Tuesday 24 November 2009

My Tuesday begins when I wake up in the middle of the night with the theme music to St Elsewhere disturbing my sleep.  This TV show reminds me of horrific and innocent times, when Channel Four was new and they had nothing else to show and I was wrestling with the horrors of school.

Later as the alarm rings at 6AM I pull myself and get ready swiftly with view to dropping the car off with dad so that he can take my car to the garage for its MOT.  When I get in my car the Network Rail van is gone from my parking space.  As I stop by their house at 6.45AM and it is nice seeing Bobby first thing in the morning.

I get the 6.59AM easily with dad taking my car back to their place and later the garage.  I worry about his driving, he is now classic cranky old man not worrying about cutting people up and/or indicating when at roundabouts and junctions.  Typically last night the petrol light came on so I also ask dad nicely if he will put some petrol in the car, leaving him my last £10 in the process.

Sitting on the train this morning it is opposite a weird looking woman listening to an iPod in a pink holder at excessive levels.  Her iPod proceeds to almost drown out my own iPhone as it churns out what sounds like awful eighties MOR power rock.  How can a person still listen to this shit without feeling crucifying shame?  Luckily she gets off at Chelmsford and takes her tunes with her, hopefully back to the eighties along with her hairstyle.

Unsurprisingly the train gets held up today, this is just the way they roll at the moment.  As we near Liverpool Street a female Information Jimmy informs us that the delay is due to “traffic congestion at Stratford.”  Again this is not an excuse.

Eventually I get into work not quite housing the focus or energy that possessed me yesterday but still I manage to maintain some kind of gameplan in mind.  This then comes coupled with The Girl phoning to say that she will be late.  Why do I bother when others do not?

The day takes on a sour note when Fritzl comes in dumping some boxes of A4 paper in our room making a smart comment about how he asked us to move them yesterday.  No he made a smart comment regarding the boxes yesterday that did not warrant response.  I will not be spoken to in certain tones, you may as well speak to me in Swahili for all the recognition I will give it.  The fucking thing is that the boxes have sat there for six weeks now.  Again though it is just him taking something out on our department because some kind of recent shift in levity makes him think he can get away with it.

Things do not improve as the heavy metal manager comes up and plops a new staff menu (complete with spelling mistakes, did he do exams?) in our lap.  The Girl currently at odds with him seems to think he takes glee in dropping this on us.  Personally I feel it is very unnecessary as we do not take the piss with regards to ordering food from the kitchen at lunch, we still treat it as a privilege instead of a right.  Just because certain members of his staff are fucking and giving favours to chefs and getting steaks in the process does not mean we are all on the hustle.  I pick up the menu and see little difference in it from what we order already.  This is so unnecessary, just another exercise in belittling our department I feel.

I do however notice that salmon is on the menu.  Recently because of issues with the fish supplier we have been kindly asked/requested not to order/request fish dishes and happily we have complied with this.  Fuck it now though, if they’re gonna get petty, I’m going to get petty and order fish until I sprout gills.

From here onwards unfortunately a shit atmosphere follows and takes hold but at least I find myself able cash in with another strong day.

For lunch on cue I return to the chargrilled salmon dish with new potatoes, beans and hollandaise sauce.  This is a great dish, easily one of the restaurant’s best.

By the close of the day the accounts are looking the most thorough and therefore the best they have been all year.  To compliment this our boss lets us out a little early and with it I suspect he wants a drink but I can’t afford to hang around so I make my excuses regarding my car and its MOT.

Getting out early means I am able to catch the 6PM Norwich train, the Sarah train, but eventually I don’t see or bump into her on it.  In the end I get to Liverpool Street around 5.57PM and as I run across the station to the train I accidentally stand on the foot/heal of some slow black lady poodling along.  Immediately she reacts with venom as she hurls vocal abuse back at me beginning “fuck…..”  As a result of this reaction immediately in the most evil manner I feel no remorse for what I just accidentally did to her, I even begin giggling in the process.

Later as a result of karma she probably proves the reason why the train is hellaciously rammed this evening.  I do at least see (gawp at) The Wookiee for the first time in weeks (maybe months) but soon it becomes apparent that I will be standing for the entire journey home tonight.  This I begin to realise is the Wanker Train.  With my current state of health as it is this turns out to be bad, a near crippling thing for me at this time.

Not before time the train gets back to Colchester and with it relief.  Invariably I bump into The Wookiee leaving the station, could I be any more obvious in having a crush on her?  Tonight I notice she has a real spring in her step, maybe she is getting some.

Even though Dad offered to pick me up I decide to walk to their place and get some exercise in the process.  In a way I want to use this experience as some kind of gauge as to my current state of health and register any potential decline since I have ceased walking to and from the train station daily.  As I do the walk thankfully my chest does not tighten to the degree that I was fearing and I don’t quite get out of breath as much as I was fearing I would but it is still enough to cause some concern.  Walking up Balkerne Hill as ever wanker joggers begin zipping past me as if to express some kind of territoriality over the way.  Really, don’t these fucks have lives?  Do they live to jog because this is the impression that I am getting from them.

When I eventually get back to the olds Bobby is immediately all over me.  Later however as we mess around with his play biting me we accidentally knock heads and he bites the part of head between my eyes and the bridge of my nose causing it to bleed and scab.  That’s going to look cool tomorrow.

My car easily passed its MOT test today.  There were a few minor issues but they resolved them onsite so when the bill comes to just under £110 I feel I cannot complain.

Tonight I have another crack at repairing dad’s computer but I can’t get it done.  It would appear to me now that there is a crippling virus on it and as such it is not allowing me to go online and run it through Panda or something.  Part of me worries that it is due to the weird file that has suddenly appeared on my 1.5TB external drive I have attached to their computer.  Of course I don’t admit or express this worry to him.  As I attempt to mend his PC I pretty much fall asleep at his computer so soon afterwards I head home feeling flat having failed in my attempts to repair things.

Elsewhere this evening Millwall draw 1-1 at Exeter which can only be considered two points lost.  From the last three supposedly easy games they have only got two points from what should have been a simple nine.  Why does football mock me?

Upon getting home I set about watching the latest episode of Californication which only manages to see me falling asleep after a few minutes.

