Monday, July 03, 2006

Monday 3 July 2006 – World Cup Day 25

Heatwave July style. Its hot in the city, it’s hot all over. And when I find myself speeding towards the train station, speeding for a train to get me to my workplace early, once more I am met with the horrific sight of the Colchester North Station car park being turned into a fucking Saab sales forecourt – fuck the overpriced, begging train service and their corporate revenue generation.

As I walk down Portobello this fine morning I catch glimpse of Ulrika Jonsson drinking coffee outside one of the coffee shops looking miserable. I bet she’s really glad she fucked Sven now.

Monday starts like shite as the heat puts pay to my evening plans of seeing Daniel Kitson do a secret show in New Cross as the usual suspect blows me out. This sees me through the day with the hump. Work also poses something of a labour as I wind up catching up on Friday’s duties after I had been allowed to watch the football instead.

Football then further interferes with work when I exchange semi-strong words with the company’s resident Chelsea as the broadcaster on the BBC comments “and Lampard couldn’t hit a barn door” in reference to the World Cup just past. Things get heated when he defends Lampard whereas I vehemently agree with the radio. For the remainder of the day we do not exchange words until he goes home (but we’re cool).

And then finally just as they say things come in three, awkward moment #3 of the day pops up when Tom extends an open invitation to me to meet up with him next Tuesday after work. Thing is, in tow also will be Pete, the son of the man (“Melchard”) that bullied at my previous firm Beaumont Seymour that eventually dismissed me for my blog and sent my career path somewhat spiralling sideways, endangering my livelihood and forcing me into paying for my mortgage on my credit for over a quarter of a year, seemingly blackballing me from various accounting jobs in and around Essex. And I am not kidding. To some extent it is rather tactless and insensitive to suggest that I engage with someone as such in a rather potentially volatile situation (I dislike silverspooners enough alone). I sense I will decline the invitation and get my head back down to work.

News filters through today that 17 September has been nominated as Muslim Day at Alton Towers. I really a hell of a lot of disdain on the internet over this and can’t help but agree that it is a really horrible, exclusive sounding event. Such events only serve to divide. Fortunately however no one in the real world (away from the web) appears to be aware (or care) about it.

Eventually 6PM comes around and I fly up to Notting Hill Gate and the train steams over to Liverpool Street in grand. Unfortunately upon arrival at Liverpool Street, visibly train aren’t going anywhere – kids on the tracks at Romford or Ilford setting fire to signalling or something. Regardless, just when I had a ton of things to do at home this evening, sod’s law I find myself stuck at Liverpool Street with my thumb up my arse. I look around, sweating and people watching praying for a train to come my way.

Forty minutes later I get home to Colchester at around 8.30 where the evening is still warm and environmentally hostile. I head immediately to Asda for anything liquid and wind up buying stationery and four different types of fruit juice (never say I don’t experiment nor touch fruit).

By the time I step through my frontdoor it is all but past 9PM and I decide to my evening to an end straight away. Well, that was the plan. Instead the phone rings and when I pick it up it is the Asian telesales guy from 3G Mobile that phoned last Thursday that I wound up shouting at. And tonight he sounds like he is out for revenge! After telling me that I spoke to him last week about the phone (true) he proceeds to launch into his salesman spiel/patter before I remind him that I am registered with the TPS (true) and then I apologise for shouting/swearing at him last Thursday (true). At this point he claims that I am not registered with the TPS (false) and demands that I give him my TPS registration number. I was never given such a number (true) but he tells me that I am lying (false) and that if I fail to give him my number, I will be fined by BT (false) for my apparent conduct last Thursday. Jeepers. When I fail to give him any such registration number the call its strangely and I can almost hear him sniggering down the phone at me as he sarcastically says “cheers” to me. Surely that amounts to harassment. And why should I be fined when I was the victim (boo hoo) of an invasion of privacy – I was verbally raped by the man (lol)!

This call really puts a full stop to my day as I put my head down sheepishly, nodding off to the last episode of the new Steve Coogan show Saxondale which is really beginning to deliver and pay off.

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