RANT IN J MINOR

Saturday 17 April 2010 – RECORD STORE DAY

2010-04-17T10:44:00.000-07:00

Saturday 17 April 2010 – RECORD STORE DAY

Dream: I am in Rough Trade record shop just off Brick Lane. I manage to find a copy of the new Blur seven inch. I then find a copy of it on CD single. Swiftly I buy them both amongst a pile of other records while I frantically search the store for The Cribs/The Thermals split single.

I awaken this morning slightly panicked wondering what the time is and if whether I have slept in too late. I cannot believe how seriously I take these things sometimes (Record Store Day). I took them too seriously when I was the right age to do so but now it is verging/bordering on some kind of joke. My transformation into Seymour from Ghost World is almost complete. Alarm bells are ringing.

With that in mind I pull myself together and head off for London at 7.45AM regardless. This is a fool’s errand. Something I do in order to fill the gaping void in my being and existence.

Ridiculously Chris Summerlin deleting me from Facebook is still resonating in my mind. This is truly pathetic, as was the gesture. I guess it is confusion more than anger that gripes me. I just don’t understand these things sometimes, the social workings of certain circles, ones that I am nowhere near involving myself in anymore. Such is the modern world. This is exactly why I did the Facebook Cull in an effort to analyse such things. Now after 100 days and 100 culls it would seem that I am none the wiser. I’m just curious as to what suddenly prompted this gesture. Looking at our remaining mutual friends there really are some flimsy links there. Also overall this is a person with over 500 friends, which pretty much sums up the Facebook experience – nobody has 500 friends and suddenly we get back to the Dunbar’s number theory. People have very short memories in the long run.

After putting a lot of effort into my appearance today it almost makes me late leaving Bohemian Grove for the station. In the end I wind up on the 8.03AM train.

I ride up to town listening to episodes of The Bugle from two years ago. This is one hell of a catch up project. Now that’s what I call dedication.

Word comes in from Justin that up in Manchester people are already queued outside Piccadilly Records for Record Store Day. I don’t think I’ll be getting a Blur single today.

For some reason I have put on aftershave today especially for the Record Store Day event. Why I do this is something I am trying to fathom out. This is without doubt going to be primarily a male affair so why would I want to do something that might enhance me to others? I think perhaps this is a gesture of insecurity from me with view to distinguishing myself away from the real geeks and nerds of proceedings.

Eventually the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.48AM and I head straight over to Rough Trade East just around the corner from Brick Lane where I am met with the sight of an almighty huge line/queue stretched around the block waiting to get in and get at the limited edition records. Suddenly my efforts feel futile but now I am here I figure having made the effort to arrive I should still queue and see what I can get.

Patiently I wait and finally I get allowed into the store as smug little indie kids emerge with their copies of the Blur seven inch. Maybe I should just break from the queue and steal from these little fuckers.

I get into the shop just before 9.30AM and inside it is genuine pandemonium, this is a kind of bedlam that can seldom being associated with indie music. Today the indie fraternity suddenly resemble crazed women attending a shoe and/or handbag sale at Next or somewhere. I don’t stand a chance against the frenzied record collectors. With rumours of people queuing since 3AM in order to bag the Blur single this is a passion I just cannot replicate or match.

For the longest time I find myself staggering around the store clutching only a £6 She & Him seven inch that in truth I don’t really want. As I begin to feel like crying a set of Factory Records ten inch samplers are brought out, one of which I immediately grab just to cease/stop looking so pathetic with my sole single.

In addition to the Blur seven inch I miss out on a vinyl pressing of the Sonic Youth Starbucks compilation and the Flaming Lips version of “Dark Side Of The Moon”, which at £20 I decide I can realistically live without. Sadly though I did really want a copy of the Male Bonding/Dum Dum Girls split single on Sub Pop which looks far beyond driven for me today.

Rubbing insult into injury I see an old guy (a collector) with about 15 copies of The Fall single and in the process I all but begin crying.

At around this point I spot a recognisable face in the form of Danny Kelly. I am genuinely in awe because I have dug this guy’s work for years and still scour the internets to hear if he is making any new podcasts or radio shows. I really wish he was still doing football shows with Danny Baker as they truly bring the best out in each other, snapping with real bite and avoiding the sentimental pap that the current Baker show is prone to lapsing into at the moment. His visit appears swift and merciless as he ploughs his way through the crowds snapping up a Soft Machine vinyl before shooting off while I continue to stagger around looking for good stuff. The man is plainly a pro when it comes to record shopping.

From here I spend too much time bouncing between the Record Store Day displays until I become paranoid that a member of security is tracing me. Eventually I give up and join a queue that I think is headed towards the main counter but then I discover it is actually being redirected to a bespoke counter at the front of the store by the coffee bar.

While standing in the queue naturally it winds back past the seven inch displays where now I find myself scooping up any release that is remotely interesting or recognisable in order just to have something to show for my day and efforts.

Behind me in the queue is a geek and his German girlfriend. He is a wet bastard and her accent is just annoying. Where do these types go to hook up? Still from here I am able to eavesdrop and garner some kind of knowledge/gossip regarding proceedings. When however it turns out that she doesn’t know what the Shroud Of Turin is I can’t help but feel prolonged contempt and disgust for these people.

By now shop clerks are wandering around asking “anyone want a…..” and suddenly a copy of the new Fall single is offered up which I jump for and suddenly things begin to improve immeasurably.

As the queue moves slowly behind me conversation gets more moronic the closer we get to the checkout. Eventually I close in one payment just as the guy in front of me buys a stack of vinyl that comes to £174.77. How can people afford to pay so much in this current economic climate? My own purchases comes to £41.44 but at least at the counter there are plenty of promo CDs to pocket. Still £40 for a small pile of seven inches feels a hefty price to pay.

At this point the time is nearly 11AM and I have almost been in the shop for the two hours. Looking towards the exit I spot that people are still queuing to get let into the store but I stay inside to wait around for the PULLED APART BY HORSES set.

PULLED APART BY HORSES are a band from Leeds who appear to enjoy reiterating this fact through and through. They are a great band with a truly harsh guitar sound which is really too jagged for 11AM in the morning. In so many worlds this is just too early to rock. Not for these guys though, they’re animals by hook and by crook. This noise is a proposition for only the strong at this hour.

There is something genuinely sinister about this band. The singer looks eager to tickle the audience while the drummer appears to be covered head to toe in Russian tattoos and the guitarist really wants to talk about and show off his new shoes. Repeat until funny.

It feels like a while now since I have come across a British band that sounds like this which as a result provides something of a bolt of enthusiasm at this time from an act sensibly selected for this kind of event. The PULLED APART BY HORSES din is a nasty and American sounding one that sears and operates at a high level.

Eventually the main man leaps into off the stage into the audience and right next to me. As I duck the forks of his guitar I spot a photographer grabbing close up snaps of what is probably me stood next to a musician looking like I am shitting myself. He then begins riffling through CD racks mid set before realising this is the Japanese noise section and he doesn’t know any of those bands.

Throughout the set a security guard that looks like a big hard Chris Eubank trawls around the crowd holding up live LPs doing a really hard sell. Enthused everyone keeps taking them from him, possibly feeling too intimidated to say “no”.

Finally the band climaxes with the singer’s shirt worn over his head like a Sand People as the new shoes guitarist jumps into the crowd and begins hugging people before hanging his still live axe uncomfortably on the shoulders of a pretty Asian girl he probably fancies (I know I did).

Afterwards I exit Rough Trade feeling genuinely elated. It feels like a while now since I last saw a band such as this, they are a dying breed. Once outside the store I see the queue still reaching around the corner, only without the panic and urgency of 9AM.

At this point my phone beeps and it is Mark asking me what my plan for today is. Promptly I give him a call and soon plans are hatched to get some lunch.

From here I grab a Starbucks and head to Liverpool Street to meet up with Mark just as I begin to experience battery panic on my iPhone. When he turns up we head back to Rough Trade to see the sight and scene with the queue still around the corner. Peaking inside we can hear Caribou playing and sounding surprisingly good.

At this point some girl walks past who Mark knows and it actually turns out to be the lady that designed Lady Gaga’s sunglasses in the “Telephone” video. No shit.

With it not looking likely to get back inside the shop we head to Spitalfields where we grab some lunch at Gourmet Burger as we bundle through conversation about the impending election. After the food we hang around Spitalfields in the sun while wondering just what the fuck to do with our day (with our lives).

The sun has really brought out the families and it is weird to see them in such an urban setting. The concrete jungle just does not feel the right place to bring your family on such a day as they search out the few scraps of green that the city has to offer. There is one particular yummy mummy who makes me pine for an adult existence as such.

With this in mind (and my iPhone supplying battery panic) I throw the towel in on proceedings and wind up catching the 2.30PM train home.

After a boring Saturday afternoon train ride home (near death by boredom) I get back to Colchester just under an hour later where I decide to brave Asda on a Saturday afternoon. This is a fool’s errand. Eventually I get home around 4PM at which point I endeavour to kick into writing.

From here writing carries me into the evening before all falls apart and I fall asleep in front of the TV in the evening.

Friday 16 April 2010

2010-04-16T10:41:00.000-07:00

Friday 16 April 2010

Dream: my boss keeps interrupting me while I am trying to order something online.

Impressively I avoid a hangover this morning. Slowly I get up and murmur only to hear my neighbour slam her door at 6.20AM as she exits. If the building wasn’t awake already it sure is now.

Today is a great looking morning, glowing, fresh and Friday.

There is currently no food in the flat. This means for the first time in longer than I can remember I am heading to work without eating any breakfast. I never ran out of food when I was having cereal for breakfast but now this damn fruit shit is really betraying me.

The drive to the station mirrors such smoothness and within minutes I am on the platform. From here today’s commute comes without complexities, nobody sits near me and thus nobody crushes me.

Once again the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 7.54AM. High five.

At the station there is a lady handing out free samples of Yakult. This is the first free stuff they have given away in ages. Despite Chris’ dad’s eternal theory that this is the best way to distribute Anthrax I grab a little bottle in the hope of satisfying my breakfast desires a little. With no one looking, once on the tube I tear the little bottle open and as I down it it feels like dropping Cyanide. Nice.

I am first into work today and it is a truly pleasant feeling. Having not had breakfast yet again I indulge in more orange juice from the bar. Vitamin C will see me through.

Is Dappy the stage name of Alfie Patten?

From here my Friday is a decent one. A couple of times last night takes me to the toilet but at least I am not hangover (or so I keep telling myself).

I now have three To Do lists that I am working on/from. These are my hymn sheets. Thankfully there is some crossover but ultimately it only suggests that I am not getting things done/finished this week.

As a result of this degree of focus I find myself having a relatively decent morning of work, just about more than scratching the surface.

In the afternoon I find myself on the Holy Terror Records website buying the new Charles Manson seven inch single. I can’t help but feel/think that this is bad for karma.

Towards the end of the day I text Racton and in reply he happens to note and ask me why Chris Summerlin has culled me on Facebook. To the best of my knowledge he hasn’t but when I check my friend list it appears that he indeed has. I have to admit I am genuinely surprised by this, to the point that I even have to check that my friend list number has definitely dropped from 138 to 137. It has. Why?

From here it niggles and worries me. Now I know this website is the pit of trivial pleasures and Chris Summerlin is somebody that I saw just twice last year (ATP and then Ross’ birthday eight months ago) but I still go through the denial anger acceptance thing except I don’t reach acceptance.

In a way it is flattering to think that I am still even on his radar but ultimately it is just weird. Citation needed.

Things get worse when just as I am one foot out of the door the IT Guy begins hitting me with accounting queries. He always does this, hits me with these questions at home time on a Friday. Does he not reconcile this as being my escape for the weekend? Seems not.

Eventually after I manage to wriggle away it just results in me stomping out of work in a hump for the second Friday running. As I change tubes at Baker Street and board the Metropolitan Line the tube carriage is filled with some of the most annoying cunts in London.

I rush to get on the 6PM train to Norwich, which then proceeds to be slow in pulling off and finally beaches fifteen minutes into the journey at Chadwell Heath. God hates me.

It is just past 7PM when the train pulls into Colchester. With this I hop into my car and head to Balkerne Heights to watch Millwall v Huddersfield on Sky.

As ever when I turn up the dog is initially happy to see me before he cools/calms right done. It turns out that another dog attacked him earlier this week and he has a few tiny wounds to show for it. Dad says he punted the offending dog with a big kick. The old man is vicious like that.

The Huddersfield v Millwall game turns out to be something of a duff game. Early on Shaun Batt goes off injured and he only gets replaced with crap in the form of Obika and his thug life tattoos. From here Huddersfield have most of the play and inevitably take control of the game, pinning ‘Wall back but not necessarily making the most of their advantage until they inevitably take the lead.

When Neil Harris eventually comes on he brings a bit of life to the game as the best Millwall opportunity comes when Obika heads the ball against the bar. Towards the end of the game Gary Alexander comes on as a substitute sporting a new beard. It’s a good look and great to see him back.

Then at one point it even looks like Huddersfield are warming up their mascot to bring him on as a substitute. Now that’s northern desperation.

In the end the game finishes at 1-0 with Huddersfield quite frankly looking the better team. Tonight winds up feeling like a true missed opportunity.

Not long after the game finishes I head straight home, festering in a hump.

Thursday 15 April 2010

2010-04-15T10:38:00.000-07:00

Thursday 15 April 2010

Tired again.

On GMTV this morning they feature a man that has lost 25 stone and is now running the London Marathon in a few weeks. This is not news! However this does prove some kind of precursor to my day as just half an hour later I appear to be sitting next to his (before) Asian twin on the train.

Just before leaving the flat I find myself having some kind of strange Bella flashback and thinking of the Friday night, which culminated in her aunt’s front room and me telling her that we could not see each other again. I wish I knew what was going through her head at that time. That was one mystery I never did around to solving. As to why I am having these thoughts at this time I can only link it into the longing suite and my current concerns that are festering more and more by the day.

I have another banana breakfast this morning, almost retching on them in the process. This fucking fruit lark resembles more junk food than any fast food. Is this the healthy eating option because it makes you shit your weight off?

From here I drag myself to the station and off to London and work. Today I find myself having one of those mornings where/when I look around at the other extras and begin to wonder if I am seeing myself in twenty or twenty five years time. Is a quarter of a century of commuting really what lies ahead of me?

So yeah, as I said above today I board the train and wind up sat next to a bovine brown man who at least makes me look relatively normal sized in the process. The whole country is getting bigger though, it’s the next step in genetics and evolution for the developed world. I can’t lose weight, there is just not a healthy lifestyle or plan in place for me. If I am going to have to dedicate two thirds of my waking life to work and travel there is no way I am going to be able to crowbar anything so laborious into my schedule. God hates me.

Why is Twitter over capacity at 7.05AM?

At Witham some guy in a red England football shirt sits opposite me. This is nerd patriotism ahoy. He looks like Scooter from the Muppet Show.

Again today the Paul Sturrock gang inhabit their corner of the train and talk the whole journey. I wonder what they do? Where they go?

Today the Fading Blonde from Chelmsford sits in my row. She doesn’t speak to her friend this morning suggesting trouble in their world, some kind of femme conflict. Or monthly visit.

Distracted and engrossed I manage to ignore the train stopping at Ingatestone and Shenfield meaning the journey feels shorter and lessened. It would be good if it was like this everyday.

As we get off the train at Liverpool Street I allow the Fading Blonde to exit in front of me which prompts her to thank me. Seems she might be nice after all.

Upon arrival into London my knee goes. Suddenly I feel like I am walking on rubber band joints as I begin to fear the possibility of it going from beneath me at any moment. What the fuck is happening here?

Fortunately I keep it together and it gets me across town. Exiting at St Johns Wood I see what is probably going to be the best thing I see all day: a scraggy dog wrestling its owner by tugging violently at its lead. Its classic stuff. It’s all downhill from here.

This morning I find myself weighing up the option of trying out Wordpress (moving over from Blogspot). I don’t know, Wordpress strikes me as cumbersome. I can’t definitely see websites where it fits in with the template (such as with Diskant) but I’m not convinced that it’s for me. It would appear that I already have a couple of Wordpress blogs set up but they don’t look good.

The big news of the day is the volcano in Iceland and the subsequent clouds of dust now grounding planes/flights all across Europe. First it is Scotland cancelling flights which sees our Glasgow lawyer stranded in London. Soon afterwards Racton texts me from Cannes saying that his flight is now cancelled as disruption spreads down the country to cancelling flights to and from English airports. The early word from his end is that he maybe looking at being stranded in France for four days.

Things take a dip as a supplier called Independent Safes begins shouting at me down the phone for not paying invoices that we have not received. He expects me to call him back to confirm things that I cannot promise. I just shrug in response. Professionally this is wrong of me but by entering into our miniscule negotiation by shouting at me I have already switched off to him by this point. Now when Independent Safes receives payment it will take even longer. At some point one of us will need to begin actually behaving professionally. In a way this helps me snap out of my funk although I do find calling him back to be deeply unpleasant in the most unnecessary fashion.

As lunch arrives I find myself in full swing. Dinner actually cuts into my action. With eating out tonight in mind I go for the chargrilled salmon with new potatoes and Hollandaise sauce option. Today the slab of salmon is huge (a double helping), much to the chagrin of the angry boss.

