Wednesday, July 05, 2006

Wednesday 5 July 2006 – World Cup Day 27

This morning I awaken to a slightly dulled day but still, it ain’t getting any cooler. I flip on the TV to the news that North Korea are practising nukes on the symbolic day of 4 July, that John Stapleton thinks that anyone using Myspace that isn’t a kid is a paedophile and that in London (Wimbledon to be precise) thankfully it is raining.

Today I find myself NOT running to catch the train, which is subtly delayed, and the journey is cheered up slightly by the David Letterman look-alike sitting almost me – and he doesn’t have a clue. Unfortunately some professional cocknocker boards the train in Witham proceeds to read his pinko newspaper whilst simultaneously nudging me in the side. Is there something he wanted to tell me?

After my daily walk down Portobello (lovely in the summer), I buy some fizzy water for my killer throat in Notting Hell Tesco and just as I attempt to pay some shot to bits old guy in a beret attempts to give me a bottle of red wine – “please accept a gift on my behalf”. You know, I hadn’t the heart to tell him the bottle was slop.

The Wednesday work day comes and goes without major incident, I just find myself busy as ever, something I enjoy really and that sure beats twiddling my thumbs for a living as per what appears to have happened during my previous posts of employment. And on that note, once more again a number of calls come in on my mobile from Beaumont Seymour – Stevo again no doubt, I would suggest it be a long shot that my previous employers would be attempting to contact me to apologise and offer me my job back.

Another evening at Liverpool Street and another delay on the train home. This time however the train actually manages to leave the station on time. Tonight I find myself sat next to the largest man in Essex and obviously I find myself sizing him up in comparison to my own girth.

I look at the guy opposite me and I see on the cover of the Evening Standard that Ken Lay from Enron has died. People will suggest that there is no justice as a result of this but at least the world got one good movie out of it.

When I finally get home France v Portugal is in full swing and France are already leading 1-0. I dip in and out of the game but it never really captures my full attention but I do bask in the result and the eventual elimination of shoddy old Portugal, indulging in Ronaldo’s overdue tears and Figo generally posture/demeanour of looking like Quantum Leap’s Sam Becket all pissed up and living on the streets – you shaggy old man you. I bite my tongue as I say this but France are beginning to look good; Zidane is playing like the footballer the media claim he is and Henry the Arsenal scummer looks headed towards top form. At this rate I take them over Italy for the final on Sunday.

Afterwards I attempt to watch the live Big Brother show with fatty Davina but I am far too tired to keep awake and I don’t give a flying fuck who moves from the small house to the big one now that the show has gone shit and devoid of eyecandy now that Lisa is sadly history. Yawn.

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