The end.

Monday 23 November 2009

Dream: I am at a works Christmas party that appears to be taking place in a renovated loft/attic.  It goes OK but then I become part of the Entourage group taking up the role of Turtle and we promptly tear into some kind of game of golf that doesn’t actually appear playing the game more just indulging in the social side of things.  Hot ladies and friendly movie stars guest making this the best of times and places to be.

This morning I awaken to the big news story of the day according to GMTV being Katie Price is leaving I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here.  This is not news.

Today I risk wearing my coat for the first time this winter but realistically I know it isn’t big enough for my anymore and that it has been tatty for a couple of years now.  The weather dictates otherwise though and forces me to wrap up as the air begins to turn and winter begins to kick in.

Eventually I leave late for the train and as a result it turns into one of those dangerous driving mornings coupled with traffic every light seeming to turn red for me.  God hates me.

In the end I needn’t have bothered rushing as while I wheeze my way onto the platform the train turns up late also.  Such is the reliability of National Express.

Once rolling later as the train calls at Chelmsford some guy decides to squish into the small space for the seat between me and some other fat arse.  As a result of this I can no longer breathe.

Finally the train rolls into Liverpool Street at 8.14AM which is depressingly late and by which time I am achingly uncomfortable.  As I burst out of the train I gasp for fresh air, the fresh air of London.  Desperate times.

From here it is a nondescript and nonchalant journey to St Johns Wood filled with no event or anything of interest.  Some days these quiet journeys are as welcome as anything in my world.

Today the consultant is supposed to be in so I find myself racing to get as much work completed as possible in order to be in the best position to deal with him and his queries when he finally arrives.  In the end however he doesn’t show, doesn’t bother to turn up which ultimately means I get more done than if he had come in (and got in the way).  In a way the additional breathing space was welcome and served me very well but he is still displaying an obscene amount of shoddy professionalism.

At the end of the day our boss lets us out slightly early which works really well for me as I head to Soho Theatre to collect my MARK THOMAS ticket before getting to the Shaftsbury Avenue Odeon in good time for A Serious Man.

As I get to the cinema it genuinely scares and worries me how out of breathe I am getting at the moment – am I really so unhealthy?  Briefly I step into Fopp but bargains appear to be light on the ground as prices rise to capitalise on Christmas kicking in.

Eventually I buy my ticket for A Serious Man and take to my seat.  For some reason I am really hypersensitive at the movies these days, annoyed by the sound of people crunching popcorn, talking and exceptionally niggled by people kicking the back of my seat and/or any seat along my row with causes the slightest of vibrations to twinge my back.  This evening the sound of the bearded cunts and their skank eating popcorn behind me is deafening.  Also on cue with every tap and nudge to the back of our row of seats it feels like an electric shock is being sent through the aisle.  Why am I like this?

The movie A Serious Man turns out to be an episodic account of a struggling Jewish man dealing with the fresh suburbia of the 60s.  It is very Jewish and as a result I fear I miss half of the references.  There is plenty of quirk and oddball characters but it all feels quite toned down for a Coen Brothers movie and with it there is a lack of trademark dialogue.  The main character is teacher Larry Gopnik (expertly played by Michael Stuhlbarg) really has a horrible time of it through the movie as he struggles to get through his own everyday hassle while everyone around him tugs away trying to get him to the serve their own means.  Sometimes this appears funny such as the when one of his Korean students (and later father) attempts to bribe him for a better grave using one of the most forthright method and mentalities ever displayed on film.  Unfortunately though things aren’t much better at home as his wild-eyed wife unmercilessly begins to do the dirty on him.

The ever reliable Richard Kind pops up excellently as his oddball brother in trouble with the law only adding to his problems while elsewhere his son faces his own problems with the Jewish method of becoming a man which all occurs to the soundtrack of Jefferson Airplane.  It is a tough film to watch as the pace often slows right down serving to test both concentration and patience as proceedings begin to remind me slightly of The Ice Storm, albeit in a far less glamorous fashion.  As ever the Coen Brothers seem intent on lifting the lid to an element of life they consider previously unexplored.  Despite the impressive ending I leave unimpressed.

 From here I rush across Soho to the Soho Theatre in order to catch MARK THOMAS.  Upon arrival and heading upstairs to the theatre it turns out that he is actually in the studio rather than the main auditorium.  As we all wait outside nervously we get handed forms to fill in with our ideas for policies.  Suddenly it begins to feel a bit more like an audience participation affair than I was expecting.

In the end I wimp out unable to think up any decent policies.  I do come up with the idea that “banks should be replaced by eBay” but if the show is going to take on a serious tact I feel the idea isn’t worthy of submission so instead I steal the biro they gave us and hold onto my sheet.

As expected with MARK THOMAS the show is politically heavy occasionally veering a long way from the comedy element in order to make a point.  It’s all about riding the edutainment line and keeping the balance right.

The set takes form of MARK THOMAS trying to suggest and create a “People’s Manifesto” during which the early part of proceedings mostly involves him talking about various pranks and stunts he has undertaken in the process of subverting the powers that be.  As ever it is hit and miss from a comedy perspective and all in all it serves to make an individual feel uneasy about harbouring any thoughts that are not of a left bent or persuasion.

He then moves onto the policies that have been previously suggested at his shows, both the intelligent and the ridiculous.  He notes that the opportunity for the audience to bring such policies to the table has often served to reveal some kind of bloodlust in some people.

Personally my favourite suggestion of the evening is to invade Jersey due to its housing of so many non doms including certain individuals that work for newspapers that criticise other non doms.

From here the show moves onto tonight’s suggestions.  On the whole it’s a fairly balanced set of policies, I guess the loons stayed at home tonight.  Some suggestions are quite fairy and green, such as the bike related one.  Then in turns out that the guy sat in front of me has submitted a set of policies that are too knowing and very sensible.  Unsurprisingly MARK THOMAS reacts excitedly even suggesting to the guy “you could turn me.”  Quickly the show polarises itself away from comedy to the point that I wish I had submitted my suggestion after all.  If nothing else this evening I learn that I should stand up and make my voice heard.