My afternoon continues the morning’s momentum until my boss calls me in to help him out with getting a refund from Easyjet for our Scottish lawyer’s flight.

Luckily I get back into the groove of thing as I put in my best day of the week, perhaps producing as much work as the previous three days combined.

At 5.30PM I leave the restaurant with a skip in my step. When I board the tube at St Johns Wood I spot Charles Shaar Murray and Anna Chen on the carriage. I love my low level celebrity spots.

I switch to the Central Line at Bond Street and soon I am emerging at Oxford Circus and waiting for people on Argyll Street. Eventually Mark turns up just as people watching begins to get good. He looks shattered arriving off the back of just finishing one project only to move straight onto two more. Such is life.

Not long after he turns up Sharpy arrives and we have a gang. We head towards Soho where we wind up in the Old Coffee House on Beak Street. I have the fondest memories of this place having seen Pappy’s Fun Club do so many great sets here.

Tonight conversation flows as we have a great session which has been a long time coming. Generally all sounds busy but well in our respective lives. Chat comes with a degree of weariness but with some success also.

Early on I find myself tearing into Cemetery Junction as I expound my disappointment after seeing it last night. Everyone is an expert on Ricky Gervais it would seem. From here we wind up talking about football (mainly playing) as the other two are currently active in various kickabouts and suddenly they make it sound as if they were gifted prospects at school. Naturally talk reverts back to school days, an area that always appears to get indulged in when grammar school kids get together. With my own school experience not being the greatest I begin to drink quicker and begin to glaze over.

With three pints behind us we head to the Golden Day restaurant on Shaftesbury Avenue, which boasts apparently the spiciest Chinese food in London. Music to my ears.

Upon arrival the restaurant is verging on heaving but after a short wait they manage to squeeze us into a booth by the window sat opposite the Curzon as our view of outside (Soho and Shaftesbury Avenue) takes on Edward Hopper proportions with my beer goggles.

By this point I am quite sufficiently drunk and continuing to glaze over, eager to cease wetting my beak and proceed to chow down.

The food turns out to be very good, living up to its boast with abundance. Despite being drunk (and getting drunker) my chopstick prowess is silently impressive. Then halfway through the mean I discover that I am using them the wrong way round John Bonham style. This is the secret.

Eventually we get done with our mouths burning and on fire. Hours from now we will most definitely be regretting this but for now it is an exhilarating eating experience.

From here we head up to Tottenham Court Road through Soho on a surprisingly unswinging Thursday night. This is the credit crunch. Swiftly we head across town and soon I am on the 11.18PM train home to Colchester. Tonight it is a long and arduous journey during which a couple of times I pass out. One day they will rob me.

Once home the world is still subtly spinning as I take precautions with green tea and headache pills. From here I watch a couple of episodes of How To Make It In America before passing out. Again.

Wednesday 14 April 2010

2010-04-14T10:24:00.000-07:00

Wednesday 14 April 2010

Dream: Millwall are in the play offs but rather than going into the ground and watching the game I linger around outside the stadium seemingly for fear of jinxing proceedings. Eventually I wander off and find a deserted pub in the sticks where all the fans have been beforehand (before the game) and where they have left all their stuff.

Things are grey again today but that’s OK, it doesn’t affect me badly. Against this, events runs smoothly and on cue.

Today will probably be remembered in history as “Paedo Bikini” day according to the front page of The Sun. Things really are grey.

Entering the train station I spot Disney Face and later both Kym Marsh lookalikes, which is something of a rare happening these days. Such is repetition and the reassurance that it brings to my commuting experience.

On cue I board the 6.59AM with The Metro in hand and as I flick through it I am disheartened and depressed by the number of advertisements from credit rating agencies that deal in scoring. In a civilised society this really is something that we shouldn’t be having to use, a service that is disgusting in concept. Companies such as Experian and CreditExpert are truly vultures just playing on the fears and paranoia of the vulnerable (the poor). What a decadent concept, one designed to keep people down and away from being lent the spirit of being socially mobile. These organisations serve no purpose; their necessity has just been invented for the modern world.

Again the train journey is another quiet one, lacking in personalities and lookalikes. There is definitely something to be said for that.

Upon arrival at Liverpool Street all goes wild and insane as I discover a tiny midget lady bumping into my knees just as I spot (and stare at) a rubbish Bunk from The Wire doppelganger.

From here the trot into work is so so. I see no more midgets or The Wire lookalikes in the process so I am safe. Once again I find myself first into the building so I treat myself to an orange and lemonade with view to clearing my head.

The day rolls OK. Still I cannot build/muster up any momentum. These accounts are such a mess from all the various restructural dealings, nothing and nobody is on the same page.

Humpday is deflated. The Filipino looks bored and I can’t blame her, so am I.

As ever before we realise it the time is lunch. Today I have penne with merguez. It has most of the food groups and the sausage is one of my five meats a day.

The afternoon plays out in an equally unspectacular fashion. If I’m being truthful I can’t be bothered to deal with this mess, as it is not necessarily my doing.

Out of boredom I even respond to a Craigslist advert for an Oriental girl seeking marriage and a passport. What the fuck am I playing at?

Eventually glumness turns into grumpiness as thoughts begin to turn to dusting off 1000 Hurts.

Finally 5.30PM arrives and with it moves towards Leicester Square to see CEMETERY JUNCTION on release day. Obviously with anything Gervais related thoughts are drawn to you know who.

Straight from work I get out at Green Park and head along Piccadilly. Upon arriving at the Vue on Leicester Square I find myself confronted by a large queue. Now is this for the latest Ricky Gervais movie or the fact that it is Orange Wednesday. You decide.

In the end I pay £12.15 for a cinema ticket and yet again feel like a total mark. In six months time the DVD will cost half this price and in a year it will probably be less than a third. Madness.

Leicester Square is heaving this evening. What is it with so many walking slowly? Is this a reflection of people’s pulses grinding to a halt? Where is the London hustle I’ve become acclimatised to over the past five years?

I decide to get a Starbucks on Shaftesbury Avenue and with the purchase dinner is served. With time to kill I take a wander down to Trafalgar Square, which is always a sight that never fails to impress or blow away.

As I head back to the cinema I pass a band (or rather their crew) packing out of Capital Radio. Looking at the flight cases I spot the word Ash. So I get to see their equipment but not them themselves. Surely this still counts as a star spot though.

Finally I take my seat in Screen 4 of the cinema. This is a little one. What, the new UK blockbuster is not showing on the main screen? FAIL.

CEMETERY JUNCTION turns out to be a fairly fun but truly frustrating and agonising experience. The good intentions and messages are there but the execution just isn’t. Throughout the movie I struggle to harbour much in the way of empathy for the characters, as at times it plays out as subtle as a sledgehammer.

Perhaps it isn’t helped that the setting fails to reconcile with small-town existence. This town looks too rural to the point it looks like a village from a lost golden age. The England being portrayed physically looks more like the forties as opposed to the sixties.

The first solid laughs arrive when Brian Gittins turns up as the café owner at the railway station. I’d like to think that this guy is going places but he is just still too weird for most people’s tastes I fear.

In the end for me the big problem is that the main characters just aren’t convincing or likeable, indeed Tom Hughes is just an American style anti-hero, the kind we just don’t tend to do or get behind (root for) in this country. You can’t help but feel the casting has been executed in a Hollywood method (bloody Americans). And why not, people aren’t going to go for a young version of Ricky Gervais as much as they will some vacant pretty boy.

CEMETERY JUNCTION gets A for effort but much like The Invention Of Lying fails to nail what blatantly are great ideas and concepts (not least with the Billy Liar type situation). Perhaps two hours is just not long enough anymore in order to develop such supposedly complex characters, backgrounds and storylines. With HBO being so amazing there is now a desire to cover areas with much more depth in addition to there being a new found interest in peripheral characters that is always going to be impossible to squeeze into a two hour movie.

It all pans out in predictable manner, which should really derive some kind of euphoria but ultimately does not necessarily work that way. If I’m honest, I wanted the characters to fail.

In addition to this once more my enjoyment of a movie is blighted by external forces. Throughout the movie I feel the back of my seat being kicked as the dickhead that sat behind me seconds before the beginning of the movie persists in tapping my chair all the way through. Is he bored or just an arsehole? Probably both. What is it about supposedly adult people who find it impossible to just sit still for the duration of a movie? Then in an ultimate kick in the balls after the movie ends he comments “we should have gone to see The Letter.” Idiot.

Also, I said earlier, anything with Ricky Gervais comes the baggage of my American friend as it all reminds me of a person I met through being a fan of the guy who turned out to be rubbish and depressing.

Afterwards I emerge from the cinema following the guy that was sat behind me ruining my evening, I just have to see which kind of dick represents the ruling class these days. He is just some skinny Strokes wannabe, a guy with a look that will always serve to get him laid more times than I could ever dream of. Sadness accrues.

Eventually I wind up on the 9.30PM train, a comfy Norwich proposition. In many ways this is the ideal train, almost quiet and calming.

When I get home the time is around 10.30PM and the night is almost done. With no time to squeeze in anything useful or productive I soon turn in.

Tuesday 13 April 2010

2010-04-13T10:21:00.000-07:00

Tuesday 13 April 2010

Today I wake up ahead of time. I need a piss. Having taken my watch off last night I have no idea just what the time actually is but with the sun already out in force I can’t imagine it is far from 6AM.

Eventually I murmur and the time is 5.56AM, which feels like some kind of kick in the balls by nature. From here I flip on the TV and brace myself for the latest spew of news for morons.

GMTV picks up today as Clare the weathergirl resembles a honey again (former glories). Maybe things are starting to trend upwards.

I leave the flat slightly late this morning and I do so wearing my coat in full realisation that by the time I reach London the sun will probably be out and this garment will be rendered unnecessary.

The train ride this morning turns out to be a relatively quiet one, none of the fun and games of yesterday, only bliss and no sign of plate crowders within the ranks of the extras. Likewise when the train reaches London the tube ride across town from Liverpool Street to St Johns Wood turns out to be another smooth, eventless journey offering a relaxing voyage and lack of stress to take into the office with me.

As I step into the restaurant and up the stairs into the office things pick up further as the angry boss hands me a cup of coffee for being “first in.”

Thankfully this morning the computer network is still up as I arrive. Makes a change.

In general work runs a bit better today although there are a few wages queries that get in my way, issues The Girl would ordinarily deal with. Slowly I begin to polish off yesterday’s To Do list just as another for today begins to come together.

For lunch I opt to the sausage, beans and mash option. Yes, I am eating from the children’s menu. This meal comes coupled with helping my boss deal with internet logins and the Easyjet website in general. Cheap airline websites aren’t the most user friendly of sites. I defy you to find a contact telephone number or email within them.

Today I find myself on the Millwall website again coming very close to paying £370 for a season ticket. In the grand scheme of things it is not an obscene amount of money. I balk though, what if they don’t go up?

Eventually the afternoon gets going and with it more distracted productivity. For some reason our office is caked in static these days and often when we touch stuff (metal stuff) we get small electric shocks.

In the end I find some kind of groove only to realise that there is just an hour left in the working day. There is very little that I can do with this.

Late in the day I come across a letter reproduced online from my old Gringo Records cohort from his job (real job). It displays a level of professionalism in him that I never encountered in our “working” relationship with the label. Maybe he has changed. Then again leopards don’t change their spots. Is it really seven years now since the California holiday?

By the time 5.30PM arrives I am almost flying but still I down tools at the close of the contractually obligated time. Never accuse me of being a salaryman.

Tonight I am heading to The Lyric in Hammersmith to see GHOST STORIES so as a result I am in no rush to leave the office considering that curtain time is 8PM.

From here I potter for a while, doing some personal writing while trying to kill time. Eventually I leave the restaurant around 6.45PM and head for Hammersmith. As I walk to St Johns Wood station I spot Vanessa Feltz waddling coming up towards me seemingly being carried (held up) by two young girls. Relatives I guess.

I get to Hammersmith in good time and after a brief bearings hiccup I easily find The Lyric. Hammersmith is an area that is still slightly foreign to me. I think I could grow to like it if only it wasn’t so arduous to get to on the tube, the journey feels as if it takes forever.

Quickly after purchasing a Lipton ice tea I find myself inside the theatre taking my seat. The setting is excitedly eerie with the walls littered with cobwebs and graffiti and the only sound being piped from the PA being something Kranky or Constellation would have happily released a few years ago when hip people were suckered into thinking that it was all the rage.

As people slowly filter in as ever there is the sound of a camp gay person sat behind me whining about work in conversation. It’s a theatre thing I guess. Elsewhere while I wait for the show to begin I spot Paul Gambaccini in the audience.

In the end I find myself sat between a disco tart WAG wannabe and an old mummy. This makes for a tough decision as to whom I’ll be hugging out to when the fear begins.

GHOST STORIES begins with screams and a sheet of white noise. With this opening a ghost expert (Andy Nyman) takes to the stage, accidentally dropping his pen in the process and begins giving a lecture, expressing his doubts regarding the existence of the paranormal, writing it off as the impressionable aspects of the human mind.

From here the vocal sceptic rolls out various examples of nonsense, of potential paranormal activity and ghost sightings which he proceeds to dismiss as being down to perception, of how if a mind wants to believe it is seeing a ghost it will believe it. The most chilling picture he holds up is one of a wedding photo from Scotland that appears to have a small child creeping behind the father of the bride. As the photo becomes increased the shadow of the child becomes clearer and clearer even though the family insist that there was nobody around at the time. Was this the presence of child from the past or just an optical illusion? In the sceptical conclusion rules out although such an image does royally give cause for question.

Soon Nyman is leading us into three examples of other paranormal encounters explicitly re-enacting them. The first incident features a night watchman (played by David Cardy who featured in Birds Of A Feather) as recounts a late night experience he had at a time where he was being subjected to much family pressure. As the incident plays out in a tense manner that causes much of the audience to eventually scream (and me to most definitely hop in my seat) Nyman returns only to dismiss the meeting as a trick of the mind.

Moving onto the second example it features a young man driving home late at night from a party where he hits something while talking on his mobile phone. Once more things occur at a time whereby the witness/victim is experiencing some degree of guilt/tension and as again the story unfolds in a masterfully chilling manner more terror takes place again deriving screams from the audience and another genuine skip in my heart. Of course once more Nyman dismisses this as the imagination of the lad working overtime.

The final tale features Nicholas Burns (Nathan Barley) as a father dealing with an incident in his child’s bedroom. After more vibrations and apparent tricks of the mind this scene mutates into all kinds of nastiness as the show strides to an explosive twisting conclusion.

It all ends very noisily with a gnarly conclusion as all the stories are terrifically executed using the kind of trickery you would expect from a magic background. All in all it is a very visceral experience.

As I emerge back onto the streets of Hammersmith there is a crazy lady asking for help outside the theatre, which invariably leads to a request for money. Is this an extension to the Ghost Stories experience? Is she employed by The Lyric?

From here I board the Piccadilly Line, which from Hammersmith feels a very long ride back to East London and civilisation. As I change lines at Holborn my heart is still pumping from the show, the adrenalin is still flowing.

Once back at Liverpool Street I find myself making the schoolboy error of boarding the 10.30PM Norwich train when easily I could have made the 10.18PM. Much to my annoyance slowly Norwich City supporters begin to swarm the train with their hick accents and inbred appearance.

Tonight was a big night for third tier football. Most importantly (unfortunately) I discover that Millwall have fouled up at Yeovil only drawing 1-1. This score is however slightly improved with the knowledge that our equalizer came three minutes into injury time and things could have been much worse.

Themselves these Norwich supporters are emerging from a surprise 1-0 loss at Leyton Orient. These people don’t look good and speak in slow, soft accents that only make them stupid. Elsewhere Colchester United have tonight been playing at Charlton against their former manager.

Ironically I wind up sat opposite/next to a couple of Leyton Orient supporters. With so many opposing supporters from clubs in my division it really does not appear to be the time to nail my Millwall colours to the mast. Thankfully the train eventually pulls into Colchester and I gain escape from this gaggle of divs.

As I exit the station I bump into Ben the old music promoter in Colchester who used to have the most amazing record shop called World Class Records. He asks me if I have just been to the Colchester game at which point I remind him that I am a Millwall supporter. He apologises.

Eventually I get home.

Monday 12 April 2010

2010-04-12T10:19:00.000-07:00

Monday 12 April 2010

More dreams forgotten.

I’m really not quite sure how to play it today, the climate is truly middling and my situation unsure. Eventually I leave the flat wearing a coat even though this feels like overdressing.

When the train reaches Witham I freak out subtly as a girl that resembles the girl from Dedham last October boards and for a strong minute I think it is actually her. Upon closer inspection fortunately I find myself proved wrong.

Today is a testing journey into town as I begin to feel like killing as a Peter Richardson lookalike sat opposite me decides to spread out right in front of me. With this his legs enter into my personal space, my little portion of the train this morning. Am I really such a fool for tucking my feet in beneath me and respecting the room of others when we have a guy like this sat in front of me just taking the piss? A few times I kick his feet away and shift my leg knocking his knee in the process while he sleeps with his gormless face looking stretching out.

