Monday, November 13, 2006

AM: The train was insane this morning.  I avoided enduring Breakfast Club with Chris (God bless him) but I failed to get a decent seat for/on my commute so instead I festered in nastiness, staring at all the freaks around me giving them imaginary personalities and wrinkles.  First of all was the four-eyed cunt sat opposite me (I don’t even remember if he was wearing spectacles).  I did however notice his Dell laptop with a stinking great Ernst & Young sticker stamped on it which scarred me to my soul.  Ernst & Young are Big Four and unlikely to ever offer me a job in my chosen field/profession but here is/was this clown dressed in an awful looking suit, what looked like a cowboy shirt basically looking scruffier than I would ever consciously allow me to get.  To my right was some prissy, poncy man no better reading (maybe) the Financial Times which I mistook for an old issue of the NME when a picture of a Captain Of Industry looked exactly like Mark E. Smith to me.  The salaryman trilogy was completed by the George Galloway lookalike that promptly pulled out all his paperwork and started working on/over it during the train journey.  More than several times I caught Mr Ernst & Young peering from behind his copy of the FT and looking over George’s shoulder at his documents.  Was I experiencing industrial espionage?

 

Indeed the poncy man reading the FT this morning finds himself sat opposite the soft looking man that looks like a lesbian.  I still wonder if he is a post-op she and will one day be played by Hilary Swank in an Oscar winning movie.  I really dislike him today however, he/she already having committed the crime of knocking me with his briefcase and stepping on my toes.  He however ups the ante today as I notice his partner/significant other today has a bump, he/she has impregnated someone?  Poor little tike has probably been conceived with a weak sperm.  I wonder where I fail.

 

Eventually I wind up sitting next to a girl I am positive I used to go to school with called Jodie, one that I found attractive then and may find attractive now – she certainly has a demeanour of mean-ness.  A good style sense though, even if her other half/significant other is an obvious goof.

 

The real freak show of the journey however is the United Kingdom’s guest, a John Terry lookalike that acts like he has never been on a train before, let alone one during peak/rush hour.  I watch as he fidgets worringly and squirm as he begins to glare/stare at fellow travellers, including me!  He has a stare like a rapist, which may be the nasty John Terry factor.  I wonder if my fellow journeymen (and women) notice his perculiar actions.  It would seem so as I swear I catch him having a staring contest with the odd older brother guy to the Reece Boyson-lookalike.  I gaze in amazement and then the evil John Terry decides to stare at me, a glare of true horror that fills me with fear, as full as the apparent alcohol content in his bloodshot eyes.  He is sat obvious the Fiona Phillips lookalike and she herself looks mildly uncomfortable and definitely not amused.  I exchange a pitying glance with her but she only frowns back.  I just cannot win some days.  When the train arrives in Liverpool Street I waste no time in getting off the train and getting as far away from this apparent mad man as quickly as possible.

 

As I pick up my Monday morning copy of The Metro I notice the board saying there are delays on the Central Line.  The day is barely past 8AM and already I find myself at odds with my week in London.

 

Luckily as I get on the platform, there is tube only half full and I comfortably slip on and before eventually getting a seat next to a 3G Mobile salesperson taking liberties.

 

And just before I finally get into work, one last kick in the balls occurs as none of the Portobello Road cash machines have any money left in them and I am unable to withdraw any of my hard gotten readies.  The world really does hate me.

 

My week proper begins at work with a lengthy laundry list of bitty tasks to do with view to closing off the financial year end.  I remain humpy but work is one of the few places that helps me snap out of my funk, it has a purpose and I have duties as part of the machine.

 

PM: the morning flies by and at lunchtime I head over to Rough Trade to buy the These New Puritans single on seven inch.  Four pounds sir!  I however severely embarrass myself when my tongue slips and I request it on CD.  I once was able to hold my own in this shop, I would recognise most titles coming and had the savvy to split the wheat from the chaff.  These days however, I am just a 30 year trying to look cool – I am officially a Granddad.

 

In the afternoon I find myself entering a Myspace contest to see Jarvis Cocker perform at the Koko this evening in a television recording for Channel Four’s Album Show.  I enter the contest and win, receiving an inevitable email from “Jarvis Cocker” himself.  He asks for my mobile number.  No, give me your mobile number, where is the trust?  Soon after “winning” the contest it occurs to me that there is no point in me going along.  I haven’t heard any of his new solo stuff and I don’t have anyone to go with me anyway (a major reason why I didn’t go to Yo La Tengo on Saturday).  There must be people on this Earth that would kill for these opportunities but instead I remain a miserablist not taking any of the great opportunities that are handed to me (yeah, like that is what this is).  I think too much about this situation and it just gives me one hell of a headache.

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