Not long after this policy suggestion is read out THOMAS chooses his winner for the evening (the egghead) and I find myself leaving the theatre, looking out for some MARK THOMAS merch on the way.  There is something about seeing comedy such as this that does invigorate me, makes me want to look into things more and, dare I say, get political.

Leaving the Soho Theatre there is something truly exciting about wandering Soho and Oxford Street at such a late hour.  By now (other than the eternal Tesco) everything is now closed and still barring pubs and food joints.  This feels like an hour now where/when the squares have gone to bed and only the cool people remain out.  I know this is not necessarily the truth but don’t bash my illusion.

After a quick tube ride along the Central Line I end up on an 11PM train that goes to Ipswich.  It feels right; all in all it feels like a great night.

When I get back home there is a Network Rail van parked in my allocated space.  Perhaps I should charge those cunts £92.50 a month for the privilege of parking in my car park reciprocating the gesture they make towards me.

In the end I just park in my neighbour’s space, they don’t use it anyway.  As I step out of my car in a huff I notice that there is a couple sat in the van.  They look at me and I look at them and just like a pussy I wave and go “its all right” when realistically at this time I should be telling them to “budge!”  Oh well, passive aggression is my way, always has been, always will.

I step into my flat just after midnight and with it television (Channel Four) in the early hours is amazing at this time with a couple of great episodes of King Of The Hill before Studio 60.  Not that I watch very much of it before passing out.

Sunday 22 November 2009

Dream: I am in Terminator Salvation.  I am the fucking leader.  In this situation I am leading a group of work colleagues to safety, apparently there is a town somewhere that the machines have not discovered and ruined yet.  Out of character I am surprisingly good at dealing with the machines, I guess it is the pumping 90s rock soundtrack that spurs action on.  We reach safety and it all ends happily.  Very fucking weird.

I feel lousy today.  I wake up just before 7.30AM on a Sunday morning seemingly without a fucking clue of what is going on with me right now.  I can’t believe how old I now am, I am fucked.  That bullshit about the ideal age being 33 is nonsense.  It is a lie and a charade.  This is not a healthy existence for a person of supposedly such a mature age.  So what do I do about it?  I watch my DVD of The Inbetweeners.

Taking me away and out of my current concerns I laugh a lot at the DVD.  Provided I am able to always summon up such blissful escapism everything will be all right.  TV saves the day yet again.

As the disc reaches the fourth episode (“Car friend”) it begins to pixelate.  Eventually the disc pixelates to the point my ageing DVD player outright rejects and switches itself off.  Once more I am reduced to being a loser.  Unlike in my dreams, today the machines have won.

On a roll with this show though I head over to my PC where I downloaded the series as a torrent and I watch that instead.  Strike up a victory of illegal downloading over commercially produced poor quality discs.  This is why (well, one of the reasons) people illegally download.

With the reality of heading back up to London today via the hateful rail replacement service buses I begin to murmur after the fifth episode.  Outside thankfully is a sunny day with no sign of the rain that compounded an awful day yesterday.

Today is the recording of the DAVID SEDARIS show for the BBC.  This is very geeky and part of me does suspect I will be the only working class person in the audience.

Just before I leave Mark texts to say he’ll come along which is a pleasant surprise after he has been acting slightly flaky over the event.  This comes helpfully timed just as I deliver/unleash an internal rant regarding how I don’t appear to have any friends left anymore.  This would be bad enough were I still a teen but at the age of 33 such emotions really are truly unhealthy.  Not that there isn’t smoke without fire.

Eventually I head off to face what shit National Express can throw at me today.  In the process a buy a copy of today’s Sunday Times because it comes with a free live Blur CD.

The usually very basic drive to the station is thwart with annoyance today as nobody appears to be driving with a pulse this morning.  As the real people remain in bed, people with nothing better to do take to the road and ruin it for anyone with an agenda or purpose by driving slowly and poorly in the process.  On the way I get stuck behind a sports car that appears to be afraid to stop at junctions and as a result has to brake early and leave a car length ahead of it.  Why do people buy these suped up machines if they are only going to drive them like Mini Metros?

The stupidity displayed by other drivers only gets upped when upon arriving at the station I find myself stuck behind two dawdling pensioner mobiles looking for the perfect parking space, failing and giving up when they fail in their attempts to get parked in a less than perfect spot.

Niggled I head towards the platform and when the train arrives it is one of those dank blue and yellow ones that are ordinarily used to stop at the stations on the Essex/London border.  Thankfully though this train has no stops and within 30 minutes we have already reached Ingatestone and suddenly it becomes apparent to me that I have overcompensated by boarding such an early train.

The transfer from train to musty coach is a disheartening one as these things still stink of cigarette smoke to me.  Too many memories are jogged of having to catch coaches in my youth both on family holidays and for school.  Things also fail to improve as while the coach drives to Newbury Park the heavens begin to open.

Just after midday we arrive at Newbury Park with no sign of any life on the Central Line.  While I text Mark telling him I’m getting closer to Leytonstone some weird guy with luggage stood behind me decides to light up a cigarette on the platform.  Is this station really so rural?

When I finally get to Leytonstone it is with sporting trepidation in the danger of seeing my American Friend.  As I head through the town towards Mark’s gaff I feel myself literally looking around wearily.

It is with a large degree of relief that I finally get to Mark’s but as I bowl up it visibly looks as if he is struggling with flu.  Am I really dragging him out at a time when he should be staying in and sleeping things off?  Oh well.

Eventually we head off towards BBC Broadcasting House on our Central Line journey from Leytonstone to Oxford Circus.  Unsurprisingly the train is rammed full of tourists and foreigners.  We note the abundance in the amount of pushchairs on the train, noting the just how much room they take up.  These really should not be allowed on tubes as they are such a risk.

We get to Broadcasting House about 2.15PM in good time for the 3PM kick off.  Outside there is a queue waiting to enter and for a moment I worry about our chances of getting into the show at all.

The song and dance that is the entering of BBC Broadcasting House is akin to the strictest airport and as humiliating with it.  It stops short of the rubber glove treatment as security measures at the BBC prove ridiculously heavy handed including the removal of belts.  As usual I commit the schoolboy error of after emptying all my pockets of personal belongings when I pass through the metal detector I forget to remove me watch.  Then after I remove this and go through again once more the machine beeps as it is then revealed that I have forgotten about my house keys sat in my pocket.  I don’t who is more pissed off by this: me for feeling unnecessarily subjected to terrorist type treatment or the security guard for having to deal with such stupidity.  All in all by the time we finally get into the BBC and get herded into some grotty room it feels as if the powers that be have tried their hardest to squeeze all possible fun out of proceedings.