On top of this at Ingatestone some old bag then decides to squeeze into the space next to me prompting the necessity for me to budge drastically in the process. Why is it always Ingatestone where these people board?

By this point the Peter Richardson lookalike is well away and as I look down I spot his left foot is directly between my legs. Is this some kind of come on? Are we now one step away from playing footsie? Do I really need to blow my whistle? I begin kicking away at him and he retracts slightly before beginning to rub his left leg up against my right leg. Now I feel minorly assaulted as I begin mentally forming a plan and a target on his face knowing that one good shot could destroy him. From here I weigh up the consequences of such an action and ultimately I hardly feel I would emerge from it as a hero.

To my relief the train eventually gets to London and soon I am on the tube platform and spotting Bellalike with her customary cup of Costa and confused expression.

Getting in slightly before 8AM means I beat the rush and smoothly roll to St Johns Wood and into the restaurant. As I step upstairs our office door is open and suddenly something feels fishy. When I boot up my computer it soon becomes apparent that email is down, internet is down and basically the entire fucking network is down. What a coincidence.

Due to computer issues my day never really gets started. At regular intervals the boss comes in and asks if anything is working yet because I am working away but it is off my flashdrive. And its personal stuff (this drivel for starters). Eventually he just comes out with it and asks me what I am doing. I lie.

The consultant is due in today and this unnecessary hold up causes no end of annoyance and frustration for me as I find myself unable to prepare for his visit.

It is 11AM by the time the network is back up and with it almost lunchtime. The remainder of the morning soon flies by without anything really getting accomplished. Soon we reach lunchtime and I order penne. Predictability is my thing.

Beyond lunch the afternoon plays out as expected but after the computer hiccup at the start of proceedings the day never really gets started. Thankfully though, the consultant never turns up. Small blessings are my thing on this day.

The boss lets us out a little early and it is obvious he wants to stay for after work drinks to get business drunk. For once I stand firm this evening as I point out that Swindon v Exeter is on Sky tonight. This hardly feels an excuse though at the end of the day.

As per routine I get the 6.20PM Norwich train and arrive home just over an hour later. Tonight TV is full flow with election propaganda. When I switch my telly on already playing is a documentary on the history of televised election and debate from both sides of the Atlantic. There is no comparison, their campaigns last several months (maybe years) whereas ours will run at just four weeks. We make lack the glitz and glamour but we definitely make up for it with efficiency.

From here ITV then shows some kind of profile cum interview of David Cameron which disturbingly features Jimmy McNulty (Dominic West) speaking highly of his mate “Dave”. In a way it makes sense that McNulty is this way inclined, when he speaks not in character (his natural voice) he does sound like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins suggesting a very confused situation upstairs.

Half an hour later on BBC One we get “treated” to Jeremy Paxman interviewing Nick Clegg on a set that resembles an empty floor in a seemingly derelict office building. Was this where they finished off Stringer Bell? As usual Paxman is Paxman as equal amounts of coverage is lent to his vocal attacks as it is to anything Clegg says. Its all much of muchness, that Clegg man is a hopeful fellow. Not much upstairs and not really getting off the fence.

After this I begin to wind down, scraping off a final bit of writing before passing out.

Sunday 11 April 2010

2010-04-11T10:16:00.000-07:00

Sunday 11 April 2010

Three heavy dreams occurred during the night but by the time I emerge into this Sunday with any kind of clarity they become long since forgotten. A little later I will remember that at one point in a dream I thought I was talking to John Godber.

When I finally awaken the time is 8.45AM, an impressive feat by my bodyclock. Feeling slightly guilty about my lie in soon I am bounding out of bed and looking to kick off my Sunday. This is easier said than done.

Eventually and inevitably The Big Questions arrives on my TV screen. With each week now Nicky Campbell is acting more like Jeremy Kyle. Today Jade Goody’s mum is on making a fucking fool of herself stating that there is no such thing as class (or a class system) before saying how her deceased daughter’s kids are going to private school. Then the big news is announced: The Big Questions will be from Colchester on Sunday 2 May. Bring it! I wonder how many loons I will spot? I wonder if I can get tickets to be on the show?

Afterwards my usual Sunday morning TV breakdown continues as I flip over to Something For The Weekend where the social wet dream continues. This week at least the bag lady Louise Redknapp is missing (probably too hungover to get out of bed, maybe) only to be replaced by Angellica Bell who I used to fancy but these days just possesses a forehead straight from a Star Trek character. Dark stuff.

Today is another bright, sunny and warm day. All is well with this weather and it can only be days now until it starts become uncomfortable and personally unbearable.

Honestly, I really try to do some writing but soon I find myself distracted with watching the latest two episodes of South Park (with medicinal marijuana and the perils of Facebook on the agenda) which provide genuine laughs. Am I Kip Drordy?

Eventually it comes time to fulfil my routine obligations and head over to my parents for Sunday lunch at 3PM. As I leave my flat it is to the sight and smell of two more stinking bin bags dumped on our landing outside my pig neighbour’s front door. Maybe my neighbour isn’t lazy but in fact she has broken both her legs and cannot get out of apartment to do anything. Maybe.

When I get to Balkerne Heights the streets are now christened with yellow lines. There are a few gaps in the lines and these turn out to be the spots where cars were illegally parked when the lines were painted yesterday.

As I arrive Manchester United are choking against Blackburn Rovers, running around like headless chickens. This collapse always felt likely if Rooney were to go missing. In the end the game finishes 0-0 and ultimately it hardly feels worth Sky showing or the public worth watching.

From here it is the second FA Cup semi final from Wembley with Tottenham gearing up to slap Portsmouth. This game does not necessarily hold interest. It does however beg the question: what is RuPaul doing in goal for Pompey?

Instead I find myself going online and watching this week’s Have I Got News For You featuring Richard Herring and new honey Victoria Coren. Since the powers that be (the idiots that be) have moved the show to Thursday nights I repeatedly forget that it is even on. This is not a Thursday night show.

The Spurs v Portsmouth game also ends at 0-0 and I try to get into it but…nah, it’s truly not a good game. Going into extra time Portsmouth miraculously actually scrape a lead and later while I am in the toilet having a dump they get a second. Is this some kind of metaphor? Goddamn, this is real.

Afterwards I linger around my parents’ and bag some dinner before discovering The Simpsons on Sky. This show never fails.

Eventually I head home to a Sunday evening alone preparing for another working week. The night plays out as expected as I eventually fall asleep watching the William Shatner roast on Channel Four complete with a great bit from Artie Lange.

Saturday 10 April 2010

2010-04-10T10:09:00.000-07:00

Saturday 10 April 2010

Dream: Devo are playing Brixton Academy in support of their new record. Racton and I head along, getting tickets to sit upstairs. Upon entering the venue we snag really good seats towards the front in anticipation of getting a good view for when the band do their hits. As we sit down it becomes apparent that we aren’t going to get a very good view of the band because the edge of the circle is too far away. Later people begin to ruminate around us insinuating that they are more entitled to these seats than us. This culminates with a guy in a wheelchair sidling up next to me. Being in a wheelchair though he already has his seat! Eventually the show begins and it’s a stinker, all new material and not very good. In fact for the first few songs you can’t even see the band, they haven’t bothered to come out onstage. Our row (and the one in front of us) stands up in our seats to get a better view only to be shouted down by the row behind us. Before long we find ourselves heading downstairs to see if we can get a real view of proceedings. Onstage it is almost like a clockwork circus, people dressed as mechanical toys going along with the music. Bewildered we lose track with the show and eventually I wind up outsides where the band members of Devo are actually working the concession stands, Marks Mothersbaugh is scooping out ice cream. I try to take a photo of him but he disappears. The concession vans are situated in that strange square in Brixton we went to before the Pixies gig and soon I find myself entering a building looking for Mothersbaugh. There seems to be some kind of downbeat party going on and while I scour the rooms in search of band members it suddenly feels/appears that I am on some kind of heist looking for the owner’s safe, looking to rob the place. Invariably I get discover and that’s it.

I don’t feel good about today. There is a bad atmosphere within my mind and I have nervous expectations. As I dress and wash looking in the mirror the vision that faces me is a scary proposition. It’s like looking at myself for the first time in six months. Despite my best efforts things aren’t getting any better.

For some reason today I experience a couple of nasty flashbacks which I guess come tied in with seeing old friends for the first time today in almost ten years (eight years I believe). My first memory recalls the first Gringo Records night upstairs at The Garage and for the first time in years I remember that Matt’s dad actually drove a group of us in a mini bus.

The other memory I have is of my Grandfather’s funeral in 1992. It was in August and I was just insane. I am even too ashamed to recall my actions and how I was that day. Does that strain of my personality still come through these days I wonder? I truly hope not. Aside from all the trivia that I complain about from day to day thinking about that day truly does fill me with shame.

When I finally shake these thoughts away as per routine I head to Asda and do my grocery thing. As I stagger through the aisles I spot The Crab and all seems normal with the world. Generally shopping goes so so. In the end I manage to only spend £11 which is generally due to the only food that I buy is apples and bananas, otherwise it is all drinks and newspapers.

Getting back to Bohemian Grove I quickly jump in the bath with view to looking my best today. Once done with hygiene I eventually get on a 10.17AM train to Liverpool Street.

When the train stops at Shenfield an old guy boards and sits in the seat next to me and as he does so he comments “nice day.” Freaked out by somebody talking to me I just smile in response/reaction.

Once arrived into London I head straight to Highbury & Islington, getting to the place in super decent time. Today the sun is out and London is visibly glowing. From here I head into Starbucks where I grab a get go.

With coffee in hand I head to the Union Chapel where the latest Daylight Music gig is occurring and OWEN TROMANS is performing.

Arriving early I stand outside the venue for a decent amount/length of time looking the ultimate in stalker/fanboy. Eventually Racton phones me to say he has arrived and that he is currently in Starbucks himself. It’s the taste of our generation, it came from Seattle just like Nirvana grunge. Surely it can’t be bad.

By the time we meet up the doors to the Union Chapel have now opened so we step in briefly saying “hi” to the organiser (Arctic Circle). Almost immediately upon entering I spot OWEN TROMANS and we exchange greetings as we acknowledge that it is scarily probably eight years since we last saw each other (a horrible weekend spent in Nottingham when he was playing there with his old band After Rome). It is now officially a long time since San Lorenzo.

In the process of catching up I discover that he is now a dad with his wife having given birth a few months ago. When did I fall so horribly far out of the loop? It’s really hard to catch up with a person after such a long time, where does a person start? I guess the key thing is to make the effort but as time whittles away common ground soon even the best of us will begin to struggle. Fortunately he has to prepare for his set.

Today OWEN TROMANS flies solo. His recent excellent album “The Fall Of Acre” was a full band proposition but today as the songs are played in a more pure form they truly hold up with sharp precision. Within the confines of the glorious midday Union Chapel being drenched in sun it is a fantastic vision.

His performance is great, very accomplished, making skilled texture out of songwriting in a most modern manner. A number of tracks from his “The Fall Of Acre” record appear in stark form as he appears to take glee in revealing that he is performing songs about a cult leader inside a church on this fine day.

TROMAN’S voice carries throughout the building as the acoustics of the event compliment all surroundings. Towards the end of his set he drops “Schizophrenia” into the mix and proceedings lending another casual dark edge to the delivery. I don’t remember him previously being like this. All in all this is a very masterful performance.

After his set we bid our farewells wondering if it will now be another eight years until we see each other again. From here Racton and I head to Oxford Circus where he’s needs a shirt and subsequently drags me into Banana Republic where I am forced to face the reality that I am just too large to fit into any of these clothes these days. In a world where Jack Donaghy correctly says “dress for the job you want not the one you have” I am well and truly fucked. This is the haven of the beautiful, my eyes open as I realise “so this is where they all shop.” I thought all the cool people were in Fopp. I was wrong, they don’t have eye candy of this degree staggering amongst their aisles.

Once outside the fashion shack we stagger through Carnaby Street and into Soho in an effort to avoid people (tourists). Eventually we wind up in Nosh Bar having overpriced salt beef sandwiches sitting in the window staring out at the lost people of London as they stare back inside at us.

Invariably we wind up in Fopp where today the selection is good. Perhaps this is just Racton and I goading/enthusing each other into purchase but I have to say I gain no end of satisfaction from my purchases of King Of Kong on DVD, Synecdoche, New York, the Blue Velvet soundtrack and a ropey Misfits CD.

Eventually we head to the ICA passing Trafalgar Square where today there is a Pass Public Sector demonstration happening. It’s very busy and very loud. I love Trafalgar Square on Saturdays; it’s always full of this kind of shit.

Soon we find ourselves inside the ICA waiting for THE THING to begin. In front of us appears to be the Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons who sits very comfortably with his arm swung across the row of seats. More than a few times this arm later slips down off the sweat and towards my nether regions. Where does this guy get his front? Never have I felt that comfortable within a cinema.

On a big screen THE THING looks great. It is a remastered print that is crisp and clear as day with the audio sounding equally impressive. From the off the movie remains fun and the special effects look great in a very calm and understated way, almost in the manner with which Harryhausen effects are regarded in this day and age as being from a different era. Its almost like an analogue approach in contrast to what is now a very digital era which lends a very organic and dare I say more realistic/convincing air to the visuals. Certainly one that has more heart and effort put into it.

It begins with that classic scene of RJ MacReady getting frustrated while playing computer chess. As ever I find myself questioning the mentality behind his destroying the CPU, it just surely makes for a logistical nightmare and ultimately a very selfish act. Did they all have computer chess or were they sharing the same machine. I suspect the latter. Also I don’t really think it gets fully explained as to just what those guys are doing there in the first place.

With age THE THING has gained a lot of humour, which you do not necessarily sense was the intention. There can however be no doubting the comedy value of seeing/watching Kurt Russell stagger around in something of a drunken haze, nursing his bottle of Jim Beam like a man desperate for a shag. Later when they lock him outside as his actions become too strange when he breaks back into the compound looking like an icicle his expression is one of having his feelings genuinely hurt. Now that is acting. Of course this comes after he makes some of his wild tapes that sound straight from a Godspeed You Black Emperor record.

Another thing that strikes me about the movie is just how much more better computers appear to be back in the day. None of this Windows shit, just straight talk. When Wilford Brimley types in the destiny of the world if the virus or alien breaks out the computer gives him his answer immediately. Now that was a progressive computer, that should have been the future right there.

A couple of times during the movie the comic store guy sat in front of me, with his arm spread out across the empty seats, continues to lean said arm over the back of the row and into my space. Quite frankly this is verging/bordering on molestation. It lends an extra element of horror to proceedings for me as I guard my ghoulies from it.

After the movie we emerge hyped and satisfied commenting at just how great everyone in the movie is, especially Keith David and obviously Kurt Russell. Those were serious men from stern times. We will never know.

From here we check out the Billy Childish exhibition in the ICA galleries. We scope all the record sleeves in addition to the book from the book burning earlier this year and the Knut Hamsun inspired yellow suit at which point Racton gets a call to inform him that he has won the Grand National sweepstake he was entered in. Triumph.

As we head back onto The Mall it is still a beautiful day, one too good to be spent so much in the cinema. Passing Trafalgar Square the protest has now disbanded. Does this mean the public sector got what they wanted?

We head straight to the Prince Charles Cinema where they are showing THE HURT LOCKER. After getting tickets (the price has gone up again) we hit the crazy Chinese supermarket on Newport Court before going to the Curzon for a pre-movie drink.

THE HURT LOCKER turns out to be a great, all gung ho and gruesome with genuinely exhilarating moments of tension and real pay off. I finding these days that I am harbouring a growing interest in our modern military escapades in the middle east. It wouldn’t certainly appear that we are there for the long game (although that has been a given for a long time). Thankfully these films, when serious and coming from a left perspective, lend a humanity to proceedings that I do not necessarily gain from news coverage. I actually feel I learn something from this movie, which more than anything goes to justify its Oscars success.

Afterwards we emerge around 8.30PM just a Leicester Square on a Saturday begins flying. From here we bid each other good night and I head back to Liverpool Street.

In the end I get home at a decent hour with the Top 100 Comedians showing on Channel Four. Bill Hicks comes fourth.

Friday 9 April 2010

2010-04-09T10:06:00.000-07:00

Friday 9 April 2010

A panic attaches itself to the opening of today when after my alarm buzzes at 7AM the next thing I know is that it is thirty minutes later and I am officially late. I never doze.

From here I speedily pull myself together and exit the house something of a mess.

Despite everything being a rush this morning though I eventually end up on the usual 6.59AM as per some kind of increased clockwork. I guess these moments of urgency are the ones that truly make life worth living. Maybe not.

I sit further back on the train than normal in section that feels alien and foreign to me. Variety is the spice of life. As a result the train is much more quiet and pleasant as a result, things are good at this end of the train.

Today is the longing suite. I haven’t felt this exhausted in a very long time and as a result I now desire some affection to get me through it. Seldom do I feel so wet these days but today I have to concede a hug would be a good thing. Now man the fuck up.

Eventually I sleepwalk into London and through Liverpool Street. Later on the tube at Kings Cross a vivid David Carradine lookalike boards making for a ghoulish spectre. He is wearing a suit and thick winter gloves. Just what is behind that reckoning? Chill Bill? As he turns his head he reveals/exposes an ample clump/mound of flesh on the crown of his head. Has he been chipped?

