Saturday, February 28, 2009

Saturday 28 February 2009

This morning I accomplish something that almost resembles a lie in. Today the sun has gone and the dull drab climate has returned and with it something of a sigh of relief – I am just not ready for the heat just yet.

Soon I find myself sneezing. What was a hint/suggestion of a cold yesterday is now a full on bout of snot. I cannot believe how I am falling prey/foul to every cold symptom that is going around this year and how every five minutes I appear to be suffering (suffering in lowest dominator).

As I type the clock is just passing 9AM and the sun is slowly beginning to hatch, to threat to come out but potentially it is too little too late. It would be nice to see the sun but not the probable closeness and warmth that comes with it.

Originally I was planning to go to see Millwall today but those retards that be on National Express railways have chosen to fuck with the lines again this weekend and I really am not committed enough to the cause to catch a bus from Colchester to Billericay. If those arseholes are going to pull such stunts they should really not have the fucking gall to charge for their “service.” How on earth can they justify such engineering on a Saturday? The upheaval and no-go service on Sundays that put me off heading to London are bad enough but when they pull the stunt on Saturdays also it really takes the biscuit and screams a big “fuck you” to their customers.

OK, I spoke too soon and the sun is now out in full flow/glow/power. This does not however ensure that today will not be a flat day.

When I hit Asda it is with the kind of mentality that permits me to buy Hanna Barbera cartoon DVDs again. Today is Dick Dastardly. When will I grow up? When I reach that awkward moment at the check out when/where the girl has to crunch the security tag, today I am met with small talk. What is going on? Am I looking good this morning? Do I look paternal buying cartoons? She comments on what a beautiful day it is turning out to be and that she only has to work until midday. What, does she want me to meet her from work at midday and plan a nice afternoon in the sun? This ain’t wishful thinking.

Upon returning to the flat I spend the morning listening to Jonathan Ross on the radio while flipping/flicking through the weekend newspapers and procrastinating whether to attempt some writing or to do something with my flat. I think so hard that the morning flies right past and I do neither.

With the morning wasted I debate whether to get into touch with Mark and I do so just as I settle down to watch Thriller In Manilla. Swiftly he texts back and we are set to meet up in town within the hour.

Out of character for me I leave for our meeting late. I am already running late when my neighbour downstairs snags me for a chat. She is cool just old, Scottish and with awful teeth. She has a dog that waddles around older than the hills it shits on. I go down to pet it but she tells me “he growls.” I have had worse. I make nice nice as we small talk (second time running today) while she waits for her friend. She discusses finance and work with me. Her fucking mortgage is only £300 a month! I remember those days. Discussing work it sounds as if I either earn four times what she does or potentially the same (in take home). There is a real grey area when it comes to salaried work and shift/rated work. She tells me she is struggling financially – yeah, aren’t we fucking all love. As I become later and later for my meeting with Mark, thankfully the friend that is waiting for eventually turns up and I get going, heading into town.

As I pull into park up where my parents live I see Mark already waiting for me. It really is so out of character for me to be late for anything. When I eventually see Mark I apologise profusely, I’m very impatient when it comes to timekeeping and being prompt. When people turn up late when meeting me it always gets noted as rudeness and ignorance; a general gesture of a person failing to have their shit together.

When we finally meet up we head into town with no real solid destination/plan in mind. As we walk up Long Wyre Street I notice a very old school friend from primary school I have recently rebefriended (not a real word I’ll concede) on Facebook. He clocks me too and I see the glee in his expression to which I promptly reject, look away and keep moving on. Why would I want to know this person almost twenty years after I last saw him? Back in the day he was bigheaded and arrogant and now with a wife and kids to rub in my face I cannot imagine him becoming any more pleasant over the years. The guy reminds me of Vernon Kay and vice versa whenever I now see the fake, gormless yes man on TV I can’t help but think of this guy. Basically it was right to avert him.

We wind up in the Purple Dog, a pub in the centre of town that has taken on many personalities over the years. I remember spending a new years eve here a few years ago and it wasn’t quite the summit of my existence. The last time I was in here was last summer with the guy used to work with at Disney. It had a different name then and a different demeanour generally.

Today its nice though, not too busy and not too obnoxious patron wise. This is until four loud lads come in on the lash wanting to be the centre of attention in not only their worlds but also all worlds surrounding. Shortly before they had arrived Mark had suggested we moved seats/tables and I can only but think this was the result of a premonition of his, ESP and his spider-sense. Mark has his back to the twats and it is probably a good thing as I sit cringingly watching them in hidden disgust. I cannot work out if they are squaddies or just mental losers let out of their factory existences for the weekend. With their Northern accents I suspect the former but really if that were the case shouldn’t they be displaying more discipline? What is going on with these people?

Things descend most when two of them step outside in the street seemingly in a Fight Club scenario squaring up to each other for some reason looking as if they are about to have a fight. I say Fight Club but Fight Club without any indication of purpose of intellect. I think they are hoping to start a fight and draw (drag) some hopeless member of the public, an innocent bystander, into their shit and make them collateral damage. Does this stuff really happen in the real world? I have to say I cannot believe my eyes, I thought this stuff went out of fashion years ago when our generation got loved up on ecstasy. When they return inside thankfully no one has been hit, no one has been injured. Already aware of their noise, Mark is now aware of their appearance and it is boring and annoying how they have truly interrupted our conversation and train of thought.

I watch as they continue with their chimps at a tea party act and as one painfully slowly tips the end of a pint into the lap of one guy as part of a dare the receiver promptly shoots up and throws his entire pint over the tipper. Jesus, Chav TV is turning into real life before my eyes. Happily after this they fuck off and as they pass us on their way out I brace myself for a comment or action, which thankfully does not come. As they waddle off into the distance with one of them drenched in beer I hope that it attracts a swarm of killer bees or wasps to him/them and stings him/them to death. Get a room!

Resuming back to normal Mark and I sink more drinks in a distracted fashion before heading back fairly tipsy.

I head home back to my parents where my car is and food is in the fridge and cupboard. Upon returning like a 32 year old teenager I attempt to hide the fact that I have been drinking. This is actually easier done than expected when I throw a childish strop/wobbler because mum didn’t cook me any dinner. Soon after a makeshift meal she is saying to me “you haven’t played your new Wii game yet” and thus my regression is complete.

Once again I find myself hanging around the olds on a Saturday night. I am such a chump.

Eventually I go home and briefly watch the Paul Merton Hitchcock thing before passing out.

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