Tuesday, March 24, 2009


Tuesday 24 March 2009

Dream: I am going away on holiday with my parents. It appears that they (especially mother) fear that I am going slow them down and embarrass them as I get out of my depth with regards to the elements of the holiday. I do not know why I care and why I am going on this holiday, it is a strange scenario. When dad calls me a “fat cunt” I explode, tearing into him for tearing me apart and I blame the pair of them for all the woes in my life I have experienced (and still do). The scene of the incident is a hotel room in a warm climate suggesting that the holiday has already started.

In the real world, today is CHILLY. I cannot believe how over the course of a week we can go from summer levels back to this. It is somewhat disorientating.

As I drive to my parents to park up for the station I notice a wannabe Banksy has tagged the side of the useless computer shop that has three times performed really shoddily when working on my PC. I wonder if this is the work of another disgruntled customer. The mark/tag appears to be of a person staggering and falling over. Culture comes to Colchester! Profound that.

The walk to the station is brisk but coupled with my trousers wanting to fall down in a non-comedic style. On a brighter note my left foot is now feeling back to new.

When the train pulls into and stops at Kelvedon the bike guy sits down next to me. This guy is a fucking nuisance, every day his little folded up bike sits in the gangway of the train getting in the way. If ever there is an emergency and we need to escape we will all perish at his hands? He reads a book and I look over his shoulder to see what it is, to see what kind of a person this guy is. It is a book about riding bikes. Is this guy a one trick pony or what? I’d fucking hate to think what he is like when having sex, I can only imagine what he uses as handlebars.

Today there is no surprise as the train gets delayed just because I am busy at work with deadlines to meet and I could really do with getting into the office as early as possible. The excuse given is a trackside fire between Hatfield Peverel and Chelmsford – that’s a pretty long stretch to be on fire, must be one of those bush fires you read/hear about in Australia.

Annoyingly when we pass the fire engines it is a time when I am attempting 50 winks and I only just about manage to catch a brief glimpse of the trucks. I fail to see any fire – was there really ever one?

Also on the train is a Richard Madeley lookalike. Are times really so tough for those guys? I hope so.

This morning I have the fear. There are a number of possible reasons for this but ultimately it stems from the fear of how my life is getting away from me and evaporating. My friends, my people appear to be leaving me behind and I don’t know why or how.

Looking on the Latitude Festival website I see that Nick Cave has been announced as a headliner. This is looking likely to be the first Latitude Festival Racton and I have not bothered with as we have both consciously decided that we are not attending. I wonder however if my friends at Baker Street will be doing the accountants and blagging their own freebies.

The other two headliners this year are also ghosts from my past being former ZTT artiste Grace Jones and the Pet Shop Boys who were produced by Trevor Horn (like Jones) and were recording in the studio a couple of years ago while I was there.

Eventually the train gets into Liverpool Street at 8.25. This is truly pathetic, not quite criminal but certainly the kind of act and gesture that could cause a person to do something criminal as expression of lashing out.

At Liverpool Street the Chinese fella with OCD has returned. With all loose copies of The Metro being read and slung back in the racks it would appear this guy goes around picking out the used copies and refolding them so that they do not go to waste. I wonder if he solves crimes like Monk too.

On the tube at Great Portland Street a crazy lady runs to get on the train. When she makes it she acts as if everyone is impressed by her feat and that this gives her licence to make comment and engage in conversation with other passengers. She looks like Ms Moriarty from Baker Street, a sexless being from the country that does not care about her appearance but still thinks that people are interested in her.

Despite the crap train I manage to arrive at work only a little late this morning. Walking to the office I purposely miss two calls from The Girl knowing that it probably means she will be late at best or absent at worst. Upon arrival in the office it is greeted to the site of my boss seething about the office girl suggesting she is going to her old GP in Reading this morning to see about her neck. Apparently he (correctly) snapped down at the phone for her to go to an NHS call in centre instead.

Today is a wicked busy day for work as it becomes evident that a deadline that I thought was Friday is indeed Wednesday (tomorrow!). The bonus opportunity then gets announced to the room, extended to the new lady but not the absent bad neck office girl. There is some kind of poetic justice in that.

Around 11.30 the girl turns up and I have to admit I am genuinely surprised and very relieved to no longer having to answer half the phone calls coming in.

Today I put in a very solid afternoon. Reports come in from downstairs that David Gest was in eating with a footballer today. Whether they were eating together is something I am unable to fathom and work out.

For a second day running our boss lets us go at 5PM. When I get on the tube tonight it fucking stinks and it makes me feel queasy.

As I sit next to a couple of discarded bottles of Lucozade to my right a Polish dude (I think) is sat passed out – what is his story? Halfway towards Liverpool Street he sneaks out a can of Holstein on the tube – deport him!

Seriously though what does he do? For a days entertainment does just get loaded and ride the Circle Line all day occasionally waking from his slumber from time to time?

Eventually off the tube, away from the wino and on the train I manage to board a 6PM train meaning I get back to Colchester ever so slightly earlier this evening.

When I stop by the parents on the way home the old man’s taxi driver friend John is visiting. As I arrive John is in full flow with all his cabby stories and opinions. It is fucking great these are ideas that are frowned upon by the media even if acknowledged at all. As a result these may not even exist so in a world where everybody acts permanently tongue tied and afraid of putting a step wrong these wild proclamations are some kind of fresh air.

Over the course of an hour combined he and my father come up with a reason and remedy for everything. Of course it is all the fault of the “bloody foreigners” and if we want to end this credit crunch now all we have to do is have another war or wait for the Olympics in three years time to save the day with its tourist pound. When said like that, its simple.

His visit ends with tales of local Colchester gangsters, stories of Colchester United footballers and closing with reminiscing by the pair of them of days working on building sites together. All in all it means that getting any kind of dinner gets delayed.

Eventually when I head home as I near my home Layer Road is awash with the screaming lights of police cars in the distance and the road is closed towards the Shrub End area. It is a genuinely unnerving sight and I do not feel safe.

Fortunately I do manage to get into my apartment complex and outside my neighbour the nurse’s door is a package. I do not know her name so I look at the address label on the box. What an awful time this would have been for her to open her door. Explain your way out of that one Jase. Luckily though it doesn’t happen and I find out her name and promptly forget it.

Knackered I sail out the remainder of the day before inevitably hitting my bed in minutes.

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