While we ruminate as a herd in a spare room (complete with used flipcharts) it appears to be under the watchful eye of snide security types (little Asians that realistically couldn’t stop a flea) who stare at us with criminal suspicion.  These guys are placed as frontline obstacles for their ability to accept things like water off a duck’s back with their cold manners (rudeness) as really they are just their as some kind of expendable first line affordable casualty tactic.  I cannot believe that these guys are the A-Team.  To think Chris Moyles staggers through here daily without obstacle makes a rational person feel fucking sick.

Thankfully all our efforts prove worthwhile as DAVID SEDARIS proves an amazing turn as before our eyes he records two shows of MEET DAVID SEDARIS for Radio Four which comprise of three stories each.  His stories are great, surface sweet but with biting content happy to accept and display his wrinkles and occasional selfish instincts that go against accepted social conventions.  For this the man is a superhero.  Spoken with a different voice these tales might sound snide but with the golden era Woody Allen-esqe observations each eventually gets to the point and makes the most sense.

DAVID SEDARIS appears to be somewhat bemused by the setup of things.  The concept of him just reading and people applauding seems to feel cold to him and away from his stories he takes every effort to attempt to speak to the audience even though the BBC doesn’t appear to want to allow it.  When he makes comment of the security we had to endure the briefest but strongest of connections are made.

Often DAVID SEDARIS mentions his family in his stories and occasionally he mentions his sister who most of us will know as Amy Sedaris from Strangers With Candy.  It feels funny to picture these two together; they really are not two people that you would imagine to be related.

Soon the six readings of tales (including his family as children purposely trying cause accidents, an episode sat next to a grieving man on a plane and how he and his partner bonded over a fear of STDs) come to an end and with similar precision to the way we were entered into BBC Broadcasting House we are swiftly flung back out onto the streets of London with a high level of contempt.

We fall out onto Regents Street around 4.30PM on a packed Sunday afternoon at the early stages of the run up to Christmas.  The lights are already up and they look naff, heavily embroidered with corporate Disney branding for their latest shitty Christmas cash in movie.  Nothing is sacred anymore; these lights should be special, a gift to the nation, envy to the world.  Instead now they are just one big advertisement.

From here we head to get a coffee, first looking at that place just off Carnaby Street from when I met up with Marceline on Friday which Mark promptly dislikes and decides to steer us instead towards Golden Square and the Nordic Bakery.  Its all much of muchness.

It’s a busy scene, we barely get seated.  We get into discussions regarding work and the inevitable Christmas period and what plans for that just might be.  Then we get into some strange argument over my recent declaration that coffee tastes best out of a paper cup.  This is not some kind of eco disagreement, just one of taste and apparent common sense.  Seldom/rarely have I seen Mark so vehement with an opinion telling me it is nonsense but I stick by with what I know.  Perhaps today he is just niggled because the Nords of the Nordic Bakery have given us our drinks in paper cups.  Perhaps we should have gone to the Carnaby Street place after all.

Eventually we make moves to head home boarding the Central Line at Oxford Circus.  Unsurprisingly a tube journey on the Central Line turns out to be a trip of annoyance as I concentrate on being annoyed at the mother in a headscarf dragging her buggy onto an already packed train Mark meanwhile gets annoyed by two gobby pissheads upsetting the whole carriage with their lairy drunk shenanigans.  Scarily their movements remind me of Steve (and potentially me) from back in the day.  Still, the buggy is a greater health and safety risk than those fools even if they do apparently make comments to some kid as he gets off.  The really strange thing turns out to be that after they exit the train at Stratford and some old guy makes comment “England’s finest” that probably annoys me more than anything that came before it.  Go figure.

Remembering that the trains are fucked today and I am being subjected to rail replacement buses out of Newbury Park my already ridiculously long Central Line trip gets extended as I end up going the incorrect route and winding up at Snaresbrook, a place that appears to be on the map for no reason.  The station does however save my bacon by having a public toilet (free public toilet!) which suddenly adds value to the station.

Finally I get to Newbury Park around 6PM and with it endure an agonising bus journey back to Ingatestone where hopefully a train will be waiting for me.

Due to the trains being out all in all it makes for another long day reminding me why I don’t head into London at the weekends very much (because of rail incompetence).  It is around 7.30PM when I get back to Colchester.  At the moment I still have dad’s mobile ever since my iPhone went into coma mode a couple of months ago and now he wants it back so tonight I have to lug myself home and then pop around there’s.

While at their crib I manage to grab some dinner while X-Factor plays out in the background.  Eventually I head around 9PM and once back I soon pass out.

Today was unnecessary.

Saturday 21 November 2009

Dream: today’s dream is worryingly worked related but even though I awaken and realise I can pull of the dream instead I roll over and re-enter the scenario.  This is what comes from going to bed early ahead of time.

When I finally get up the time is around 8.30AM.  This beginning to become frequent now, just because I want an early start on Saturday mornings these days.

Gradually I pull myself together to do the Asda thing, leaving without a plan or an breakfast inside of me.  As I drive past Butt Road in front of me one of the partners rolls in his dinky expensive car.  Five years and counting.

I roll around Asda very much in the style of a consumer zombie.  Acting on impulse and autopilot I buy exceptionally bad food this week in some kind of declaration of not giving a fuck.  This is the most depression suggesting basket of groceries I have indulged in for months.

Afterwards I return home and get stuck into the radio and Danny Baker’s show as per routine.  Outside the weather wise the day starts out OK despite the fact that the forecasts on the radio repeatedly threaten rain.

I decide to head up to Millwall today because I don’t think I’ll get another chance to get up there this year.  Today they are playing Wycombe who are rooted to the bottom of the table and so quite frankly Millwall should coast past them.  I have never seen Millwall tonk (thrash) a team and part of me hopes that this could happen for me today.

