Saturday, May 30, 2009


Saturday 30 May 2009

I wake up feeling optimistic and energetic this morning, as if some kind of weight/load has been lifted from my shoulders. For the first time in weeks it’s I don’t have worry.

After catching the news of the day (nothing has or is happening) my Saturday begins by watching the second episode of The Century Of The Self by Adam Curtis.

As I check my email I see that my friend in Holland Park has finally got back to me, too little to late. Needless to say the content of the email is not what I was hoping/wanting to hear. Regardless I am sure we will be hooking up soon.

There is a distinct glisten to my apartment today. The trees that usually get in the way and obstruct the sun are failing in their efforts today and coming through the window is some kind of subconscious youthful exuberance.

Just after 9AM I perform the predictable Asda run, planning on not getting as much as usual (cutting down) but ultimately I buy about the usual spaffing £24 in the process. As usual I pick up this weeks copy of the NME and on the cover is Kasabian. Has there ever been a worse band in music? This poor generation being spoon fed the worst most manufactured attempt at rebellion in modern history. Annoyingly this is coupled with the music from my iPod suddenly falling to shit – what has broken, the headphones or the ancient iPod Shuffle? Is this the power of Kasabian, have they installed computer chips into anything that they or their image touches that burns out good music? Conspiracy-a-go-go.

Inside Asda I see The Crab flicking through cheap CDs. As ever I avoid him like the plague but not before flicking through the latest cheap DVDs. When the fuck is Father’s Day? The shop is already putting gift ideas out. I find a cheap and nasty three documentary Muhammad Ali DVD for £3 and snag it.

I settle into my usual Saturday routine of listening to the radio, flicking through the newspapers and staring blankly at a computer screen trying to burst into writing action while just over the computer monitor’s shoulder facing me is a bright sunny blue sky and day awaiting something real to happen.

Also as per routine after the early start to the day around 11AM I begin to flag and think about returning to bed. If ever I succumb and fall to this I know my day is wasted and I have been beaten and that this weekend will go to waste.

The post arrives and STILL no sign of my Vice Magazine subscription. Have they gone under? Have they lost their franking machine? Can they not buy stamps? Did the printing machine chew off somebody’s fingers before the fucks got around to doing my copy of the latest issue? Please Vice Magazine, please tell what gives.

Today is cup final day and in it are Chelsea and Everton which hardly inspires a person to overcome in excitement. Playing will be Tim Cahill who was playing for Millwall in the cup final five seasons ago. It is unbelievable to think that it is now five years since Millwall were playing Manchester United in the FA Cup final – where has the time gone? It really does not feel like five years ago.

As I hit the green tea mixed with peppermint tea a healthy bout of energy hits me and proves the day to be surprisingly productive.

At 11.30 Mark texts to see what I am up to. Swiftly I suggest that we meet up for lunch as that had been playing on my mind and quickly arrangements are made to meet up for 12.30.

After weighing up the lunch options soon we are heading to the Minories Art Gallery if, for nothing else, the option to sit outside and eat. There we tear into each other’s weeks and the sad reality of how we have both just been too busy with work to hang out.

The Minories was a good choice. This is truly a hidden gem of Colchester, pretty central but peaceful and very green. This is where the middle class and biddies come for their tea. I guess it helps that it is no longer in the shadows of the huge multi-storeyed car park that used to tower over the grotty old bus station that my mother used to drag me to when I was younger.

Mark shows me the Luke Haines book that he has just read and says I can borrow it. I have heard really good things about this book and by his description it sounds a fantastic read.

This afternoon we really put the world to right. It appears that I am the only person of the two of us acknowledging that it is cup final day but as conversation leans towards substance the momentum shouldn’t be disrupted.

Neither of us are overly happy and it would appear that post 30 angst is alive and well in both our existences. Adulthood is now hitting us both hard and the responsibilities that can with are now nagging with too much volume in our respective minds.

The Minories is the dwelling of strange people. We watch two lads drinking milkshakes and acknowledge that life appears to be eating them alive. One of them is geeky and covered in zits in a manner that is hardly going to get him shagged while the other has pink hair and a bowler hat appearing to be desperate to become a future contestant on Big Brother. His personality is not all invented.