Soon I find myself at my desk as the slack week begins to catch up on me. Things begin positively as the Filipino brings in a sweet sweet pastry for us to share. This thing, my god its great, I swear it comes lined with a streak of custard. I almost feel embarrassed to eat it.

The morning turns out to be a stunted one as slowly I progress with the accounts in a wayward manner resembling a person suffering from autism. By lunchtime I have accomplished some stuff but as usual not enough to keep me on target. As a result of self pity I wind up having lamb burger for lunch. It’s a good dish.

In the afternoon I pick up steam (as I always do on Fridays) but every time I complete a task I remember another one that needs doing.

It is incredibly quiet in the office today. With it being such a glorious day one boss is out playing golf while another has headed up to Liverpool to visit relatives. As a result of this our own boss gets very bored in the process.

Things improve slightly when the IT guy shows his face and makes an appearance.

Towards the end of the day the boss says we can go a little early and it is obvious that he wants drinks. What is wrong with me? Most people would kill to have a boss that pulls them off deadlines to business drunk. Not me though, I’m a proper fun sponge.

In the end I finish off a draft of the March accounts and head down. Before doing so I hang around with the radio for a while with the Wonder Years being done in alphabetical order and when it reaches C they play Crazy Town. Now this is a song that sends me spiralling.

Around the time “Butterfly” by Crazy Town was released it was also the period that I was knocking around with Bella and being an “alternative type” she naturally liked this song because it featured dickheads covered in tattoos sounding like the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Her aunt liked it also. To me I could never get my head around this song was acceptable. Basically looking back at the video the band looked like rapists trying to act sensitive and this was something people fell for hook, line and sinker including Bella. I shudder to think (back).

I wind up hanging around after work for an hour of business drunk which for me kind of defeats the point/purpose of leaving early on a Friday. Eventually I get out just after 6.15PM and I am super grumpy for it.

Invariably by the time I reach Liverpool Street the peak trains have gone meaning a journey ahead with the non-commuting proles. When did I become such a snob?

As I board the 7PM train unsurprisingly it is filled with tags on booked seats and families looking for said seats. As I sit stoic and ignorant a loud family emerges and the spare seat next to me gets immediately and blatantly earmarked by the mother. As I let her in I do so with a huff.

With three of her kids in close proximity I quickly come to the conclusion that this is a woman that should not have kids or at least not have them around anywhere near me. As she pulls out her Tesco bag and distributes the food I watch as the boy eats a raw pack of ham. Jamie Oliver would have a shit fit.

The train makes me angry tonight as I begin ranting on Facebook about wishing that the train would become one that derailed and killed people because that would be less annoying than being around these people.

Eventually I get back to Colchester but I am still steaming as my grumpiness continues far into the night.

Once home I watch South Park where the kids write their own version of The Catcher In The Rye in Henry Fool fashion (well, Simon Grim). It’s a good episode.

I manage to write a little and find myself determined to watch the Chris Tarrant roast on Channel Four. Before this begins however My Embarrassing Body takes up the prime hour of 9PM on Channel Four. What kind of sick and insane person watches this?

Unsurprisingly I fall asleep minutes into the roast. This is something we just cannot do in this country, we’re not stupid to the degree of being American (although these days we give it a fucking good go).

Thursday 8 April 2010

2010-04-08T03:03:00.000-07:00

Thursday 8 April 2010

Dream: my work colleagues are suddenly scouring online dating sites for options. Needless to say with them being female, friendlier and better looking than me they immediately get responses. From here I find myself becoming jealous as they get particularly excited over a response from a man in Bradford.

I wake this morning off the back of too little sleep. Outside the sun is out which once more hints that summer may finally be arriving.

Needless to say I am sluggish today, yearning more sleep and immediately wondering when I will be able finally catch up on it. Consulting my diary I think I see an opening in two and a half weeks time.

As I leave my flat the bin bag is still dumped downstairs in the entrance hall. Does my neighbour do these things to wind me up on purpose?

Outside it is a brisk morning, which coupled with the sun, equates to perfection in my book. Suddenly my sensory begins to look up.

I need a shave.

Yet again I manage to snag a good parking space at the station car park. Truly why are there suddenly less people parking here? Has it suddenly become a black spot or no go area? Did NCP and/or National Express East Anglia hike up prices again? I wouldn’t put that past them.

From here the train journey is quiet and lucid.

At Ingatestone some tall guy decides to sit in the spare seats near us. As he removes his coat he steps on my own, tacking it to the ground in the process. Wondering just who this guy is when I look at him he has a soul patch line of facial hair hung beneath his lips and above his chin. It is weird. It half looks like a caterpillar and equally half looks like he is dribbling. I wonder what kind of statement he is trying to make. Really, is there anyway you could take a person looking like this seriously in the workplace?

It is at this point by thinking of incompetence that I remember today (this week) was supposed to be about industrial action. I guess this may be why the car park was so quiet this morning.

Upon arriving at Liverpool Street between walking from the train to the tube I spot lookalikes of Bobby Heenan, Zoe Bartlett and Tommy Steele. This collection is then completed when I spot Bellalike on the tube platform. It’s a strange world where I suspect that there are about twenty template human looks and we are all slightly variations of these. I fear mine was the Corden.

The tube smells earthy and soiled this morning. It is not pleasant.

As we pass through Great Portland Street it would appear that the train on the opposite line/platform is being evacuated. What the fuck is going on?

I don’t enjoy seeing construction workers on the tube, they always seem dusty and ferocious.

Today I feel relieved that tomorrow is Friday and we can call this thing to an end for a couple of days.

From here the day is a slog where I don’t quite get to where I wanted to on my work. By the end of the day I arrive at the stage I wanted to be at the end of yesterday.

Towards the end of the day the boss says we can leave a little early but this doesn’t help me as I am heading to the ICA tonight.

When I eventually leave work I change at Bond Street with view to heading across to Tottenham Court Road. As I walk through Bond Street station I spot Mishal Husain. It genuinely shocks me to see her, being a long time fan, and she totally clocks me recognising her, which I don’t think she is entirely enthused about. She is a lot smaller (shorter) in the flesh than TV would suggest.

I get to Tottenham Court Road around 5.45PM comfortably ahead of the 6PM meeting time. From here I wait by the barriers pretty sure that Racton will be along soon.

While I wait for him I indulge in one of my favourite activities: people watching. Tonight there are some real freaks passing through Tottenham Court Road. Additionally there are a few hotties but generally on the whole people just look insane. I guess these people are tourists (in more than one sense of the word). Quite frankly I am transfixed by these people, this is perhaps my favourite past time.

At this point I fuck up although this fact is not immediately apparent. Gradually 6PM comes and goes with no sign of Racton. Around 6.20PM I spot Sharpy heading down to catch a tube and finally I get chance to thank him in person for the On The Buses boxset he sent me. From here we tear into conversation, of catch up.

When the time reaches 6.45PM I tell him that I’m going to have to look outside for Racton and upon emerging from the station I immediately spot him who it appears has been waiting outside the station since 6PM. Even my flakiness disgusts me this evening as he is visibly pissed off and annoyed by my actions (fair cop).

From here we head down Charing Cross Road as he suggests I may have ruined the opportunity for food now but with blind optimism I say we have time even though I have no clue (despite working in the industry).

Eventually we get to the Strand via St Martins Lane where we look for the Zizzi. In the end we fortunately/thankfully find it by accident. With the clock ticking we make quick decisions as we frustratingly get tucked away in a corner where the waiters cannot necessarily see us. I order the Sofia pizza and it is the bomb.

Beyond the initial hiccup things soon being to pick up as cold drinks are taken and conversation begins to flow as we begin to win the race against time.

Halfway through the meal a young Asian couple gets sat next to us and from here I proceed to spend the remainder of the meal distracted by her like the dirty old man I am growing into. At one point while Racton and I are discussing Josh Brolin and I mention The Goonies this is like a buzzword that prompts the Asian table to look in our direction. Is this their favourite movie also?

After a pretty good meal we finally head to the ICA in really good time arriving well before any bands have started.

The opening band tonight is the KEN ARDLEY PLAYBOYS. I have no idea who they are but on the whole they look old enough to be my dad, they’re an old bunch. This looks like a band of old punks who are now literal granddads. They make me think of people from Southend. Their music is a kind of riffing old time garage rock blues that possesses plenty of brass and plenty of thump as their lively frontman turns out to be Bob and Roberta Smith (no, me neither).

Everyone in the band gets their opportunity to do their bit as it eventually gets revealed that the geeky looking guy playing away at the back of the stage is the aforementioned Ken Ardley. Towards the end a large bald friend gets dragged from the audience to add vocals to a self defeating expounding a kind of “you must joking” message to proceedings that just stamps this set as being a complete lark by people who should know better. There’s not much in the way of swing attached to the set, more precision battering of the most raucous degree.

Afterwards the changeover is rapid as within minutes the VERMIN POETS are doing their thing. Dressed looking like angry Morris Dancers and with BILLY CHILDISH taking a backseat on bass duties their set fulfils the promise as held by their record with a garage crossed with The Who sound.

Soon they are doing “Booming Baby Bastards” with its wry dig at modern past generations. With Neil Palmer leading proceedings the band provide something of a more rounded alternative to the usually abrasive garage offerings from CHILDISH. Eventually my personal song of theirs “She’s Got Ears” arrives and with its sly hook I truly feel the set taking off. This is a really fantastic little outfit, retro in a very defendable manner. At the close of the set they remove the flowers from their hats and throw them into the audience: “thank you.” No, thank you.

In between this set and the final news filters through that Malcolm McLaren has become the latest celebrity death I discover via Twitter (via Jonathan Ross). I never liked that guy anyway, all puff and no substance. A rubbish ego on rubbish wheels. Or more bluntly as I say on Twitter/Facebook: I always though he was a pompous dickhead who wasn’t half as talented or important as he considered himself.

Tonight BILLY CHILDISH AND THE MUSICIANS OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE perform an incredibly solid set. You get the impression now that these are a set of songs that CHILDISH has honed to perfection as his wife Julie plays bass and Wolf from the Buff Medways doubles up on drums having earlier played for THE VERMIN POETS. You can’t help but feel that CHILDISH is in a good place as the threesome smile their way through the set. With his wife sporting a nurse’s uniform grinning and playing in his band, here is everyman’s fantasy.

Soon they are playing “A Quick One, While He’s Away” which Racton earlier tonight educated me about for the first time. This is The Who song from the Rushmore soundtrack and I have to say when I first heard the VERMIN POETS record it was the exact song the album made me think of.

Continuing the hot streak eventually the band enter into a stomping acapella version of “John The Revelator” which has always had a deep meaning and vast connotations for me. Tonight however for once experiencing good times I am able to raise in celebration, clapping along with all the other buffoons. This is a true moment of greatness.

It is with an equal amount of surprise and glee that CHILDISH then steers the band towards and through a reading of “Christmas 1979” when quite frankly we are closer to Easter than Christmas. It feels slightly perverse but at the same time this is a song too good to waste on only being wheeled out once a year.

To counter balance and compliment “Baby Booming Bastards” by the VERMIN POETS, CHILDISH then spews out “Thatcher’s Children” with appropriate and applicable venom and bile. There is a lesson to be learned here.

Seemingly with the babysitter of their kid about to leave upstairs the band closes on a storming version of “Fire” which is everything I want to see. Over the past six months or so this song has been a revelation to me, the finest piece of the work in the history book of rock and the CHILDISH interpretation serves both him and the song well as it displays an additional firebrand attitude to track while also further expressing just what a gifted player he is. Then all that is left for us is to pick up jaws up off the floor.

From here we step out onto a cool April night where things suddenly appear and feel somewhat better. Eventually I find myself at Charing Cross station where I head up to Tottenham Court Road with view to heading East on the Central Line and eventually to Liverpool Street, Colchester and home.

As I board the Central Line at Tottenham Court Road there is the usual flurry of people living the “Thursday is the new Friday” night dream/mentality. Not least part of this is a wasted girl struggling to remain coherent. Is it wrong that I want/hope her to throw up? Alas it does not happen.

Once back at Liverpool Street I board the 11.18PM train that stops at all the houses on the way back to Essex. Boarding the train tonight and sitting near me is some Jack the lad boy who spends the journey talking to a couple of Americans. I hate how the American accent does it for me, pushes my buttons in a manner that is demeaning to anyone involved.

Not long into the journey I hear him talking about Radio One and soon he has pulled out a Radio One microphone and is doing a pretend interview with the ladies like a cheesy motherfucker. Thankfully he exits at Chelmsford.

As the train stops at Chelmsford a strong Daniel Johnston lookalike boards and now commands my attention. The guy is the spit.

Finally I get home after midnight still buzzing from the show while equally aching from exhaustion. That’s life.

Wednesday 7 April 2010

2010-04-07T03:02:00.000-07:00

Wednesday 7 April 2010

Unsurprisingly I have what resembles a hangover this morning. As a result I am sluggish in manoeuvring. Must not operate heavy machinery. Too late.

Despite this I eventually pull myself together and step out the door to the sight and smell of my neighbour’s stinking fucking bin bag once again. The shoes/trainers still remain like some kind of cheap Do Not Disturb sign/item/gesture.

Again I manage to get a good parking spot at the station once more as it would appear the world is still on Easter holiday. Not me though.

On the train today is a lookalike hybrid of Mindy and Olive from On The Buses. Makes sense.

Later as the train stops at Ingatestone it occurs to me that none of the people stood on the platform look like anyone or anything I see on TV. For me it begins to beg the question as to which is real and which is believe. What is this existence?

For some reason anybody wearing a suit on the train these days looks like a politician. Anyone. It is not a flattering brush to be tarred and one that does not serve these people well as my natural disdain for them heads to the surface.

As the train rolls in Liverpool Street today the clock says 7.54AM. For once this is truly impressive stuff from National Express East Anglia. To think that they should have all been on strike this week, what a pleasant turn of fortunes.

Entering London today comes with an element of my headache remaining. That slight portion could build to much.

Today my journey across town is being soothed by a Five Live Football Daily podcast featuring a Stuart Hall special of classic interviews with George Best, Dixie Dean, Brian Clough and inevitably Don Revie in that case. The most interesting and astounding interview is from Harry Gregg recalling/recounting the Munich air disaster and being one of the few survivors. With his recollection he explores beyond himself with a truly emotional retelling of the horror. You can hear his voice unsurprisingly quiver over the course of the interview.

Everyone looks battered these days. And not necessarily in a positive way.

When I arrive at the restaurant it is to the sight of the Filipino waiting to be let in. I feel so sad about having to make her wait, especially as she is sporting such a sad expression. In exchange she brings us each in little packs of Oreo biscuits. There is a true imbalance in this exchange. I think she just might be my favourite person in the world these days, the one and only genuinely nice and selfless individual I know. She deserves better, the best.

Today turns out to be another distracted state of affairs. The highlight of my morning is when Justin phones up. He asks me if I am good for a reference as he hires a van for their house move up in Manchester soon. Its all gravy.

It’s a weird thing I notice today but more and more people’s profile pictures on Facebook (and to a lesser extent Twitter) are looking like CGI animations. What is that about?

By lunchtime I am almost at the stage on the accounts where I wanted to be at the beginning of the day. I feel so shoddy these days in the execution of these things.

At the halftime point of proceedings my head has not improved any. What to do.

For dinner I go for penne with chicken yet again which as ever shows/displays a distinct defiance towards carbohydrates.

In the afternoon things almost begin to pick up and productivity resumes. At some point in proceedings the Filipino and I find ourselves stating just what a loser’s name “Gary” is. Tough break.

Again the day goes fast but I go slow. At least this means 5.30PM arrives swiftly.

Once on the tube at Kings Cross a Scouse beggar boards the carriage and begins his spiel up and down the train holding out his little cup for pennies. I have never felt the desire to accommodate this, more deciding to concentrate on just how unnecessarily uncomfortable these guys make my journey.

Eventually I wind up on the 6.30PM Norwich train. As I sit waiting for it to pull away the lights flicker as it would appear that we are on a malfunctioning train carriage (not for the first time).

Soon a track-suited girl takes the seat opposite me and she completely reminds me of Waynetta from Harry Enfield in the worst possible way. Ideally she would sit elsewhere.

Around the point of Hatfield Peverel I experience something of a moment of clarity. What am I doing? To some extent I now feel that I have become detached from reality in some way. How did I get here and how can I get away? My stock feels low and not likely to recover at this rate.

Returning to Colchester I head straight to Asda for a midweek fruit run. Afterwards as I drive home the Manchester United v Bayern Munich game has already started and by the time I get home they are already winning 2-0.

As I step through our building’s front door this evening I notice the bin bag has been moved down from our first floor landing to our entrance hall but not quite managing to make those few extra steps to the bins. Just how fucking lazy is this girl?

Back inside my flat I put my groceries away and take my seat to see Nani add a third for Manchester United with an exhilarating goal. For me this is perfection, a wonderful move and culminating with breathtaking contact of the ball as he fires it into the roof of the net solid as. From here just before halftime Bayern Munich scrape a goal back but they’re already done.

Something is wrong though. German footballers without moustaches are like me without clothes.