Heading up to London on the train once arriving into Liverpool Street I am confronted by the reality of the tubes being fucked this weekend.  Information Jimmy says “a good service” is occurring but experienced first hand this plainly is not true.  As I catch the one working escalator down to the Central Line (every other line appears to be out) looking down all I can see is carnage as people mass and attempt to squeeze on the Westbound platform.  Faced with this crap I even decide to board an Eastbound train with view to changing at Bethnal Green.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.  Part of the problem is that the planned closures of the lines come coupled with industrial action on the buses.  Once aboard a tube as the train passes back through Liverpool Street I notice that a film crew are filming in the closed off section of the Central Line entrance.  So does the apparent revenue the tubes are getting from this exercise justify their endangering of their passengers?

Eventually I change at Bank and get the Northern Line down to London Bridge where I board an overground train to South Bermondsey.  I haven’t taken this route to the ground in years but with the Jubilee out (including Canada Water) and Surrey Quays long closed today I have no other choice.  Just as I head towards my train I find myself walking along side a group of Wycombe supporters bowling up to the train also.  They are fronting and making a lot of noise so quickly I distance myself from the mini crowd and adjoin myself with fellow Millwall strangers.  By the time we get within sight of the ground the weather has gone to shit and the trudge towards the New Den is a more miserable one than usual.

Completely by fortunate error I time things to almost perfection, getting my tickets and into the ground just before 2.45PM.  Grabbing a couple of drinks feels almost essential for this experience.

Today at the ground is Help For Heroes today and with it comes a horrible sense of patriotism.  One a day where several thousand people are celebrating the efforts of our soldiers in the middle east here I am dressed in my green American Apparel hoodie seemingly the most rabid and staunch of supporters for this cause, the ultimate in fanboy.  That or I just look like the ultimate in chancers trying my hand at getting/gaining the ticket reduction that is on offer to armed forces members today.

Just before the kick off it is announced that Neil Harris is also out in addition to Gary Alexander which means Jason Price and Steve Morison are starting up front.  This is not a proven partnership yet, indeed quite frankly these are two player I would consider off the pace.  This does not look good.

The game kicks off and through the first half Millwall are all over Wycombe.  Two key moments occur when Gareth Ainsworth of Wycombe smashes Tony Craig causing him to have to go off injured.  For the remainder of the game Ainsworth provides our boo boy.  Later towards the end of the half just as Price pulls up as his hamstring appears to ping a few seconds later the ball falls in his lap for the best opportunity of the half which he subsequently unsurprisingly fluffs as his leg is fucked.

At halftime the game is still 0-0 as a group of war torn soldiers do a lap of the pitch to full applause from the supporters just as the X-Factor “Hero” song bellows out over the PA supporting their efforts as “enemy insurgence in the middle east.”  Now I don’t want to disrespect anybody involved but surely such a horribly cheesy and tainted song can only serve to trivialise these people, their efforts and their situations.  It is truly excruciating.  As we all remain standing awaiting the soldiers to reach our section behind me I hear words between a couple of fans one of which refuses to applaud, which to me feels/seems like a brave stance to me in the face of such furore.  As his clapping friend tells him “they are doing a good job” the stoic supporter goes “its not that I refuse to clap them its that I resent being forced to applaud them” which I have to concede I agree with.  We remain standing and applauding long after the song finishes as some poor bastard who has had his legs blown off insists on doing the lap on his replacement limbs.  As Simon Cowell’s finest moment ends the sound of “Hope And Glory” booms out over the stereo and all I can think is “that’s the theme of Macho Man Randy Savage.”

Eventually the second half begins and slowly Millwall begin to lose their way before Wycombe eventually score off a free header from a corner at the far post.  As players begin to blame each other and around me supporters begin to get ratty it suddenly becomes difficult to tell which team is the one rooted to the bottom of the division.

Later Morison eventually gets substituted (dragged off) as Jackett decides to go with a 4-3-3 formation but as ever with average strikers what remains upfront on manages to get in the way of each other with Price looking particularly poor in the process.  Grabban also looks disappointing considering he was once considered quite the prospect.

After a few frights of Wycombe breaking away finally they score while doing so adding a second with twenty minutes left to go.  You would like to think at this point there might be some hope in Millwall staging a comeback but on this day it just does not look possible.  As I look out over the ground and at the rain plundering down this feels like the most miserable of experiences.  It would also appear that I am not alone in thinking this as with still twenty minutes left people begin heading home pissed off.

Towards the end of the game Darren Ward manages to take two people out with one crunching challenge, which proves to be the only remaining highlight of the game as we all begin to wonder why he hasn’t been going in like that the whole game.

The referee keeps up the agony as he adds five minutes of injury time before finally putting the game out of its misery and unleashing the fans onto a crappy journey home.  As ever leaving via South Bermondsey station is a depressing affair as the usual small scale Hillsborough on the train occurs.  On the way to the station a few kids sing naughty songs and on the whole it all just serves to remind me why it has been so long since I’ve been to The Den.

It is with a sense of relief that I get back to London Bridge and set my targets on getting back to Liverpool Street and home.  Annoyingly a further crush occurs at Bank for a station as I find myself being suffocated by four hugging overzealous teenagers squeezing onto the train.  This actually turns out to be worse than any crush football has to offer today.

In the end I wind up catching the 6.08PM loser train to Clacton back.  On it sat opposite me is a dad and son who have been to Chelsea today.  I want them to know I have been to Millwall, I’m in a shit mood and I resent what their team represents to me in a football context.  In an effort to make it clear where I have been I put my programme in clear view for them to see.  My gestures are then somewhat compromised as some old granny squeezes into the seat next to me and proceeds to crush me.  Defeated from here onwards I just try to distract (console) myself by listening to a Quentin Tarantino interview podcast.  I have to concede/admit it does cheer me up a bit.  And then the old lady fucks off.

Later it becomes apparent that the father and son have clocked my Millwall programme and where I have been today and who I represent (ho ho).  By this point some kind of silent division has built between us and by the time we reach Witham the kid has zipped up his jacket to hide his Chelsea shirt.  Did I just accidentally intimidate this guy?

Back in Colchester I head to my parents and Balkerne Heights where for the second week running on Harry Hill I spot look-alikes of my extended family.  Again they are not very flattering but then again neither are the original versions.  Tonight however the show does feature a guest turn from Russ Abbot who appears to still have it!  Entertainment on a stick.

