Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Tuesday 13 October 2009

With a pounding headache I get dumped into Tuesday at 5AM feeling significantly worse for wear. Once more it was the fucking Alli before bedtime that appears to have served to dehydrate me before bed and cause an Anorexic hangover. This ain’t working out.

After getting up and taking some pills I return to bed and the Wu Tang documentary that I fell asleep far too early to late night. Skulking around my flat at such an early hour for some reason reminds me of Christmas, of early mornings and the sensation of being first up and moving. Unfortunately there is nothing to conjure up any excitement to match that moment.

My ears are still buzzing and in this still silent night (nearly morning) they ring more than ever and almost it is deafening. Certainly the sound is getting in the way of the audio of the documentary, which isn’t helped by the hip hop score of the piece being way/far too high in the mix. This isn’t the greatest documentary ever made.

As I leave the flat this morning there is no sign of The Ghost and his dog. I guess this means I am leaving too early for him.

Standing on the platform the train is late arriving today and as a result plenty of tourist extras begin to crowd the plate and when it arrives they push and shove their way onto the train. It’s depressing.

Looking around for Lookalike Poker I see Commuter Jay-Z is today joined by Crap Danny Dyer. All in all though it is pretty slim pickings.

Despite its late arrival pulling into Colchester the train arrives at Liverpool Street on cue at 8.04AM. The words reliably uniformly late spring to mind.

Lookalike Poker picks up slightly in stakes as I pass through Liverpool Street and see a revolting Jack Black tonguing his girlfriend. Minutes later just as my tube begins to pull away the Maradona lookalike runs onto the train. It is the Hand Of God itself that prevents the door of the carriage from slamming shut. A few minutes later this is coupled with the sight of a scary Sarah lookalike who I half expect to shout at me any moment for my former crimes and sins.

Changing tube lines this morning I get shouted at by an old Jamaican lady when I accidentally kick her swinging bag as I stomp past her on the left side of the escalator. Even though it’s not my fault I apologise but stroppily she tuts and bellyaches at me. From here I cannot believe how I proceed to run down the remainder of the escalator faster just to escape her potential further wrath. What a fanny.

It turns out to be a pretty good day; at the close of proceedings I manage to hand over a draft of September accounts.

For lunch I have ribs followed by fishcake. Do I think that enough animals died for my sins today? Best ask my belly.

Thankfully The Girl isn’t so feral today although she does set up the mind trap of asking me to describe her in three words. Wisely this question remains unanswered.

Home time soon comes around as we officially plunge into the Tuesday Thursday Blur.

Tonight as I change lines at Baker Street I see the Baker Street Midget stomping in the opposite direction. I seriously think he could kick my arse.

At Euston Square the stunning girl from yesterday morning’s tube boards tonight’s train. She isn’t dressed as smartly today and as a result is no longer as stunning and I swear she still grimaces at me when she spots me.

Getting to Liverpool Street in good time tonight I decide to catch the 6.08PM train to Clacton. Soon it becomes evident this is a mistake as soon the crushing ensues.

Tonight Idlewild are playing at the Colchester Arts Centre but I can’t be bothered to enquire or suggest the gig to anyone. The last time they played the Arts Centre was probably their Glastonbury warm-up in 2002 when Hirameka supported and choked. Under prepared and under rehearsed even they would admit that they choked that night.

It is almost ten years now since the San Lorenzo with Idlewild tour. Over the years Idlewild were pretty good to Gringo Records letting our bands support them on various occasions. It was weird to arrive at Baker Street and discover they were clients, that they were still professional enough (a going concern) to require such a high level accountant.

Instead I wind up heading straight home where I waste another evening of my life.

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