Early into the second half a bad thing happens as Rafael gets sent off and then not long afterwards Wayne Rooney hobbles off causing concern about the World Cup in a two months time. Suddenly a game that looked smooth and settled is very much in the balance.

Eventually Arjen Robben scores with an incredible volley from a corner and ruins the game for United. By this point despite the best efforts of Nani it appears that their only other option is to bring on Berbatov. He is not a player that you can go to in a crisis. Briefly there is a flicker of hope when Ryan Giggs follows him onto the pitch but who the fuck are they trying to fool? Certainly they’re not managing to intimidate anyone.

The game finishes at 3-2 and Manchester United go out of the Champions League. Disappointment abounds as during the after match interview Alex Ferguson goes ranting on scale about “typical Germans cheating.” I didn’t think people were allowed to say things like that anymore.

From here I head to bed half giggling. Chumps.

Tuesday 6 April 2010

2010-04-06T03:01:00.000-07:00

Tuesday 6 April 2010

When I wake up before the alarm this morning I cannot remember if I have to go to work or not today. Eventually I remember. I do.

The sun is out today so that should at least keep me happy to some degree.

I am back on the bananas this morning, eating fruit and hoping to feel better along the way. These however were purchased on Saturday and they didn’t appear to be great then. Now, the weekend later, I can’t help but I am running close to poisoning myself. The risks I take for my wellbeing.

As I leave my flat the junker is STILL parked in my spot. This is far beyond a joke now and I am resorting to grassing on them to the clampers. This is low of me.

Arriving at the train station car park in some kind of act of retribution I manage to snag a good spot. I guess people aren’t returning from Easter yet, half from laziness and half from anticipation of the proposed industrial action this week suggesting a bad flavour for the following four days.

From here I board the 6.59AM train and end up facing the Paul Sturrock Gang. They truly are a gaggle.

The Metro today comes with a front page story reporting the latest honour killing of a pretty young girl. What is wrong with these people?

I feel inexplicably down today. There is neither clear rhyme nor reason for this state, things just feel deflated.

Not long into the journey I fire off an email to Nighthawk Security complaining about H527 GPV, asking them to “deal with” the car. I ask nicely so to clamp it surely is the least they can do for me. What happens though if/when they clamp the car and the owner returns to my nice note asking them to move it identifying my flat number. Why do the small things make life so fucking complicated?

The train is truly sparse today, echoing the spare places of the car park. With no people sitting and rubbing up against me it feels like a break from annoying people.

I have to admit that I would have put money on the weekend engineering work spilling through into our service today but to its credit the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 7.55AM per usual.

When I get to the tube platform there is already a Watford train waiting (for me). We all crunch onto/into it in great numbers which ultimately sees me standing the whole way to Baker Street. A rare annoyance on this tube/line.

For some reason today I have “Rooster” by Alice In Chains playing in my head. It is a song that suggests some kind of mental trepidation as well as possibly an urge and desire to regress back to my grunge years. This cannot be healthy.

Emerging at St Johns Wood I find myself the first person stepping into the building today as I remember that the Tuesday after Easter was my first day here two years ago. Happy anniversary.

Gradually people begin to roll in including the Filipino who is suspiciously happy and perky. On the whole vibes are positive today and with a busy, clear week’s work ahead of me I am focused and in the zone. I have to concede though that also while working hard I am also downloading the latest batch of J-Pop videos that have surfaced.

The election gets called today in what is a true Thick Of It moment. It’s happening in a month’s time, which seems crazy.

Before I realise it the day reaches lunchtime. Today I snag merguez with penne feeling desire for the better things in life without fear of carbohydrates.

After dinner if anything the afternoon flashes by in a blur faster than the morning. This is a truly positive thing.

Late into the afternoon Mark texts to suggest a drink because he is “still in town”. I respond with “which town?” It would seem he is still in Colchester.

For some reason the train home tonight is a noisy one, not least for the fucking American sat behind me. Is there anything more grating than a drawling/drooling American accent. Their big voices match their big heads.

Sitting opposite me is a well tanned (perhaps Asian) version of Jock. He looks like a complete cunt. Suddenly I am seeing Shrek before me.

Elsewhere the only other interesting thing I clock on the train is some geek reading Charlie Brooker’s book but quite frankly he doesn’t look up to it.

The train journey is a painful one, crawling most of the way because apparently, according to Information Jimmy, we are stuck behind a slow moving Witham train. This is not an excuse, tell that cunt to pull over and let us through.

It is 7.10PM by the time we are going through Chelmsford when realistically we should be pulling into Colchester at this time. In the grand scheme of things it is not too much to ask or too much to expect.

This evening I appear to be getting stared at. For once I take it as a compliment, as some kind of recognition in the right direction. My ego almost has legs again.

Why is it that these days I always get stuck on the train with a person sat behind me that loves knocking the back of my seat? At what point of a breakdown does an adult man lose the ability to sit still in their seat?

Eventually the train gets back to Colchester, which tonight feels like a miracle of an accomplishment. From here I head straight to Mark’s where I show my face to his parents before we head to the revamped Hogshead.

This pub is now freaky, too sparkling with too much wood and clientele that look too young who even make me feel old. We get a decent seat while still trying to decide whether the place/section is now for dining only or not. What is going on? The more things change…..

Conversation tonight feels fierce, almost accusatory and brimming with doublespeak. We recap recent events, acknowledging that the last time we saw each other was Crosby’s birthday. I had something of the arse then too.

As ever I get the impression that there has been a whole host/set of social events that I have no been invited which only serves to make me feel paranoid and unwanted.

Having just read the new Chris Morris book “Disgusting Bliss” over the weekend we discuss his stuff at length, most of which Mark already knows. It does however takes us down a nostalgia trip back to the 90s when Morris was at his most notorious, prominent and relevant. Invariably we wind up talking indie music from the 90s. We always end up talking about indie music from the 90s.

When I head to the toilet the bathroom has now also been made over (make sense) and now the stall proves something of a head trip as it has a full length mirror allowing me to look at and size up the visage of me having a piss. Not recommended. I suspect the mirror is a fun park reject as it makes my fella look bigger than I think it is. I hope this is not a Chuck Berry special.

Back to conversation and we discuss how we hate the sudden emergence of the word “ironical”.

Things take a bit of a dip when I remember and recount my story from a few weeks ago regarding Dani. Subsequently this launches into an uncomfortable discussion and tirade as it turns out that my deletion from Facebook by her was discussed last Christmas when my old Gringo Records cohort was down. Apparently she deleted me because my status updates were “fruity” – what on earth does that mean? Define the word fruity. Saucy? Mad? Sexual? Regardless ultimately it caused her to deem herself better than me it would seem.

From here we end up in a weird conversation where I find myself suggesting that the grammar school background of my old Gringo Record acquaintances is why in a number of cases certain people are horrifically arrogant while others lack a work ethic. I insinuate heavily how I feel these people fail to acknowledge just what a privileged position they were in and how they have blown an amazing life opportunity that not all of us get. It all gets quite tetchy as I rag on how working in a call centre is hardly the height of achievement for a person so cocksure. Fortunately the tense discussion gets put out of its misery as Mark heads off for a piss himself.

The night ends with a drunken discussion regarding status angst. We’re well into our thirties now so why aren’t we married with kids and a mortgage?

Later as I take another piss in the new toilet I spot Stan at a urinal. This is exactly the last thing I want to be seeing at this time. God is fucking with me, fucking with my head. God hates me.

We head back in our respective directions to our respective homes making plans to meet up in London over the summer (plans that I will believe when I see them).

When I get home I am fucked, irrationally drunk off the back of only three pints (and no food). The annoying car from the weekend is now gone. Did it get clamped? I doubt it, things just don’t go that way in the real world.

To make up for my lack of food this evening I scoff (down) a tub of red pepper houmous with Ryvitas. Shitty food for a shitty person.

Afterwards I find myself online and chatting to Nikki and Stevo on MSN (at separate points). Conversation is laboured and it is probably something of a good thing when AOL decides to crash and put the night out of its misery.

I then pass out.

Monday 5 April 2010

2010-04-05T02:59:00.000-07:00

Monday 5 April 2010

Things feel almost back to normal now as I awaken at 6.55AM into a grey day and unnecessary early start.

I have to admit I feel slightly depressed.

On GMTV this morning they are talking about the impending election next month and to modernize their coverage they begin discussing the influence of “social media” when they wheel out their expert he looks exactly like a John Oliver character.

From here I hit my PC and begin writing from my bed as I pull together entries to put up online. This is a truly arduous job as my PC is running horribly sluggish this morning and it takes forever just to insert a hyperlink. Putting entries up online does not feel as rewarding as I hoped it would. Thankfully reading back the entries though I find myself pleasantly surprised by the standard, which in the process gives my efforts something of a point and purpose.

In the background I begin the day by listening to Nine Inch Nails and their set at Woodstock 94. Otherwise there truly is not much else in the way of music I want to listen to today.

I break from Trent Reznor to catch the episode of Frasier on Channel Four. It’s the episode where Bulldog sleeps with Roz. Good work fella.

Easter egg for breakfast is on the menu this morning. This only happens once a year.

It is almost 10AM by the time I finish preparing entries to put up online. This really is time consuming and needs to be done on a decent PC if it is to prove efficient.

Eventually I murmur out of bed and get dressed. Looking around the flat today it is carnage, this place needs serious work. Instead however I hit my writing desk and choose to churn out this shit.

Unlike Friday (Good Friday) today actually feels like Easter due, if nothing else, to Channel Four bothering to be festive and showing The Greatest Story Ever Told. Last year at this time I got suckered into this stuff but not this time.

As I stagger around my home looking elsewhere for entertainment I discover that my piece of shit Goodmans Freeview box has stopped working again. It is only a matter of days before I toss this against the wall or out of the window.

Apart from taking a break to watch the first episode of the new season of South Park (complete with Tiger Woods video game) and some Wilfred today I rack up a solid session of writing, accomplishing around the region of what I was hoping from Friday (and the entire weekend). I wonder if my efforts are worth it.

Nina sends me a text message to see if I am going to the Robots In Disguise gig at the Colchester Arts Centre tonight but for £9 that really does not equate to value for money. I do however want to go because Big In Albania is making a rare appearance in support but I’ll be fucked if I’m paying that much money for something so throwaway. I tell her this in so many words.

Eventually I head over to the olds for the 3PM dinner with their old neighbours. As I leave Bohemian Grove the junker is STILL parked in my space. By now this is really past a joke. I wonder who it is?

In the end I just about get to Balkerne Heights on time. As I step through the door everyone has already arrived but despite this dinner is being delayed due to others not paying much mind to the stipulated dinner hour. Do I sound grumpy about this? I guess so considering this now means there was no need for me to rush over after all.

For a while we hang out until they take the dog for a walk. I don’t join them, I don’t value fresh or walking the dog quite as much as those guys. Go figure. Feeling slightly despondent by my weekend I linger at the flat instead.

At this point I remember that Millwall playing at Colchester kicked off at lunchtime and by now the game will have finished. ‘Wall have won 2-1. Unfortunately every fucker around them in the division (Leeds and Swindon) are also winning which naturally serves to stunt our progress.

Bored I head into town in search of people and/or retail therapy. In Waterstones I buy a World Cup guide. It’s only a matter of weeks now.

As I get back to my parents the others are just returning from their walk. Eventually we kick into dinner and it’s a really nice meal, very basic and English for our foreign friends. I feel lazy to be served on and also the poor relation (son) in comparison to our guests.

The South African begins pottering with the old man’s computer, trying to speed up the download speed in order to get Inglourious Basterds and Sherlock Holmes download before they leave.

While I potter around the place Doug texts to ask if I am going to the Robots In Disguise gig tonight. To my discredit I don’t even bother responding.

Eventually more neighbours turn up at my parents’ place and it all begins to get noisy. These people aren’t much fun, I would rather watch TV than listen to them. In a way I sense the South African feels the same as we briefly get into a strange conversation about an apparent drug den on Denmark Street followed by recollections of an experience on Mephedrone.

As things begin to get late the others leave and I soon follow, heading back to Bohemian Grove to see out what remains of my Easter. When I get home unsurprisingly the junker is still parked in my place but by now that shit heap’s presence was more than expected.

Once home I briefly attempt to write before heading to bed just as Caddyshack arrives on ITV. TV perfection.

Sunday 4 April 2010 – EASTER SUNDAY

2010-04-04T02:58:00.000-07:00

Sunday 4 April 2010 – EASTER SUNDAY

This morning I awaken past 9AM, a real rarity for me. Things feel good today, long weekends agree with me it would seem.

Today is unsurprisingly slow moving. Obviously there are things I want to get done today but the necessity doesn’t come with the kind of pressure I usually attach to these things.

Soon I am up though and beginning today’s session of writing. After briefly scratching the surface of Gestures on Friday, today I tentatively go over it a bit more but yet again I find the prospect troublesome and icky. I guess I am just not in the right frame of mind to be addressing these issues right now.

TV is death today and so as a result it proves little in the way of distraction, which ultimately serves me well.

I actually find myself listening to 7 Day Sunday live on air today, something I have never done before despite having listened to every episode so far (via podcast). It sees me through to midday.

In our building Easter Sunday appears to represent for some getting drunk and playing “Wild World” by Maxi Priest (and not Cat Stevens) over and over and over and singing along with the chorus. This guy is a true freak and the mere trigger of Maxi Priest to me serves to remind me of that idiot Danny Devito from the studio and his little publishing company. I am almost ashamed when after I stomp on the floor of my apartment (the ceiling of theirs) that shortly afterwards they switch their music off. I am such a killjoy and truly a nightmare neighbour.

Undaunted by this I take a break from writing to watch the first episode of season 2 of Mad Men in a vain attempt to catch up with everyone else. By the end of the episode it is suddenly beginning to occur to me that I have already watched this episode twice. What am I doing?

As usual I head over to the olds for 3PM, even Easter cannot kill routine. Leaving my flat I spot that the rogue car is still parked in my allocated/designated space. I paid for that you know. Peeved I write a note out on a pad and politely leave it on the junker. The note uses the words “please” and “thanks”, surely that’s not being unreasonable. My impulse really is to grab the golf club in the boot of my car and swing it into the side of the car but already being covered in dents part of me suspects that the owner might not notice this gesture.

I arrive slightly late for lunch, with the other two (my parents) having already polished off their dinner. In response to this I just look the dog in the face as if to say “you allowed this?” He now wants in on my action.

On Sky today is Everton v West Ham, a game where all the sensible heads are hoping for Everton to stuff West Ham and sink them into more relegation trouble. And it all begins well as Everton take the lead, which is soon followed by West Ham ballsing up a penalty. How can any team hope to survive relegation with Mido being their hope up front. As ever Tim Cahill rules and owns the field. Annoyingly West Ham equalise. Happily towards the end Everton regain the lead but West Ham promptly take the ball down the other end and score another equalizer to fight another day. Just fucking lie down.

From here I linger around the olds’ crib. Staring out of the window we laugh as some Asian dude illegally parks his car as his dumb stupid fucking kid leaves the back door wide open when they head inside their flat. For the longest time we wonder what we might be able to do with the car as a result.

Chris tries to iPhone a couple of times, leaving a voicemail message saying that he stopped by my flat earlier. I send him a text in the hope of arranging something for this evening but I don’t get a reply.

Returning to the Chris Morris book I reach the stage and learn about his Richard Geefe articles in depth for the first time. It sounds insane stuff.

Today TV is barren and unhealthily we wind up watching Holiday On The Buses on ITV4 or something. It would seem that these movies are now on a weekly loop, being shown almost permanently on one ITV station or other.

I head home just before 8PM on a brilliant early summer evening feeling down that I haven’t heard back from Chris.

With Jonathan Creek playing out in the background it reminds me of the David Renwick talk earlier this year when we were given a brief glimpse of this episode. From here I tear back into writing.

Just after 10.30PM this evening I pass the half million word mark for this blog. How did I reach this stage? Without doubt this makes this my most dedicated blog to date, the one with most effort and production put into it.

Eventually I head to bed where I begin watching my Harlem Globetrotters DVD.

Saturday 3 April 2010

2010-04-03T02:55:00.000-07:00

Saturday 3 April 2010

Despite the late night and early hours I still awaken around 8.30AM today, just like a fool. What on earth was up with me last night? I was even still awake when my neighbour trudged in at 3AM.

From here as per routine I head over to Asda just before 9AM where I find myself confronted by the usual shit. This journey feels unnecessary today but I do it all the same.

Being the end of the month the new issue of Uncut is out and it features an old beardy photo of a young(ish) Neil Young on the cover. Basically he looks like Wilfred on it, a dog. It is also a Private Eye week so before I have even reached the food portion of my shopping I am already over £10.

I stagger around the aisles as usual trying not to make eye contact with anyone around me for fear that they might start on me. Again I am buying fruit, bananas and apples but avoiding grapes today as they just don’t feel like value for money.

This week turns out to be a week where I spot The Crab. I wonder if he recognises me the way that I recognise him. His routine is almost as frightening as mine.

Annoying there is no Gherkin relish this week. Where has it gone all of a sudden? Was that bottle I bought a one off? Is it a taste I am now never to sample ever again?

When I eventually reach the self service checkouts it is somewhat disheartening how the lady in charge of them recognises me and smiles in a warm gesture of acknowledgement. I wonder if she thinks I am pathetic, the way that I trawl through this routine every Saturday morning, buying the same shitty products and never improving with/for it. Maybe she pities.