Eventually I head home for a Saturday night where I feel exhausted and spent where I yet again fall asleep during The Thick Of It.  Fail.

I miss 3D night on Channel Four.  Rubbish.

Friday 20 November 2009

As I emerge this morning I notice that I didn’t actually manage to close my front door last night.  It has been a strong while since things (drinking) got that mad.

This morning I have morning after remorse.  Fortunately I don’t have a hangover off though so I guess we’re trading off vices here.

Despite my hoodie smelling of booze things start off fairly well today.  My optimism then however gets scuppered as the train delays but it’s not the end of the world.

Eventually I get to London without drama and while on the tube at Euston Square an old man in a hat just says out loud “the nightmare continues.”  I brace myself for a full breakout of verbals and some cool content for my blog but unfortunately it doesn’t come.  I think I’ve seen this guy before but then again all wackjobs begin to look alike eventually.

Today turns out to be a tough day at work.  The poor Filipino lady comes in and says she was sick last night and this morning she has that quiet calmness of a person with a little headache.  Then as The Girl comes in we have a full post mortem of events from last night including things that I had forgotten.  It all gets revisited.

I try to work but distraction remains, not least from The Girl who eventually I wind up shouting at in the afternoon when she goes too far just as I begin to find some kind of flow.  As a result she gets stroppy and a deafening silence exhumes.

Today Marceline (Diskant) is down in London and this has been in my iPhone diary for a couple of weeks now.  Quickly I contact her via Twitter (the modern world eh) and soon we are exchanging texts and making plans to meet up.  I suggest meeting on Argyll Street for 5.30PM, which is a slightly big ask as it doesn’t give either of us much time to get there.

Eventually we meet up as Marceline jumps in front of me startling me while I am attempting to reading the Evening Substandard (bring back the fun layout of The London Paper, all is forgiven).

This is the first time we have actually seen each other since the Explosions In The Sky ATP last year and the gap between times meeting before that was probably even longer/wider.

We walk through Carnaby Street looking for a place to get something to drink and unsurprisingly for a Friday night rubbing up on the Christmas season it is rammed.  Above the stores and the street are various giant balloons colouring up the place for tourists looking to humour them into parting with their pounds.  The street also appears home to street performers as some guy plays with a spinning top and rope which he flips miles into the sky before regaining and catching it in impressive style.  This feat however is almost interrupted when I nearly walk into the grafter.

In the end we find a coffee shop just off Carnaby Street called Sacred Café where happily there are seats and people happy to serve us.  Soon we find ourselves sat down and discussing our latest ventures and movements in our lives.  I cannot remember the last time that we actually sat down and spoke at this length and it is strange now how I seem to be catching up with people now from what appears to be my previous life with Gringo Records.  Inevitably we get onto the “good old days” and we run the risk of so much (too much) remember when conversation but thankfully we never overdose on old times.

I really like Sacred Café, for me this is discovering a real gem of a place in the centre of town, to think I almost suggested that we hit Starbucks.

Eventually Marceline’s sister Nicolette turns up and again it is really strange to be seeing another person from my past (life).  All things end on a high note with the usual plan of “lets not leave it so long next time” and serves as an optimistic reminder of how great the people in life can be.

From here I cram myself onto a packed Central Line Friday evening train.  I really hate this line sometimes.  I end up catching the 7.30PM train to Norwich only to be confronted by the interesting sight/vision of a woman in a Burberry burkha.  Is that really progress?

The 7.30PM train is predictably full of fucking idiots, amateurs and tourists just getting in the way.  By now being a seasoned veteran of riding these fucking trains twice a day I almost feel like a professional passenger.

A pretty Japanese girl decides to sit opposite me and then on top of me with all her luggage and fancy shopping bags.  Basically I fancy her as she proceeds to sit with a BK bag on the table that she does not even touch resulting in my sitting for almost an hour staring hungrily at her Burger King.

To my right some guy sits reading this week’s Look magazine.  He had looked normal from the outside.  As he turns each page he does so waywardly that results in him nudging me in the side every fucking time.  Why?  Why me?

Everyone fucking annoys me on the train tonight as grown adults seem to find it impossible to remain seated in their chairs.  What is it with these amateurs?  This is a train not an aeroplane.  Elsewhere there are three Dizzee Rascals all chatting and calling each other “bruv.”

When I eventually get home Children In Need is in full swing on BBC1 meaning that TV doesn’t offer up much for the evening.  In response ITV is showing Commando and Channel Four a 3D version of a Friday The 13^th movie.  Tasteful.  Further scanning the listings I notice that Don’t Look Now is on in the early hours (around the time the telethon is ending).  What kind of sick bastard schedules a horror movie about the ghost of a drowned kid against a children’s charity night?  Hats off.

I go to bed.

Thursday 19 November 2009

Again this morning the alarm clock buzzes just as I roll over to begin a second bout of sleep.  This is God’s little way of teasing and tantalising me.  Most people have wives that do it for them but me, I have a shitty appliance.

I am slow moving this morning.  On GMTV all complaint about Thierry Henry’s double handball last night is feeble and ill informed and ill educated.  They will not play this game again in a million years.

Today I can’t help but wonder if given half the chance Andrew Castle would like to be the UK equivalent of Glenn Beck.

Away from this I find myself being distracted by clips from Public Disgrace this morning.  These clips are awful, this is not how people should be treated.  This is not healthy sex or healthy porn.

As I leave and drive out of our communal car park The Ghost gets out of my way so that I am able to drive past him.  While I do so I wave at him.  Are we friends yet?

It’s a boring journey up to London today that takes in the lowest part of my thinking.

The working day turns out to be another disrupted one.  The consultant is supposed to come in today but he doesn’t bother, not even taking the time to let us know or inform us of his absence in order to make a gesture to rearrange.  We’ve got a right one here.

Downstairs in the afternoon the restaurant gets revamped as a corporate bash complete with red carpet takes over the entire place for a private booking.  It all looks very serious and surprisingly swish as our gaff really gets polished up.  Worryingly just before the end of the day we hear a large smash as somebody somewhere drops a lot of glasses but despite our boss panicking the manager seems nonplussed as she assures him that she has enough glasses to cater.  The revamp is completed by an actual red carpet leading into the entrance of the restaurant.  This is genuinely swish.

