.
With hindsight not getting to sleep until 2AM this morning was not a very good thing and always likely to become my undoing.
As I put on my retro iPod Shuffle this morning it splutters and dies randomly once more. Then it is not until I get on the train that fatigue hits me.
The real stress of proceedings is currently caused by the fact that it is dad’s birthday on Wednesday and I have no idea what to get for him.
It’s a morning of listening to Nick Cave on the train – I am just in that kind of mood.
The train hurtles to town only to get beached outside Liverpool Street for what appears to be a longer pause than usual. Will these trains ever cease to be disheartening?
At Liverpool Street tube platform I find myself smiling at an unconventionally attractive lady (she looks from Israel, sporting the best of both worlds) with a Costa coffee in hand. As we board the same carriage I watch as her face begins to contort in a screwy fashion indicating disgust/distaste. I hope that wasn’t my fault and I’m not responsible for that (emotion reaction).
Leaving Kings Cross station the train suddenly fills with the sound of some kind of jazz trumpet. I begin to wonder if it is coming from my iPhone but when I look up it is a nutter blowing a flute on the ponce for change so that he can sell the Big Issue. He stops playing and begins to tell us that he is hungry. It really does sound like a flute that is wired up to a DAT. For a few moments I actually thought it was the train driver pumping in music over the PA Shawshank style suffering some kind of breakdown. Fortunately the Pied Piper gets off at Great Portland Street before he bites anybody. He is the BBC’s problem now.
As I change tube lines at Baker Street I swear I see Robert Downey Jr.
Soon however I am away from the hells of public transport and firmly lodged into the working the day. When the boss turns up it is with the knowledge that The Girl isn’t in today. This produces the usual comments which indirectly I feel reflect on me.
I begin the day by sending my summer roundup stuff to Marceline for Diskant. I have gone a bit overboard with enthusiasm, which hopefully won’t be perceived as a bad thing. Things are good right now though, times are high and the stuff/material enhancing my life is of high quality.
With The Girl not bothering to come in it turns out to be a slow day, impossible to get motivated about work when it is so evident that others aren’t giving a crap and getting away with it. The office equilibrium needs to be maintained but seldom it is.
For lunch I have king prawns and couscous again, once more noting how dry they are and how they just need a bit more flavouring in order to make it a great dish. However the chefs don’t tell me how to cook the books so I won’t tell them how to cook the food.
Much like the morning, the afternoon is slow and arduous. As I leave the roller derby girl is chatty.
With getting dad a birthday present in mind I hit Oxford Street just before 6PM. And indeed as expected it is carnage, splattered with fat American tourists getting in the way and chatting with bubblegum in their gapping, drooling mouths. OK, maybe that is an exaggeration but still I have to do the tourist hurdles in order to get to any stores before closing time. Motherfuckers.
First I hit Borders to no joy. Is this a place where people cruise? Tonight it feels like it is. Regardless it is rammed full of pretty girls. There is also a proper tranny, which is less easy on the eyes.
With nothing purchased my next stop is HMV where I see a huge shop full of items that I could purchase significantly cheaper online. Soon unfortunately it hits me and becomes apparent that I have no idea about a gift for the old man.
Still empty handed I head down Berwick Street to Sister Ray and what used to be Selectadisc. Boy is this shop quiet these days. I remember when you couldn’t get to racks for people clambering to look at the seven inches. To think me and my old Gringo Records cohort used to make a post Christmas special trip/journey up to here and Rough Trade to buy records as a minor act of pilgrimage for a few years. Better times?
I don’t buy anything but I do manage to finally begin to relax and enjoy walking through Soho on a bright summer evening. This could be the best of places at the best of times. As I pass our restaurant on Old Compton Street it doesn’t look so great.
As I pass Dean Street I see the road is closed and the builders are in place repairing the street after Friday’s fire. This is where we interviewed Bobby Conn that time. Better times?
Nostalgia begins to grip me, to kill me, to belittle me, to stifle me.
Cambridge Circus is very busy this evening, lots of people, lots of tourists. So why then does our restaurant there look horribly quiet? Monday evening I guess.
Eventually and invariably I wind up in Fopp. Inside upstairs The Slits are just finishing off a book signing and packing up. In some eyes this would be a true wow. I’ve tried listening to “Cut” in the past and much like The Raincoats sadly it never clicked with me. It is however pretty exciting to be sharing space with post-punk royalty.
Obviously I buy more stuff for myself than the old man – who can argue with Seinfeld boxsets for £5 (season five and season six) which sets off some kind of undeserved retail frenzy in/for me.
As I leave the store I set off the alarms and find myself getting a little arsy with the security guard. However he is cool and I am a prick as he does have a point that the tag will only set off the alarms in any other store I step in. My bad.
I end up in the Charing Cross Road Borders frantically looking for a book or two for the old man. In the end I buy him a couple of rubbish computer books that are patronising to anyone under the age of 40. He however will be 64 this week so part of me thinks these should suit.
In the basement a gorgeous Asian lady (probably Chinese) sits at a desk seemingly doing her homework. When did Borders become a library?
Eventually I am done by 8.30PM. On the tube I witness as a girl sits reading Vice Magazine and taking it very seriously. Tonight the Central Line feels extra fast as it appears to take only six minutes to get from Tottenham Court Road to Bank. Did we ever have it so good ever before?
Tonight I catch the weird 9PM Lowestoft train home. This ride appears to be more orange than ever this evening and extra sickening with it. On the train are a couple of people speaking German, I think they might be from Germany.
Attempting to ignore them I watch the 3rd In Treatment episode of patient April and I find myself really beginning to warm to her as the show begins to grip me again.
Once back in Colchester as I walk from the station to my car I see the weirdest sight ever of a shirtless man on crutches stopping for his friend to pull down his trousers so that he can have a piss up the wall of Wickes. For a moment I thought the dude was about to give him a blowjob. Speedily I walk off, not waiting around to see the conclusion of this action.
While this is all occurring I am listening to “Down On The Street” from Fun House. There couldn’t possibly be a better soundtrack for the image as I snag one of those rare moments that my iPod perfectly syncs with life.
Other than that ugliness walking to the car tonight it is the most beautiful evening as time quickly heads towards 10PM.
When I get home it is to six CDs have been delivered in the post – two bad self releases and four rubbish CDs that I have ordered from Play.com for £1.99 in an extended moment of work boredom.
I fall asleep watching Ali G Indahouse and suddenly I recall how spookily he stole my middle name and surname combination – did you know that his full name is Alistair Leslie Graham? And this is my dad’s middle/surname combination also. I literally feel cloned. With this in mind I soon fall asleep.
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