Somehow despite buying next to fuck all my bill comes to £25. I look back into my bag and there really is little in the way of food inside it. Harsh times.

When I get back it is now well past 9AM and I need to get going on the day. Danny Baker is not on the radio this week so I get a break from routine there and once I have packed my shopping away I soon find myself tearing into writing.

At 11AM I change stations and find myself listening to Adam Buxton and Liza Tarbuck who are in from Jonathan Ross on Radio 2. That Tarbuck gene, always reminding me of Mr James.

Soon I find myself heading to the olds where today Manchester United are playing Chelsea on Sky in a game that will potentially decide this season’s Premier League. As I leave my flat I bump into the neighbour from downstairs. Last time I saw her she had bed head as I was attempting to kick our building’s front entrance door in the other Wednesday. Again I apologise profusely, which prompts harsh words from her in the direction of my personal trainer neighbour. As ever I’m too diplomatic, not getting as wound up externally as I do internally. From here she begins telling me that I owe her an Easter egg. Is this some kind of weird hybrid of flirting?

Around this point typically the personal trainer emerges from the building too, just as we are bemoaning her. Were her ears burning? As my other neighbour trots off into the distance with her dog I say “hi” to the personal trainer when really I would like to be pointing out to her that she is a “fucking cunt.”

Eventually I hit the road to Balkerne Heights and when I arrive at my parents place it is empty. Did something happen I do not know about? Even the dog is gone. With their old neighbours heading along today I half suspect they have all gone out for lunch without inviting me. Fiends.

Soon dad returns with the dog and it turns out that everyone hasn’t gone out with me after all. Not long afterwards mum comes back from town and finally their old neighbours arrive. I haven’t seen the wife for a couple of years now and it is really nice to have everyone back to how it used to be.

From here I head into town where I buy the new book about Chris Morris called Disgusting Bliss. Once I open it up I find it a really interesting read and tonight I get halfway though it in one foul swoop.

Back at my parents I blag some dinner and while the world is watching the new Dr Who we find ourselves watching Cardiff v Swansea on Sky. Well, its on in the background, I don’t think anyone outside of Wales is actually watching the game. As a result for the life of me I couldn’t tell you the final score.

Afterwards as I scour the Sky channels I come across Broadway Danny Rose on TCM. This is an amazing find, I love this movie. I think this one of the movies where Woody Allen best balances slapstick and serious comedy. In amongst all the silly stuff there are some truly gut wrenching moments as the lovable loser Danny Rose never appears able to catch a break while at the same time running into all kinds of trouble. I watch the majority of the movie before realise that yet again I appear to be spending (wasting) my Saturday night at my parents’ home.

As I leave to head home around 8PM the parking situation at Balkerne Heights this evening is more obscene than ever.

When I get back to Bohemian Grove it is with the intention of writing. Annoyingly as I pull into our complex there is a junker heap of a car parked in my space. I seem to remember the almost exact same thing happening last Easter.

At 9PM Chris calls my iPhone but I ignore it, for me this is not a time to be heading out.

I continue writing until late when I head to bed and I strangely decide to watch the Frost/Nixon Watergate interview DVD that Lovefilm sent me. It is awful. The modern day introduction to screen by David Frost is so achingly cringe worthy, the guy is an idiot, Al Jazeera can fucking have him.

Needless to say the DVD quickly sends me to sleep.

Friday 2 April 2010 – GOOD FRIDAY

2010-04-02T02:51:00.000-07:00

Friday 2 April 2010 – GOOD FRIDAY

Dream: recently I have been having a recurring dream whereby I am a substitute teacher who leaves office work at lunchtime to take in class in the afternoon. Pays the bills I guess. There’s no real teaching involved as it appears to be an act/gesture of crowd control as I front a classroom and try not to be affected by the abuse that comes my way. Today as I head to the school I find myself lugging lots of bags of belongings with my as the time reaches 12.15PM. From here I find myself buying lunch in a small Sainsburys and stressing about reaching class on time. Fortunately I encounter another teacher who informs me that luckily class begins at 2PM instead of 1PM. With this in mind I offload my belongings and take a leisurely stroll through the school, which resembles my school in Frinton when growing up. Walking through the lunch hall it is as I remember, loud and resembling carnage. Suddenly I realise the time is closing in on 2PM and I have no idea where the classroom I am teaching in actually is. Eventually I arrive at it late. I’m cool though. From here I find myself at some kind of outdoor festival similar to a lo-fi Latitude. Did I just take the kids on a field trip? There is comedy and roller derby and from here I spot the roller girl with tattoos that used to work at our restaurant (who I fancied). I approach her and as usual I babble and act goofy in her presence. She says that they (the roller derby girls) are appearing with We Are Klang and that I should go along and watch them. When the show begins unfortunately I find myself unable to get into the event but I can still hear it from outside. Listening in I memorise a couple of great jokes from the show (including one about stamps) and when I later repeat them to other people they think that I have made the jokes up myself and that I am hilarious. At this point my friend Pauly turns up with the two roller derby girls that used to work at our restaurant. From here we head into a stage tent and huddle (cuddle) up in a corner. The others head off with the blonde girl leaving me with the girl with tattoos (the one I fancy). She says to me “shall we try having one more date?” (we’ve had dates?) before starting to kiss me passionately. I think this is a green light.

When I wake up unsurprisingly I am in a good mood. Soon I find myself writing, getting into the groove of proceedings and really enjoying Easter from the off.

Before long I find myself watching Whip It, which turns out to be much better than I was expecting. For what could have been a cheesy chick flick with a “hear me roar” agenda it’s surprisingly tastefully done. It’s also nice to see Maeby from Arrested Development in the movie (in something else).

I find myself listening to Radio 4 today because the David Sedaris show that we saw recorded back in November is finally being aired. Beforehand there is a Douglas Adams documentary about the Doctor Who episodes he wrote and its all great stuff.

The David Sedaris show (Meet David Sedaris) turns out to be a blast, just as funny as I recall. I do not recognise the stories from the recording but I fear that I hear my own laugh. Sedaris is a genius wit, dry and most subtly bitchy.

With this I soon find myself distracted and wandering towards TV where I come across The Love Bug on Film4, which I enjoy much more than I should do. I’ll never forget when dad hired this movie out of the video for me one Saturday night but I kicked up a stink because I wanted something like Chuck Norris. I was a horrible fucking kid. Regardless San Francisco looks amazing in this movie. Better times.

In the end from here I do not leave the house all day. Instead I endeavour to dedicate myself to writing to varying degrees of return.

At 3PM I check in on Radio London to see if Danny Baker is doing a show but sadly no dice so I return to my desk and resume my writing efforts.

Eventually I wind up watching W after scouring my video files. I have had this absolutely ages and never before felt inclined to watch it, to be honest I barely want to today. Happily though the movie flies by and proves a lot more interesting and illuminating than I expected it to be.

By now I find myself well into Friday night as it plays out accordingly. Disappointingly even though it is a holiday there is nothing on telly so soon I head to bed.

I fall asleep relatively early which then means I wake up in the early hours and promptly find myself unable to get back to sleep. A weak kind of insomnia takes hold as I remain awake until 4AM, hearing my neighbours return noisily at 3AM in the process.

Awkwardly during my awake time I happen across Flash Gordon on ITV with the signing person distracting all the way through. This movie gets more camp every time I see it and Ornella Muti gets hotter with each view. I didn’t realise she survives until the end. Go figure.

Thankfully I finally fall asleep but it is too late and too early all at the same time.

Thursday 1 April 2010 – APRIL FOOLS DAY

2010-04-01T02:50:00.000-07:00

Thursday 1 April 2010 – APRIL FOOLS DAY

Step outside Posh Boy.

When I wake up this morning it is light outside but that still does not prevent me from having a headache. Something is going wrong at the moment. Perhaps it is my change in diet, an apparent swing towards being/getting healthy that isn’t necessarily agreeing with my body. What a fuck up.

This morning GMTV reads out the April Fools Day stories in the newspapers in a vain attempt to display a sense of humour. As John Stapleton licks one of the tabloids all his remaining serious journalist/press credentials go flying out of the GMTV window.

In theory today should be the most fun day of the year. Also the train should be quiet as people get out of work a day early with view to leaving for Easter but sadly the resulting effect is only minimal. Instead sat opposite me on the journey is a quite tense looking man, stretching his legs out in boredom and unease. As he glazes he doesn’t look happy, he actually looks angry and tormented by the reality of being on this train at this time (this morning). Why did I choose to sit near this guy?

No one is smiling on this train today.

Eventually emerging at Liverpool Street there is a poor girl handing out the Rail Strike details leaflet. This is a tactical appointment because despite being short the lady is attractive and there is no way us commuters are going to take it out on her, she is too pretty to blame for this bullshit. Had it been some gawky lard arse then we may have been spitting at him while grabbing the lame info shit.

As I sit down on the tube I unfold the leaflet and it takes several words and paragraphs for Network Rail to just say “its not us, it’s the RMT.” Maybe this itself is an April fool joke.

The tube journey across town echoes the quiet of the train ride and when I eventually exit and arrive into the restaurant all is well.

Today the Filipino comes in wearing the same clothes as yesterday it would appear. Did she get lucky last night? Regardless it’s a good look.

Early on into proceedings tonight’s meet up, drinks and food gets cancelled by Mark again. This is truly flaky, this is getting beyond a joke now especially in the light of his absence the other Saturday. I feel genuinely disappointed. For a moment I consider responding “man the fuck up” but that could only ever cause me unnecessary grief.

I have a deadline on today that means I need to get the January accounts for the new company done by the end of play. Unfortunately I cannot remember or recall how far I got with them before I was pulled off them.

Soon lunchtime arrives and I still have not really got started on the accounts. Undaunted however I order penne with merguez for dinner. Makes a change from chicken.

Late in the afternoon the proposed rail strike for next week gets called off by the courts. With this news I fire a sight of relief.

In the end I pull the accounts together and meet my deadline. There’s no fanfare just satisfaction in my doing it.

Fortunately just before leaving for the long weekend I remember to send out the cash wage forms/sheets.

When I walk to St Johns Wood station it is in the pissing rain. On the tube tonight we get subjected to the loudest Information Jimmy ever.

I wind up on the 6PM Norwich train and indeed I spot Sarah scowling and avoiding me as usual. Her loss.

The journey is fucked, I sense that this is the rail staff getting revenge for losing their additional time off next week. That or the brown witch caused it.

At Hatfield Peverel Information Jimmy reports that the slow running of this train is due to it being stuck behind a slow moving train ahead. This is not an excuse. Finally we fucking beach just past Witham. By this point I should be in my car bowling home. God hates me.

Eventually I get home and settle into Easter. I write while This Is England plays out in the background. I just can’t get with this film, its nonsense.

Wednesday 31 March 2010

2010-03-31T02:46:00.000-07:00

Wednesday 31 March 2010

Dream: the angry boss knocks on my office door which is now also my bedroom door and he pops his head in and tells me to wake up and transfer/cancel the divert on the telephones. The wakeup transfers itself into real life.

Thankfully I do not have a headache this morning. I do however awaken to the news that Wayne Rooney limped off in the Manchester United game against Bayern Munich last night. Suddenly our World Cup chances look fucked.

For breakfast I opt for cereal, not really being in the mood for bananas. That little fad didn’t take long to evaporate.

In the end I trot out of my flat with a skip in my step. As I pass my neighbour’s door there is a different set of trainers outside the door compared to yesterday. Does this represent/indicate she slept with a different person last night?

The drive to the station this morning is another excruciating one. Basically cars are just driving too slowly.

It is raining again.

This morning National Express East Anglia decide to put out a shorter than usual train with it only being eight carriages long. Now in the long run this will equate to it being more crammed and uncomfortable as the journey nears London. This feels like contempt for the customer.

Later at Kelvedon the train slows down and all but stops at the station/platform and just as people reach for the door suddenly the train pulls away doing that old cruel wanker trick/stunt that teenagers do when they get their first car (usually a Ford Fiesta) and pick up their mates.

Today there is some fucking annoying man sat to my right typing things out into his phone/Blackberry. He is annoying because he hasn’t bothered to switch off his touchpad sounds so full the early part of the journey he just sits there beeping away like a fucking shit robot.

Elsewhere on the train a chubby blonde girl sat opposite me marks homework before getting off at Ingatestone. No wonder kids are fucking stupid these days if their teachers are doing their own homework (marking) on the train. At Ingatestone too.

A little later the train beaches at Romford and our misery is almost complete. Eventually the train pulls into Liverpool Street after 8AM and late. I guess eight days of slacking ahead of them have kicked in early (prematurely).

When I finally get to work today turns out to be another stunted one. Bless her heart though the Filipino brings in hot cross buns for us and the day gets off to a good start. From here I scrape though the day doting Is, crossing Ts and not much else.

Soon we reach lunchtime where today I have sausage, beans and mash. So much for my new healthy eating regime, instead I appear intent on digression.

In the afternoon the consultant finally makes his first appearance of the week. From here the PM sails out in distracted fashion.

Eventually 5.30PM comes around. Again tonight the tube is a nightmare, which ultimately sees me on the 6.30PM instead of the 6.20PM once more. Fail.

On the train home I listen to the new episode of Doubling Up podcast which features an old telephone interview with Bill Hicks that has never been aired before.

Tonight this train gets delayed. Things are falling apart.

When I eventually get home Arsenal v Barcelona is on TV. From here I proceed to spend my evening flicking from watching this to watching Wrestlemania 26.

In the football Arsenal stand stoic and make it to the halftime without falling behind thanks to some wonder saves from Almunia.

Meanwhile Wrestlemania 26 is proving impressive stuff. This current crop of wrestlers is generally not a classic batch but the effort in polishing them up is efficient and admirable.

Back to the football and within 25 seconds of the restart Almunia returns to form as he fucks up and Barcelona lob him to take the lead. Not long after this Barcelona add a second and suddenly the lights are out on Arsenal.

By now on my Wrestlemania 26 download it has reached the Bret Hart v Vince McMahon fight. This is why I have spent the week downloading a 2.2GB file at work; this is thirteen years in the making. Unfortunately it turns out to be the worst match in WWF history. Where to begin with this? The plot is paper thin. McMahon adds extra drama by working some kind of double cross into the story, which is hard to believe in the first place. This is then followed by an even more ridiculous double double cross. Once all this nonsense is out of the way and the fight begins it never really starts. Bret Hart has not come to the event to wrestle it would seem. Perhaps he can’t wrestle anymore; perhaps his body won’t let him. Surely he has a few chops remaining but this showing fails to display any possibility of this. Instead he pretend pounds McMahon with a chair as he bloodies himself all in a spectacle that could be something from a Saw movie. When all is sad and done it is fucking rubbish.

Returning to the football and on TV I spot Theo Walcott coming onto the field as substitute and swiftly pulling a goal back for Arsenal. Later they then get an unexpected equaliser from a penalty kick and a hard earned 2-2 draw against Barcelona, much against many people’s expectations.

From here I head to bed, again falling asleep to my Frost/Nixon DVD. I am beginning to wonder if it is any good after all.

Tuesday 30 March 2010

2010-03-30T02:44:00.000-07:00

Tuesday 30 March 2010

Today is met with a rough welcome. Once again I wake up in a funny position in my bed and as a result a slight headache accompanies my arrival.

I can’t get a decent reception on my TV again this morning. What is this the fucking sixties?

Eventually driving to the station upon arrival I manage to snag a very decent spot although it is a true squeeze due to the wanker car to my left parking like a true cunt. I hope he gets keyed and that when opening his door he does not dink my prized Focus.

Every morning now there is a gaggle of middle-aged men sat on my carriage. Generally they spend the journey discussing football although I don’t hear much in the way of sense out of them. They are led by a Paul Sturrock lookalike and amongst their number is a Ralph Steadman lookalike complete with severe jowls. It’s literally a gang.

At Witham a slightly frightening moment occurs as a beast decides to sit opposite us. I hope she doesn’t wig out and go mental before the end of the journey although I have to admit she looks liable to.

Later at Ingatestone a plate crowder couple plop themselves next to me. From here onwards he proceeds to crush me to the point that I get a dead arm. All journey I think he and her make smart comments/gestures about the volume of my iPhone and the podcast playing within. Please Ingatestone will you one day give me something to suggest to me that everything that comes from you is a piece of shite.

Once up town and on the tube a black guy stands in our carriage with a rucksack and a badge attached that says “my ass tastes like candy.” What the fuck is that about?

Finally I reach St Johns Wood and work with me being the first person into the restaurant. With this acknowledge my efforts by treating myself to an orange juice from the bar. It’s the same things.

Unfortunately the computers are fucked again. No emails but I do get everything else. It’s a sad state of affairs when our chef is the person trying to repair our network.

The restaurant today is the scene of the quarterly manager’s meeting when all the heads from the various sites congregate around our circle table and get shouted at before launching into laughter before ending with group applause. It all seems a weird state of affairs, a most interesting management and motivation method. Truly I am glad/relieved that I don’t get dragged into them. I think the shouting would cause me to blush too much.