As the day hurtles toward an end there is still the fear that the consultant might troll in late in the day as we repeatedly echo the words “surely he won’t come in now.”  Eventually we head off around 5PM in a minibus that takes us to Bloomsbury.  On the way the Twin Peaks garage telephones me to remind me of my impending MOT (as if I needed reminding) and I book my car in for next Tuesday in the hope that dad will help me out with it.

Once out of the cab I lead everyone to the Bloomsbury Bowling where upon arrival nobody else from the company is to be seen.  Even early in the evening the place is already swinging and immediately my boss looks pretty unimpressed by the place.

As we wait nobody turns up and then it becomes apparent that the lanes have actually been booked at the All Star Bowling lanes in Holborn.  More grumpiness ensues as we storm over to the other lanes.  Upon arrival straight away we spot the other bosses of the company and a set of foreign faces.

I wind up on a lane with a bunch of people I do not know.  The most prominent person is some guy (a manager) I have been told is bi whose face regularly contorts with Coke snorts and spasms (another thing I have been told about him).  Invariably this is the person I eventually end up competing against for last place.  Things begin well however as with my second bowl I score a strike that garners congratulation from unexpected quarters.  Unfortunately it all goes downhill from here.  Early on I decide I don’t like my lane and eventually thankfully the game gets put out of its misery as I finish on a score of 77 managing to avoid finishing last.

Afterwards we head to the bar to get more drinks.  For some reason I feel out of sync with everybody else but luckily the company is running a tab so I can order drinks freely and crawl out of my antisocial stances by getting drunk.

As with all bowling establishments this place lends a nod towards the Big Lebowski by offering a White Russian variation that basically is drink that comes with milk and Kahlua.  Eager to try to this drink while a couple sit at the bar in the way I find myself having to lean over to look into the menu to see what it is called.  As I do so the couple clock me and begin verbally wondering what I am doing (not least as it appears I am attempting to look up the woman’s skirt).  Nonchalantly I explain that I am trying to read the menu at which point I get into a very stunted nonversation with them about the drink that none of the three of us what to be in.

Eventually I get my drink, accidentally ordering two when I think he is asking me how many shots I want.  At this point the Filipino joins me at the bar so I give on of them to her.  We take our seats and displaying something of a degree of ignorance I cannot be bothered to make friends and go through nice nice with any of these people while everyone else from our office seems keen to meet people and put faces to names.  Why I am not feeling it tonight I don’t know.  Perhaps I am still pissed off by the people on the lane I was at or maybe I am just cliquey.  Most likely I am just not in the mood.

Later we head to the booths in order to have some food and the Australian manager of one of our central sites decides to join us as he begins hitting on The Girl.  I don’t like this guy and while everyone prattles on about this and that I just grab a menu and hold it up to my face seemingly in some kind of gesture to hide.  Obviously this soon gets pointed out and I have to admit I genuinely hadn’t clocked that I was doing it.

For a starter I order Squid Popcorn, which sounds delicious and exciting.  To accompany this I order some kind of lasagne as my main and as conversation descends in directions I am not necessarily interested in when the food finally arrives it comes as a relief and the Squid Popcorn indeed tastes fantastic (after the addition of a little Tabasco sauce).  Elsewhere on the table however no one seems impressed with their food and in a lame act of schadenfreude I take much amusement out of this.

The misery continues as the main courses turn up and everyone reacts as if they have been served shit.  When did people get so snobby about food?  I can’t help but think the worst people in the world to serve food to are indeed restaurant types of any level.

A couple of times The Girl heads outside for a smoke, joining various other manager and chef types.  I should really be making the effort to speak to these people considering I work with them but I just can’t be bothered.  When The Girl eventually returns out of boredom I begin asking her if the twitching manager has any coke on him.  This does not go down very well especially considering that I am talking across our boss to get the question in.

As the Australian’s efforts to pull The Girl begin to become more and more desperate I eventually bother to have some kind of stilted conversation with him.  It turns out that before coming to England to do the restaurant thing he spent time in Germany being a dancer.  I feel like calling him a fairy and telling him to fuck off back to Australia but I don’t I’m a nice guy at least trying to make an effort.

Around 10PM gestures are made to making a move by us accounts types and as I head off I pretend to head to the toilet and don’t even bother to say “goodbye” to anybody.  Quite frankly in many ways I should be shot.

Always the Turtle and never the Ari.

After my piss I exit walking down Southampton Row drunk and grumpy heading towards Holborn station.  When I eventually get to my platform I notice a CBS Action advertisement on the wall featuring Moonlighting.  Now that was a passionate TV show.

In the end I manage to stagger aboard the 10.30PM train to Norwich meaning that thankfully it won’t be too late by the time I get back to Colchester.  On the way I listen to the most recent Morrissey record on full volume and probably nod off.

Frustratingly on a night I want to get home in a hurry it takes thirty minutes to get from Liverpool Street to Romford.  This is fucking feeble.

Once back in Colchester between the station and my flat just before midnight my phone rings and it is a missed call from The Girl.  This is followed up by a text from her checking that I have got home safely.  I respond in kind.  From here I go to bed grumpy although TV is good.  That’s all I need.

Wednesday 18 November 2009

Dream: I am in a confab at work.  The Girl harps on about how she reads my blog.

I am back to awaking in pitch darkness again this morning.  As I emerge it is with a headache and a feeling of loss.

Today is one of those days where every traffic light is on red when I arrive at it.  Despite leaving home a little late I smoothly board the 6.59AM, seeing the scowling Disney Face in the process.

The train obviously gets delayed on its way into London but unlike the 7.03AM I do not get squashed and sat on riding this train.

My hair is currently out of control at the moment.  I have no idea why I can’t do anything with it.  Luckily from one angle it sometimes looks like Jimmy McNulty’s.

Eventually I stroll into work uninterrupted.  The place is unlocked and open but I can’t see any evidence of anyone being about.  That’s not good.

As people slowly filter in the ones in the know respond to me with “you got through yesterday then.”  I smile and respond victoriously.

