Thursday, August 06, 2009

Thursday 6 August 2009

When I write I am the hero of my own shit.

Disturbing dreams plagued me through the night. First I found myself stranded in a hotel room. Then someone or somebody resembling David from Big Brother turned up. There was also a chick (baby chicken not female) involved and while playing with it mum finally bursts into the room after being intrusive three times asking what we were doing.

I cannot believe my ears this morning as on GMTV Penny Smith gets an “expert” to explain what a loan shark is. Are GMTV viewers really that dumb? I suspect so.

Today is wave two of the latest RMT train strikes that are bringing National Express to their knees but not quite putting them out of action as they plod/soldier on at a crawl. The fact that the trains keep on running is a PR own goal on the part of the RMT, they’ve flexed their muscles and failed to cause the commotion they were hoping.

This week I decide not to get up at thee crack of dawn and instead choose to risk the 7.15AM train. As a result this causes me great stress as when I board it at 7AM it is already fairly busy.

As I sit typing notes on my iPhone waiting for the train to move people begin sitting near me and then some doofus in a suit opens a bottle of Lucozade that fizzes up and sprays everywhere. When I look up at the fuckwit it is the nine fingered hateful figure from school that I saw in Asda a few weeks ago. Why him? Why here? Why today? Eventually I look up long enough to acknowledge him before he clocks me acting awkward. A small victory to me. The guy really should spend more than £50 on a suit though, especially when looking more than ever like Jim Davidson (a look that was actually cool at primary school).

That said if by some chance (misfortune) we did stagger/wander into some kind of conversation I expect he would soon be pulling apart my life/world and belittle my existence without my effort. I’m soft like that.

This I appear to remember being the person that told me as a child I could never be a pilot because I was too fat to fit into the cockpit of an aeroplane when I spoke of my dreams at primary school, which was an enormous knock to my self esteem.

Sadly this morning I discover that John Hughes has died. It had been pretty noticeable in recent years how he hadn’t made a movie in a while but still I can watch Planes, Trains And Automobiles any night and love it. He was a true talent and a big loss to film.

By Kelvedon the train is already full this morning. Surely the approaching station’s passengers now represent some kind of threat to capacity and health and safety.

The train stops at Hatfield Peveral and Ingatestone. You know you are in trouble when a train stops at these backwater locations, it means its going to all the houses and will be taking its time to do it.

Eventually we get into Liverpool Street around 8.25AM which is fucking pathetic and represents a truly cuntish and disgusting level of service delivered by these people at this time, from everyone involved including those striking and those scabs working really hard to keep the line running in the face of such obstacles and problems.

Out of character at Liverpool Street I head over to WH Smith instead of immediately boarding a tube and here I buy this fortnights copy of Private Eye in the hope that it reinstalls a sense of humour to the day.

Later on the tube at Kings Cross the pretty Parminder Nagra lookalike boards and she clocks me noticing her. There’s no mystery or subtly to my existence.

Somehow I mange to get into work on time, still before The Girl. I put a lot of hard work into life and despite all my efforts I still do not get my end away. Where is the justice in that?

Today ultimately proves to be a so so day whereby I keep plugging away at the accounts during the morning and actually begin to make headway.

For lunch I initially opt for just soup but then get jones for honey glazed ribs as well. When our food is prepared and I head down to collect it The Girl’s order of 3 sausages, beans and mash has turned into 3 PLATES of sausage, beans and mash. Swiftly I keep quiet about the error and become Jason Two Dinners.

The afternoon sails out as expected until my boss heads into a state of the nation meeting. When he emerges he returns panicked about the new company accounts and suddenly he is needling me about coming into work on Saturday. I fucking knew this was coming.

This is off the back of the balls up that has been made by the Chuckle Brothers of accountancy. Is no one else getting the subtext of this?

Frustrated and pissed off I head home.

On the tube I read in the free newspapers about the RMT industrial action coinciding with the prison release of Ronnie Biggs. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

When I finally get back to my flat I feel exhausted, between by the establishment and institutions out to get and undermine.

On TV Thursday night is comedy night but I’m not really in the mood to be laughing so soon I am heading to bed, heading to sleep.

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