Annoyingly today gets written off due to my headache and I never really get going or accomplish anything. Things are then not assisted when the Filipino comments to me that she is bored, already missing The Girl who by now is well into Ghana.

Eventually 5.30PM comes around and with it a truly shit journey home tonight. When I arrive at Baker Street the notice board declares a twelve-minute wait for the next tube. This does not suit. Ultimately this is the kind of journey that truly makes me hate humanity.

In the end I wind up on the 6.30PM Norwich train and as I sit down I spot that Richard Readings guy from Balkerne Heights. We clock each other and I give him a halfway smile, not really knowing him well enough to fully acknowledge but possibly enough to cause him to threaten me with a lawsuit over the website.

Halfway through the journey Information Jimmy says that he has two announcements to make. First it turns out that during all four days over Easter the line to London is going to be wrecked by engineering work. Then secondly Information Jimmy reminds us of the industrial action being threatened for next Tuesday to Friday. Really what kind of mentality are we supposed to take from this? First the rail service is going to cause chaos for four days and THEN it is going to hold a strike? As I’ve always said the levels of contempt these people (National Express East Anglia) show to their customers is truly the stuff of disgust.

Once back in Colchester I hit Asda. Tonight I buy Chinese chicken wings in an act of self-pity and comfort eating.

When I finally get home I watch Jon Stewart and happily this edition of The Daily Show features John Oliver twice, the second time during a bit about a racist basketball league. Well I guess it is a little bit unfair that black players are far superior to their white counterparts meaning honky never gets a game. It’s like the Harlem Globetrotters all over again only this time in reverse. Power to the (white) people!

From here I watch episodes of 30 Rock and Wilfred before heading to bed and falling asleep with Frost/Nixon playing on my TV.

Monday 29 March 2010

2010-03-29T02:44:00.000-07:00

Monday 29 March 2010

It is dark again this morning when I wake up. There are some downfalls to changing the clocks after all. I seem to recall that this darkness doesn’t last too long but regardless it arrives as something of a culture shock this morning.

From here the drive to the station is stunted by being part of a convoy of cunts all poodling in regulation. Quite frankly we are drowning here.

When I finally find myself on the train platform this morning it appears to be full of lookalikes. I think I am experiencing new week hallucinations. Before long this comes coupled with drizzle as the day begins slowly raining on me.

The train is pleasantly quiet this morning, which is always a bonus when it comes to starting the week.

Eventually it gets into London without drama and before long I find myself walking down Loudoun Road towards work. This morning it is very noticeable how the kids from the rich American school are on Easter holiday while kids from the poor Ndubz school are still dragging themselves into class; a resentment that their faces physically display. One day I can’t help but think these little fuckers will turn on and attack me.

I step into work and the place appears to still be standing after my two-day absence. When I ask the Filipino how things were it seems there were no major dramas while I was away. Things get boring like that sometimes.

Today is the first day that The Girl is away doing charity work in Ghana. In theory this now means that the Filipino and I are having to cover all her work but in reality this doesn’t necessarily amount to much.

Away from her duties I find that I appear to have forgotten how to do my own job. After the rush of last week, today now I truly cannot recall at what point I supposed to be picking things up from.

Soon lunch arrives and with it my hunger. Predictably I have penne with chicken, happily throwing caution to the wind.

From here the afternoon plays out in much the same manner as the morning. It turns out that the consultant is due in tomorrow now but not even that can spur me into action.

At 2PM the Filipino heads off to watch her daughter play violin at school, which leaves me alone to man the ship. Then the boss comes in and wants to get involved. Unfortunately despite his best intentions he just gets in the way as I finally begin to get my head around the task ahead.

This afternoon provides a rare treat as I am able to listen to the Danny Baker show on BBC London following up on my “appearance” on the show on Friday. Again today he is fucking around with the two different Facebook groups, much trivia out of trivia for no real reason.

As the news comes on the radio the story of the day is linked to Mephedrone (or “Meow Meow” as some are calling it) and my boss asks me if I have encounter. My response of “yeah, my mate had some at Christmas” is perhaps not the perfect answer to be exhibiting at this time.

When 5.30PM arrives it comes with guilt and relief.

Scarily the tube across town tonight is filled with lookalikes of various friends and acquaintances. One day they won’t be lookalikes again.

Sing hallelujah as today’s episode of The Bugle (109) contains an appearance from The American. Today you can hear the frustration in John Oliver’s voice as he tears through the idea of healthcare in America and how Nicolas Cage and National Treasure are to blame for putting ideas in American people’s heads. Later when he realises that the show he is recording is not on the radio and air of disdain appears in his voice even though he still shouts out the number as 1-800 BRITFUN.

As a result of this podcast I get home in a good mood this evening. From here I tear into writing and experience my most productive night in ages.

Eventually I fall asleep watching the Naked Lunch movie. This is not a healthy movie to nod off to.

Sunday 28 March 2010 – WRESTLEMANIA SUNDAY

2010-03-28T02:43:00.000-07:00

Sunday 28 March 2010 – WRESTLEMANIA SUNDAY

Dream: strange dreams last night, ones that transplanted me back to the house that I grew up in Little Clacton. There life seemed more simple, less confused and steeped in the more basic surroundings of Clacton where I grew up. None of this information overload that I suffer from today but more solid based focus on family and relations. My aunt was in the dream and it played like a movie, an air of affection screamed through proceedings and there still felt like there was optimism to be had in that existence. Returning home I found myself back in my old bedroom at the back of the house with free time excited by what movie may be on television that afternoon. It is Good Friday. In the end on TV it was a Sherlock Holmes double bill and this felt like a treat (while also possibly being a nod to my experience at Baker Street). Back in the kitchen I find myself watching the old white portable TV and GMTV where suddenly they are addressing on of my peccadilloes without realising it. The weather girl Clare points out how short she is with regards to a prize they are giving away and suddenly I find myself inclined to report this on the internet and suddenly the illusion is broken because there was never any internet in the house where I grew up and the dream suddenly comes to an end and a set of credits roll on the TV where we look for our names. I roll out of my childish apparition and realise that I am an adult still doing childish things and it concerns me more than ever. I begin to worry about the future and funerals. I need to make changes.

From here I emerge around 8.15AM. The clocks have changed so this late hour is really a misrepresentation of the time according to my body clock. I find myself lying awkwardly in my bed with my head at a strange angle creating a headache. When I look over my TV is still on, it has been on all night and instead of switching it off at some point I just put it on mute. Did I have to the intention of resuming watching it after a quick catnap? Such are my failures.

Yesterday with hindsight was a disaster. I don’t know what was up with me, some kind of mental block appeared to take hold and I never regained momentum from there. Thankfully this morning I appear to have a bit more intellect and a bit more gusto, an enthusiasm towards proceedings and one where my approach seems a little more philosophical.

Am I wasting my time?

The dream was probably based around the early nineties. In my head this morning is the song “The Shining Hour” by Grant Lee Buffalo from the album Fuzzy. I am writing and feeling this during the 8AM hour so I guess this is my shining hour. In a true act of nostalgia I search out the CD and put it on to see if it holds up and if I can fully transplant myself back to those times.

As the hour passes through 9AM the sun persists and a larger air of optimism looms over today’s proceedings, which was distinctly devoid and missing from my Saturday.

From here I actually achieve a decent bout of writing, hitting the ground running and finding something I didn’t have yesterday.

This week Stephen Merchant appears on Something For The Weekend and it is just depressing, whiffing of the most desperate shilling possible. He is currently on the promo circuit for Cemetery Junction, which I hope will be really good. Shame about its audience and fanbase.

Taking a breaking from writing I watch two episodes of 30 Rock that feature Michael Sheen in a guest role as Liz Lemon’s destiny. I think this is the first time I have ever seen Michael Sheen play someone other than a historical figure and as a result not doing his impression act he comes over as a much more fun performer with a keen knack for comedy. Playing the old English buffoon in an American TV show can be a real snakepit, as nasty interpretations of British culture are expressed a sensible person could be forgiven for feeling offended.

Soon my Sunday heads towards 3PM and the usual routine visit to my parents’ for Sunday dinner. As ever when I arrive the dog is happy to see me.

The game today on Sky is Liverpool v Sunderland, which in the end Victimpool wins 3-0. The real highlight of this game turns out to be catching glimpses of the lady sat behind Kenny Dalgish in the stands, she is a genuine honey. Ultimately I have little interest in the game so instead I choose to watch a download of the WWE Hall Of Fame 2010 inductions. It all ends with Ted Dibiase and dollar bills falling from the ceiling. I always thought he was an overrated performer.

Today my main source of entertainment continues to be trying to get/make the dog bite mum’s feet and ankles. I got to say he is getting pretty fucking good at it. In a way it serves her right for wearing such stupid slippers. At the same time I worry for the dog though, surely it is not healthy for him to be getting exposed so closely to her stinky feet.

As ever I linger around to grab some dinner while in place of the missing 6PM Simpsons slot I again subject dad with the Harry Hill repeat repeat.

Eventually I head home winding my way through the car park maze that is Balkerne Heights these days. Things have never been so bad, it is almost to the point now that I can’t squeeze between the various parked vehicles. As ever I sound my horn in disgust, as if anyone is going to take notice of that.

Once home I do some writing and have a bath while basking in the glory of a night of TV showing 28 Weeks Later, Mean Streets, King Of Comedy, Jersey Girl and The Commitments. This is an unbelievable schedule of great movies all being squashed together in the listings at a time when the remainder of the weekend’s TV was pretty much the pits.

Elsewhere tonight it is Wrestlemania but unfortunately it is years now since I have had Sky at my disposable for such things.

Saturday 27 March 2010

2010-03-27T02:42:00.000-07:00

Saturday 27 March 2010

Things feel right today, feel good and this probably explains why it is that I awaken at 6.30AM when I do not necessarily have to be up at this time. In fact it is probably detrimental to do so.

With time on my side I decide to finish off watching The Damned United, which I fell asleep during last night. It zips past faster than I recall it did when I watched it in the cinema. This time I find Michael Sheen’s performance less like Mike Yarwood. It’s a good film but as I’ve said before it doesn’t hold a candle to the original book by David Peace.

The early part of the morning is slow moving. As I went to Asda yesterday I do not feel the necessity to hit the store today. Thank God. Still there are Saturday newspapers to buy so around 8.30AM I pull myself together and walk down to the paper shop on Layer Road. It feels like years now since I used to regularly do this walk every Saturday morning, a different kind of routine but one that was perhaps better for me.

Leaving my apartment my neighbour has struck again and once more there is a black bin bag dumped on the landing making our exit hall stink. Why were these people dumped into my lap? As ever I open a couple of windows in a futile gesture of letting air in while wondering if when I return the latch will be pulled down on the door.

Walking past the old football stadium it now cuts something of a truly depressing silhouette. It has sat dormant for about two years now; I can’t even remember the last time a game was played there. I miss the atmosphere; I miss living so close to such a relevant part of my hometown. Now it is just going to ruin. By now there should have been a new set of apartments put up in its place making the area more desirable and sending all our surrounding property values up making it a good time to move out and away. Nothing ever goes to plan.

Once returned with newspapers in hand I flip on the radio to listen to this week’s Danny Baker show on Radio Five. In some degree I am still reeling from his reading of my blog book description on his radio show yesterday. It was a surreal moment and I can’t help but feel he lost interest in it mid flow. Suddenly all my efforts are feeling distinctly amateurish and without point. My writing indeed feels too wordy and bloated but perhaps this is what some people like. Maybe this is the worst in hyperbolic.

In order to relieve the moment from yesterday I set about looking for a programme online that rips BBC radio streams. I send out a call via Facebook, which garners a few responses before I eventually discover an application that just allows you to download the streams for it. This will surely end in tears.

The remainder of my morning flies by. After the Baker radio show I flip over to Jonathan Ross and while they hang in the background I attempt to write but nothing is coming today, everything feels stunted. I try to energise things by dropping brain vitamins, drinking juice, eating fruit, slurping fizzy caffeine drinks and then even desperately having a cup of tea (more caffeine) but nothing is coming today. I have reached a block. And it is worrying me.

Today I was toying with the idea of going to Millwall but soon the drizzling rain puts me off that idea, killing the urge in addition to the reality that if I go along I will probably curse them and make them lose.

Instead from here predictably I attempt to write as ever (this is all I appear to do when I am home these days) and before I know it the day is already well into the afternoon.

In the afternoon I check my bank statement and to my pleasant surprise there are thousands of pounds in my bank account, a few more than I was expecting there to be. There are no errors with this just a new sense of discovery coming from what are apparently the good times. So I have more money than I need in my possession and nothing to do with it, no life to put it towards. This is pathetic. How did I get to this point and place? Would ladies find me more attractive if they saw my bank balance? What a joke.

Eventually I begin to hit some kind of wall so instead of labouring over words I watch I Love You Man. It is a funny movie and all and I really fancy Rashida Jones but nothing seems to happen in the movie. Instead of having an arc all it appears to be is a series of comedic scenes linked by a most flimsy of plots with ultimately a very unsatisfactory conclusion.

Around 4PM I head to the olds and into town. As ever Colchester on a Saturday afternoon resembles the usual band and collection of lost souls all badly dressed like people from a certain George A. Romero movie.

As I walk around town I check the Millwall score and they are already winning 3-0 at Stockport come halftime. Had I actually gone along with my cooler effect this would not have happened?

From here I head to HMV where happily I find How To Lose Friends And Alienate People for £3 which is a movie I genuinely really like despite being the source of an American Friend memory with it being the only movie we went to see together.

When I return to my parents’ place I discover that Millwall have beaten Stockport 5-0. We are going up.

With this we have pancakes for dinner, which is an amazingly indulgent dinner. Its wrong but tastes right.

In the end up I wind up watching You’ve Been Framed with my parents on a Saturday night. I need to make some serious changes. Afterwards though while channel hopping I come across 30 Rock, which I proceed to foist upon them to zero reaction and no laughs.

Eventually I drive home winding through the crazy car park that is now Balkerne Heights. What happens when these cars get scraped?

When I get home I put on Walk the Line that only serves to remind me of the crazy date with Jay from Korea. That was a strange experience.

Soon I fall asleep.

Friday 26 March 2010

2010-03-26T02:41:00.000-07:00

Friday 26 March 2010

Today immediately begins better than yesterday. For starters the sun is out, already glowing when I awaken at 6.48AM on my day off.

As ever with a day off I spend the first part of the morning laying in bed watching Channel Four and cheap American sitcoms being repeated for the Nth time with view to filling schedules. I can’t help but wonder what type of person actually sits down and watches these daily, viewing them as part of their schedule. Why are they on TV now? I know for sure Channel Four can’t afford or be bothered to produce news or light entertainment scheduling anymore but to show these instead does confuse me slightly.

It begins with Everybody Loves Raymond then onto Frasier (actually a programme that still oozes quality) before ending with Will & Grace.

I feel a sense of pressure today, one to make up for the waste that was yesterday. Yesterday was all about slumber and as a result the day trickled through my fingers and the time spent at home instead of work actually came to nothing.

Once out of bed my day begins with a phonecall from work. It is actually a missed call but there is a voicemail attached. With reluctance I call in and it is just my boss looking for some wage sheets from last month that I have failed to file. I tell him where (I think) they are and with it I prompt an irksome rummage from him through a pile of papers I sense he is going to uncover lots of stuff in that he shouldn’t. This is not a good start.

Eventually I begin the day and endeavour to redeem myself. With the morning remaining sunny ironically the idea of heading to Wales weekend suddenly begins to seem/feel appealing again and as a result now represents something of a missed/lost opportunity.

A certain buzz has followed through from last night where the Richard Herring show stormed and meeting him at the close of proceedings was a brief but genuine thrill. For a person that appears standoffish in those fleeting minutes he was a lot more friendlier than I had given him credit for.

In order to discover some life and energy today I make a point of heading out to Asda early on. Yesterday I can’t help but feel proceedings were slightly blighted by the lack of fizzy caffeine fodder, my damaging fuel for helping the writing flow.

As I drive to the store and head down Butt Road while passing my old employer I see a shorthaired guy emerging from Chernobyl that looks like a mini version of Jock. I guess that’s what they like. Stevo has never mentioned this guy. He doesn’t look like fun.

Walking into Asda on a Friday morning is an experience away from my usual Saturday morning routine. I have to concede there are more yummy mummies. What am I going to do though?

From here I grab a basket and bag up in usual fashion. When scouring through the cheap DVDs I come across a copy of The Burbs that I do NOT buy. I can’t help but think I will be experiencing nightsweats and a panicked return visit in the future over this decision.

As food shopping proper begins I keep up with my best intentions of reinvention and rejuvenation and buy more fruit. Here’s genuinely hoping that this shit sorts me out. As ever I find myself tempted to buy cocktail sausages but as I pass them there is a person in the way meaning that I cannot reach them without manners. I take this as a sign to negate from buying them. From here I stroll out the remainder of the journey buying my caffeine drink, buying green tea, buying Frijj and also buying Bombay Mix in an effort ween myself of the Wasabi Mix. Avoiding the cereals (I have lots already) when I reach the booze I find myself genuinely agonising over whether to buy any or not. As I stand staring into the alcoholic abyss some craggy middle aged skank walks past making her decisions. She has alcoholic written all over her along with the word unappealing. Despite this I plump for a bottle of Jagermeister, sometimes it serves me well.