Back at work today it is a struggle to get into the groove of things but fortunately by the end of the day I manage to grab some kind of momentum.

Originally I was supposed to be meeting up with Justin and Racton this evening but unfortunately it falls through as Justin’s work changes his plans.  This is a real drag as I had been really looking forward to meeting up tonight.  These things are a rare treat these days.

Today I want to do stuff and as I return to the Southbank Centre website I discover a non-nosebleed seat Henry Rollins ticket has been returned.  Good times.  Immediately I snap it up.  At lunchtime I also buy a ticket to see Mark Thomas at the Soho Theatre next Monday.  I’ve never seen him live before.

Late in the afternoon it gets mentioned that the managers and upper echelon of the company are heading to Bloomsbury Bowling tomorrow night and the invitation gets extended to us finance sorts.  After a little hesitation we figure it is a good thing to show our faces, to get to meet all the site managers we speak to on the phone.

Towards the end of the day the consultant phones to say that he will be coming in tomorrow.  The accounts aren’t really yet at a stage for him to be looking at but I enjoy dragging him in regardless.

At the en of the day after a nondescript ride across town back to Liverpool Street I hop aboard the 6.20PM train to Norwich but soon after leaving London the fucker dies.  Shortly afterwards Information Jimmy announces that this is down to signalling problems at Maryland.  What the US state that The Wire is set in?

Tonight the guy sat opposite me on the train has Jimmy Leg which periodically bangs into my own.  After one too many times doing so I begin to give him evils and subtly kicking him back.

Eventually we get back to Colchester and I head to the olds with view to having another crack at their computer (to repair the internet) before the France v Ireland game is on Sky.

Upon arrival Bobby is crazy happy to see me as both mum and dad splutter colds and flu everywhere.  I bet those guys drive the dog fucking loopy when I am not around.

Worryingly dad has gone to town on the computer and when I get there it has been totally pulled apart.  I scratch my head not really feeling inclined to putting it back together but keen to get it up and running again dad happily puts it back together even though his cold is making him suffer.

As the pair of them compare their flu to me they also watch a bunch of awful modern pop acts on TV covering Carpenters songs by way of some kind of tribute.  The host of the show is Ronan Keating, its nice to see shilling for the corporate pound is easing his pain over Stephen Gately’s passing.  Will Stephen Gately one day get his own tribute TV show much in the same manner as this one for Karen Carpenter despite the irony that one singer died from too much swallowing while the other died from not enough swallowing.  Elsewhere on the show Jamie Cullen just looks like a squished troll, what the fuck has happened to him?  Then the once gorgeous Beverley Knight follows now just looking like some old bag down the pub.

This evening comes the latest anti friend rant from mother as she bemoans about her neighbours and their attitudes since dad has ceased being a director on the residents company.  Now he has lost what little sway he had before mum now perceives people’s attitudes as having deserted dad revealing their apparent friendships as just being individuals using him.

As dad makes hard work out of rewiring the computer eventually when I get the opportunity to give it a go but fail in my efforts to repair it yet again.  I really don’t know what has happened to it.  For starters I can’t even tell if it is due to the change in phone line or if the PC has indeed been hit by a virus.

With The Carpenters farce on TV out of the way dad flips on Sky Sports where Ireland are playing at France in the second leg of the World Cup qualifier play off.

Much to our surprise the game turns out to be a more open and exciting encounter than we had been expecting.  For me Ireland display a fight and spirit that is essentially missing from when England play.  Unfortunately though there is a distinct lack of skill in comparison, just raw blunt passion.  As the game plays out I am ashamed to admit that I do not know or recognise the majority of the Ireland team.

At this point I begin to think of Steven Reid and when I look up his current whereabouts online it turns out that he has just signed with QPR on loan today.  Immediately I text Thom (my QPR supporter) to find out if this is true and if he is excited.  Never has there been a footballer to look more like David Blaine.

Tonight France are again wearing shirts that appear to feature what seems to be shoulder holsters attached.  Is this a motif designed to intimidate their opponents?  This would not prove not to be so when against expectations (but not rugged determination) Robbie Keane actually manages to score an equalizer, which suddenly transforms the game from an exciting game into a very exciting game.

Eventually the game goes to extra time where Ireland more than hold their own while playing against the odds, against expectations.  The inevitable however happens when Thierry Henry does a double handball on the way to crashing the ball into the net.  The Irish dispute the goal but its pretty futile, there is no way that the officials are going upset the status quo of world football.  Who is going to generate more revenue at the world cup next summer: France or Ireland?

From here I watch the game play out while dad takes the dog for a walk and by the time he returns the French have won and Ireland have gone out.  I can make as many remarks about it being Henry’s audition for the NBA ultimately it’s just a small-scale Hand Of God incident and nothing is going change.

Damn cheese-eating surrender monkeys.

By now the time is getting late and I need to head off home.  As I pull away out of the visitors parking space I roll my car over a mini boulder that is sitting on the corner of the boundary garden to stop people driving on it and it wedges itself beneath my car, grounding me.  I guess that was the intention.  Some how I find myself well and truly fucked unable to get the rock from beneath me without wrecking the underside of my Focus.

As I have been doing this the old man has been watching and he comes along to try and yank the boulder from underneath but by now it is well and truly bedded.  Typically as such an embarrassing scene ensues people walk past and today’s gawping bystander turns out to be Stan of all people, pretty much my hate figure for the latter half of 2000.  These days things are less tense between us and he laughs at me be24 Sep 2012fore laughing at his inability to help as he steps inside his own apartment.

I slowly move the car out as dad yanks at the rock, all with the fear that I may be about to run over my 64 year old father.  Similarly typically as my car rolls out a couple of cars come along that want to get through where my car is stuck.  As they shout out “are you moving?” I make a hand gesture as to tell them to go around the other direction of the courtyard/square but now with them being a two car convoy this is easier said than done.

The rock eventually budges but with it dad goes flying and falls on his arse.  With the pressure of the waiting cars behind us I wave to him whether he is ok and he waves back so I drive off.  What a shitty son.  When I get home the first thing I do is phone them to make sure that dad is ok and not currently laid out in a pool of his own blood with a broken back.  Seems all is well.

Now back to hating Thierry Henry.