As I watch an arty upper middle class family run around the garden with their baby I cannot help but look at the woman’s arse and I wonder if that is the kind of life that I should be currently striving/aiming for. She is less yummy mummy and more tummy mummy but no less attractive for it. The guy (the dad) looks a total pussy but I bet he sure takes home a pretty penny. When they leave the woman clocks me gawping at her, with her content that she never need know me.

The next person to stand out in the garden is a long haired guy in a sleeveless Bad Religion shirt who then proceeds to begin smoking while sitting in his seat rebelliously. Surely this is a total contradiction to the Bad Religion lifestyle and what they stand for. Who wears bands shirts anyway in this day and age? Up grow! Slowly Bad Religion’s friends turn up and Mark correctly points out that it looks like the Anvil reunion.

After earlier finishing their milkshakes and pissing off, when Pink Hair and the Zit return they begin talking louder than before as they now find themselves sat on a table closer than earlier. At this point Mark and I make our exit.

As we go through the Saturday afternoon Colchester town centre it is with the sad reality that I am now royally missing the cup final.

Wanting to stay out we hit the 24th Colchester Real Ale And Cider Festival at the Arts Centre. This is an event that scares me in some ways, its really not for me and not where I want to wind up.

As we get our weird flavoured pints of beer with our tokens we head outside into the sound and sit in the graveyard of the Arts Centre with the rest of the patrons. Who are these people? Students? Former students? I swear/think I recognise someone from Swapna’s play last year but she is smoking roll up fags and as a result she truly disgusts me.

Elsewhere I watch as a guy drags out what is plainly his mail order bride. Yes I obviously fancy her.

Sitting out in the sun is a rarity for me. In my youth one of our neighbours in Little Clacton once asked if I was nocturnal, which in a way does pretty much sum up how I feel about the sun. Maybe I am slightly vampire.

Looking around I come to the conclusion that we are at a bad teeth festival. Conversation with Mark is good but still the visuals are disheartening. How on earth can a person’s weekend entertain be based on being an adult and sitting in a graveyard getting drunk?

By now the FA Cup final has long finished and it turns out that Chelsea beat Everton comfortably. With this in mind when I see a one armed man in a Chelsea shirt it freaks me out as I begin to wonder if I have drunk too much. I ask Mark for confirmation of this character and he responds in the affirmative.

As we move from sitting on the grass to now sitting on a grave tombstone the next person of note we clock is a guy that looks exactly like Ron Asheton, not a little a shit load. Perhaps this is his ghost. Regardless its not a good look for 2009.

With the sun still out in full strength we begin to make moves just before 8PM. I can already feel my face has slightly burned in the sun and now I am very hungry with it, especially after eating too many vegetables at lunch which now appear to be killing me from inside as my internals begin to feel like they are collapsing.

Walking home we bump into the Webb sisters who are now heading to the beer festival. This is a bummer because we could have done with extra heads to enthuse our conversation at times. Mark has had two more pints than me and as a result is happier.

Popping into Balkerne Heights on the way home tonight is the big final of Britain’s Got Talent. I hate myself for admitting it but I am genuinely curious as to who will win and how they will win. Of course it is Susan Boyle’s to lose but after reports of her cracking up suddenly it is becoming very interesting from a voyeuristic perspective.

Snappily I comment on Facebook that Britain’s Got Talent appears to bring out the racist in me as an act called Diversity shoves in the viewer’s face the extent of their ethnicity. I’m sorry these slimes are just playing the race card first and the talent card second; they may as well have named themselves “Minority.” My comment however almost gets me in trouble when the black bible basher from the studio back in the day calls me up on my comment which I attempt to laugh off as grumpiness.

After the performances I head home to find Planes, Trains And Automobiles on Film4. I watch the first hour of this movie and it never fails to warm my black heart and make me smile. This is truly one of the greatest comedy movies ever made and it doesn’t appear to have dated in the least despite being over twenty years old now. John Candy was a truly great performer and a huge loss to comedy when he died around the same time as Bill Hicks and Kurt Cobain back in 1994.

I then find out that Diversity have won Britain’s Got Talent over the super favourite Susan Boyle. That was a genuine shock. And I shouldn’t care or even be acknowledging it. I have now become one of the mooing masses, one of the idiots.

After watching a repeat of Have I Got News For You eventually I fall asleep (pass out) watching The Funny Side Of The News which is actually very funny to be honest.

Tomorrow I shall be sunburnt.

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