When I get home I actually manage to get more into writing today, producing on a level that I was hoping for from yesterday. Soon lunchtime arrives and with it I am spoilt for choice with so much new stuff freshly purchased.

I genuinely miss London on my days off, pining for the streets and the things I could be doing there on a day freed from work.

On Channel Four in the early afternoon is Warlords Of Atlantis, a Doug McClure joint. The listings actually state that The Time Machine is supposed to be on but in some ways this is a better way to indulge wasting part of my afternoon. In tow following Doug McClure is an almost unrecognisable John Ratzenberger. He actually did something other than Cheers?

In addition to this I also discover The Million Pound Note on Film4 which is a truly underrated and classic movie. Not that I have time to watch it today.

As usual with 3PM comes a break to listen to Danny Baker. Today he is naming his new Facebook group in an effort to move on from Star Garter. As he plays around it sounds as if he is sending Baylen Leonard into despair. It’s all a tease and very funny radio.

Also as part of the show is a call out for experiences of being a failed writer and like a true sadist I jump to respond, quickly firing off a message to their Margaret Rutherford email address.

To my surprise and pleasure he begins reading my email out which basically resembles the spiel I wrote as the book description for the Asking For Trouble website. It is all very wordy and soon he finds himself getting tongue tied before apologising and abandoning the reading. I have to say hearing him read the description it all sounds like the heaviest, darkest, most humourless piece of writing. For a moment I consider sending him a copy but I come to the conclusion that might not be a good thing.

After the show I briefly resume writing before breaking for two episodes of The Simpsons. This will always be the most comforting of television programmes, as long as its on the air somewhere everything will be all right.

This evening I get quite the revelation from an old school friend regarding some girl we all used to know in our Gringo Records circle/scene. Suddenly it’s a scarily smaller world.

Out of boredom I watch the Shane MacGowan documentary that has been sitting on my PC for literally years now. The interest now comes from seeing the Marcia Farquhar show the other Saturday and I watch it morbidly half wondering if she will pop up in it. She doesn’t but various other names I used to encounter at Notting Hill do. It is especially interesting to put a face to the name Joey Cashman after hearing so many stories from Danny Devito about him over the years. Looking at the guy, I can almost believe them.

From here my Friday night proves a dead end. When did Friday night TV become so fucking bad? What happened to the sitcoms they used to put on to prevent single people getting sad and depressed?

In the end I plump for my DVD of The Damned United, which I fall asleep within ten minutes of.

Thursday 25 March 2010

2010-03-25T02:37:00.000-07:00

Thursday 25 March 2010

Today I awaken unsurprisingly grumpy. What on earth was last night about? Why did I have so much slung at me in one go. Quite frankly I feel exhausted today, they say these things get sent to test us but why must they be so sapping of my energy?

On cue the day begins with my watching the US comedy repeats on Channel Four in between scouring/scanning the mainstream channels for news (there is no news). My ETA turns out to be 7.15AM which is pretty much par for the course when I don’t have to rely on the alarm clock. Outside the day is open the sun is out but it isn’t out very far and a sense of gloom has attached itself to proceedings, which is a shame because the first half of the week was suggesting (if not promising) so much. This is not how I had envisaged things. And it is perhaps a good thing that I am not going to Wales this weekend after all.

I watch Everyone Loves Raymond, Frasier and Will And Grace before my options run out and I have to leave my bed and attempt to make something of my day. Slowly I hear my neighbours head off to work, not least looking out for the guy who had his van parked in space 15 (my neighbour) last night. Who on earth drives around in a van advertising that they are a window cleaner? Did he do exams? Am I right in thinking that he is the latest in men that my neighbour has had around to jump in the sack? It was actually probably him that pulled down the latch on the door last night and I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt by acknowledging that it wasn’t done on purpose or as a personal gesture against me. It still happened though.

With this in mind one of the first things I do today is write an email to my management agents bemoaning the incident that occurred last night. By rights surely somebody should be knocking on my door and apologising to me for the incident but life does not work that way. Even better it might be fun for somebody to knock on my door and have a go at me for nearly kicking the door down last night which would then give me more than excuse and a platform for which to kick off in. This never happens though, I’m too passive to ever put myself in such a position to air such things. I suck. So then at the end of the day all I can do is send off these stupid, snotty emails to the management agents hoping that they will issue some kind of formal complaint that will carry more weight and authority than my childish acts. I don’t have the balls or the time.

Today is my second anniversary of beginning work at the restaurant. The place is completely different now. I still remember the morning I started there and how it all felt intimidating and more officious that it eventually turned out to be. The Financial Controller was certainly an intimidating factor and the woman I was working with opposite was just old and useless.

It has to be reiterated: today is fucking horrible. The environment chokes me and the climate kills my enthusiasm. I still feel depressed and fearful after being locked out last night. Will there be any comeback? What fucking tricks will my neighbour be up to next?

This afternoon the Dad’s Army stage show is having a matinee performance at the Mercury Theatre and earlier this week I half suggested to the old man that we go along. That said I don’t really think it is his scene though and being a weekday matinee I can’t help but suspect the demographic will be demeaning to both of us. As a result I shy away from pushing the idea forward.

With no real heart for writing I find myself instead watching a Straight Edge documentary. It is fucking nonsense, so horribly removed from the Minor Threat origins that now it would appear that being straight edge is considered to be akin to being a gang member like a Crip or a Blood. Are they fucking serious in America? I thought it was bad enough the way all new hardcore bands just sounded like thrash bands with short songs and how the whole emo thing occurred but to see these kids will all humour and fun squeezed out of their existence is just disheartening and so wide of the original point. To hear Thurston Moore provide the voiceover feels like shilling of the worst kind and when the credits later display that Brendan Canty did the score suddenly DIY ethics are not only ignored/neglected by the piece, they feel thoroughly trampled over.

By now the day reaches lunchtime and with it comes an attempt/effort to eat healthy and be good. Easier said than done.

From here I resume attempting to write and I experience only limited returns. At 3PM as usual I break to listen to the Danny Baker BBC London show which provides a calming element to the afternoon. This is radio to relax and fall asleep to.

When the show ends the time has now reached 5PM and with tonight’s RICHARD HERRING show at the Colchester Arts Centre looming I only really have a couple of hours left to get some writing done.

Eventually I get to the Arts Centre just after 8PM where it is already pretty packed. Soon after I arrive Lee arrives and it all begins to look good for the evening.

As I head to the bar to get drinks I find myself confronted by an old face from better times in the Colchester scene, I haven’t seen him for years and it’s really great when he recognises/remembers me. We do the briefest of catch ups as it transpires he has ditched teaching (he even used to teach at my old school in Frinton at one stage). Briefly vague plans get hatched to meet up and hang out in the future. Some people transcend.

Tonight is fun. RICHARD HERRING emerges onto the stage wearing his currently trademark toothbrush Hitler moustache and proceeds to dissect and super analyse the ridiculous concept/conceit of evil and racism being attached to his piece of facial hair and then onto the ridiculousness of racism in general, of how the field can get so muddied that ultimately it actually takes more effort to be racist than not. In addition he brings about the question as to whether people become more right wing, even racist, with age.

RICHARD HERRING is a master comedian. He has very thick skin; otherwise he wouldn’t have persisted with this premise in the first place. Additionally he is happy to send himself up when frailties and imperfections of his being emerge. He also appears to be fond of the double standard, its all right for him to be absurd but don’t dare anyone anywhere else misbehave or toy with hypocrisy. Those people would be sick and wrong.

After a strong hour of set we reach an interval at which point he leaves the audience on a cliff hanger as to whether he did grow back his moustache, the one that currently sits/hangs above his top lip.

When he returns it is with jubilation that he points out how he was not discouraged from keeping the moustache. As the show continues he moves onto his now infamous story of when he had his iPhone stolen in Shepherd’s Bush by a black man and how when the police were trying to retrieve the stolen phone for him as they drove past bystanders out of context what would be seen would be Adolf Hitler sat in the back of a police car, as if they had finally got him.

From here a poser occurs when in the middle of his Hitler Moustache run HERRING has to attend an important family function. With this he has to weigh up the pros and cons of jeopardising his show against potentially ruining all the future family photo albums but looking like an eccentric weird nasty piece of work. In reality this proves a real quandary for him, posing a difficult decision he would rather have to deal with. Bloody families.

Later at another point he actually mentions the name of Day 68 of my Facebook Cull. Now that is truly strange coincidence.

As one ridiculous conceit gets considered by another the whole situation and basis of his show continues to get confused as the absurdities of live override any opportunity of a rational argument other than to shut the fuck up and just get on with things. The reality is that it just takes too much time and effort to be racist and an incredibly lazy mind to get annoyed by a style of moustache. Eventually HERRING ties it all up with a bow and offers everyone out to collect and wear a free toothbrush moustache being handed out at the exit to anyone that wishes to sport and that we should fight to win the moustache back to represent Charlie Chaplin, to represent comedy.

After the show HERRING proves very accommodating as he sits at his merch desk signing copies of DVDs and books and having his picture taken with the people of Colchester. When it comes to Lee and my opportunities to meet the man a guy behind us in a wheelchair offers to take our photo while I get HERRING to write “cumpkin” in my copy of Bye Bye Balham while I show him my cracked iPhone in search of sympathy from another iPhone obsessive.

With this ends another great night at the Colchester Arts Centre. As I head home I worry slightly about the door to our building being locked again (as per last night/this morning) but thankfully when I pull up and in all is well, the sign magically strategically placed on the wall has done its job. Celebration!

Once inside I check Question Time where tonight Baroness Warsi is once more on the panel. I find her strangely attractive; she looks like a mucky mucky lady.

Wednesday 24 March 2010 – BUDGET DAY

2010-03-24T05:17:00.000-07:00

Wednesday 24 March 2010 – BUDGET DAY

Today I feel more tired than I was expecting to. It’s technically Friday for me, the final day of a short week. Originally I was supposed to be going to Wales (Portmeirion) this weekend but it never got arranged. In a way though this is a good thing looking at the weather today.

The drive to the station is an excruciating one, not least for getting stuck behind a car with a fucking yellow smiley face sticker on it. Does this explain why the car is driving so slowly: the driver is fucked up on drugs at this time and all the time. What kind of backwards mentality sees a person sticking a fucking yellow smiley face onto their car. Surely beyond anything else it devalues the book value of it immediately to the value point of scrap.

It’s a dull, dull day.

Again the train journey is OK as nobody bothers to sit next to or crush me. Over my shoulder I can hear somebody snoring over the top of my iPhone but that’s his problem. Around Maryland and Forest Gate frustratingly the train slows down to a crawl. I guess that is because these are tough neighbourhoods.

Eventually we get into town and on the tube I find myself sat opposite a boring (and bored) Zoey Deschanel lookalike. She just can’t pull the look off.

At the moment I am on a genuine self improvement kick, last Friday night has truly triggered something in me. I need to get better, I need to improve, I am not getting any younger and soon I fear it will be too late for me.

Today is a busy day filled with trepidation regarding the consultant’s impending visit. Not that this sense of urgency transforms itself into work, I have better things to do.

The consultant is due/supposed to be in at 11AM but eventually he makes it in just after 1PM while we are eating. His lateness suits me as it lends me the opportunity to get a lot of stuff done before his arrival but unfortunately when he steps through the door there are still tasks and chores that require my attention. As a result lunch gets cut short.

He seems in a good mood today though and with this I get a sense that he is going to be easy on me. Its not that he is necessarily awful all the time it is just that he sometimes makes qualified observations about aspects and areas of our accounts he really does not the full understanding that I do but due to his seniority my input gets railroaded. Also being a busy man he is not necessarily always 100% concentrating on our accounts which can occasionally lead him to contradict himself which obviously makes me life/job difficult as a result. It then turns out to be a real break when he stays only an hour. Result.

From here the remainder of my day comes with a full workload but at the same time it is manageable.

Around 5.15PM our boss announces that we can pack up early. Unfortunately I still have a bit of work to do and it holds proceedings up slightly before eventually the others just leave that little bit early.

When I leave at 5.35PM it is in full expectation of knowing the boss may want a drink and indeed as I attempt to race out of the building he is sat downstairs. He calls me over to join him. Despite being in a rush I indulge him. The guy looks shattered, there appears to be so much going on in all elements of his life right now and he just wants a chat.

At 6PM I make a move feeling bad about ditching him. Once out of the restaurant I head straight for Shepherd’s Bush for the TINDERSTICKS show where we are all meeting at the Defectors Weld beforehand. When I eventually arrive there cocktails are already on the go, promising much.

We have some dinner in the form of another expensive pub burger while I express my angst about reaching forty soon (in six and a half years time). I also try to coerce people into coming along to the Toots And The Maytals show at the Barbican in June as well as wowing everyone with the story of the dying person at the Australian Film Festival last night. I feel on form tonight with these tales and the “What Up With That” song from SNL in my head (now also hopefully in their heads too).

Eventually we head over to the Shepherd’s Bush Empire. As we step through the door we quickly peak at the merchandise store to see the Andy Nice CD in amongst the TINDERSTICKS stuff. That should make Justin happy.

As we take our seats VILLAGERS are already onstage doing their support slot. Apparently they have just been signed to Domino but I can’t help but think that this is a lie as I witness the simpering musings of some soft sod performing songs in a style that is prematurely ageing and demeaning to us all. It is a farce. When did society become so dull that professional nobodies such as these can get signed to decent labels? The best that I can say for him (them) is that I am reminded of Alasdair Roberts (who I dislike too).

The set soon concludes and it is at this point it occurs to me that the seats upstairs at the Shepherds Bush Empire are no longer large enough for human comfort. They were designed in better times, when people were physically slighter and in theory healthier. This dawning also comes coupled with the reality that the guy sat to my left is soon winding the shit out of me as he finds it impossible to sit still, taking up the armrest and regularly scratching his huge hair probably pulling out nits in the process. It is without doubt that this winner gets laid more than me. Such is life.

Without too much waiting TINDERSTICKS soon take to the stage and promptly launch into the title track from Falling Down A Mountain. It’s a majestic piece, great and encapsulating a pulsing tension and urgency that befits such a luxurious band. Tonight they all look dressed down, more relaxed and less regal than usual. You sense from the new record that this is now the way in this camp.

Ultimately it is a frustrating set, a true mixed bag naturally focused on the new record but painfully neglecting too many gems that sit obvious. Unpredictably they include “Peanuts”, an excruciating song from the new album that I just cannot tell whether they are conscious of how awful the song is.

A rare beacon glows in the form of “Black Smoke” as the velvet luxury of the band begins to become hinting at once more but frustratingly little else serves to storm the show.

Throughout the set sat upstairs I find myself being bludgeoned by the guy with apparent nits continuously scratching his huge head of hair throughout the set. To say it niggles and distracts me would be an understatement. Fortunately halfway through the set after checking his text messages he disappears never to return.

Onstage the TINDERSTICKS grind to the end of their set before returning to perform two encores after which I don’t wish for a third.

After the show we exit, heading outside where rain is now drizzling down. As Racton and Eleanor wait for their friends to emerge I split the joint and head home in full knowledge/realisation that it takes forever on the Hammersmith Line to get across to Liverpool Street.

In the end I wind up on the 11.48PM Colchester train and minutes before it pulls away Day 80 of Facebook Cull boards the carriage and waves at me “hi…..”

From here something of an awkward and uncomfortable journey takes place. I try to avoid eye contact, try to pretend she’s not there but it’s impossible. I try to fall to sleep but I ain’t got game for that either. At least she isn’t hurling shoes or abuse at me, perhaps she doesn’t know about it.

It’s funny to be bumping into her now, so close to the entry. It is now over two years since the last (and first) time we saw each other on a train home, a night after which Zoë had thoroughly upset me and Emma actually helped cheer me up at a bleak time.

When the train arrives back at Colchester the time is around 1AM and I make a point/gesture of speaking to her, to ensure that I don’t make more of a fool of myself. Much like last time she is really friendly once more having been out on the last with clients in a corporate sense. Maybe I shouldn’t have culled her after all.

By the time I get back to Bohemian Grove it is now after 1AM and as I stumble out of my car and put my key into the door of our building it doesn’t work, fails to turn. I check that I am using the correct key and indeed I am and as I toggle it soon it becomes apparent that the safety latch has been pulled down on the inside.

Without doubt this is the work of that idiot personal trainer next door to me in flat 15. At this point I feel truly fucked off by her latest action and I proceed to buzz all the doorbells in our block and pound on the door at an ungodly hour. I realise just how antisocial this is but quite frankly so is locking me out of my own home (fuck, she isn’t even an owner, she’s a scumbag renter which would suggest why she goes around with her “don’t give a fuck” attitude). How fucking dare they do this? Why have they fucking done this?

After no response to my initial flurry I begin kicking the door in again and making real noise. Eventually I hear the bedroom window of flat 15 open just as the lady downstairs (Michelle) emerges with bedhead and opens the door for me. I apologise profusely (three times) as she acknowledges that it is “the stupid people upstairs” in flat 15 that have done this.

As I step through my door I slam it in a final gesture of anger. If I was worth my salt I’d pound on the door of 15 Hollytree Court but by now the damage has been done so it is anything for a quiet life that now prevails.

Fucking idiots.