Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Wednesday 11 November 2009

Today is The Cenotaph. Nothing I will do in comparison is as important.

I wake up this morning with a clunking headache. I worry that I may not be able to shake it.

Its not a bad morning. The drive to the station turns out to be smooth and on the 6.59AM train despite it being busy I manage to get a decent seat. This is why I changed trains.

The train rolls into Liverpool Street just as Tom wants to start playing Lookalike Poker. With not much to choose from I lose today by default.

On the tube I see yet another Carol clone. Where are these suddenly coming from? It is now over a year since I last saw her. That was a wasted effort.

Later once I am in the office on Radio One today is Natalie Cassidy, that B lookalike. Here I am being haunted by girlfriends past. Kind of. I need a girlfriend.

Yet again the day falls flat. For the most part of the day there are no bosses in tow making me most senior in the office. When that happens you know we are in trouble.

The troublesome manager trots in today oblivious of the hassle his big mouth caused on Friday. Some people.

At 11AM we observe the minutes silence while in the background we also listen to the posh boss talk his way through another exchange with some mystery voice at the other end. When the minute comes to an end The Girl comments “well, we did our part.”

Is it the intention of minutes silences to cause everyone to feel awkward and uncomfortable. For a gesture that is designed to reflect on the subject and purpose of the pause all it actually serves to do is make a person hyper conscious and sensitive of what is going on around them.

Having forgotten her purse when leaving this morning The Girl wants to borrow money off me today. In my pocket I have a £5 note and a £20 note. Guess which one I admit to possessing. Being the tightest person in history I end up lending her £7 (the fiver with change) which I regularly proceed to remind her about for the remainder of the day.

By 4PM I finally find myself doing what I was supposed to be starting at the beginning of the day. Unfortunately its just one of those days.

In the 5.30PM doesn’t come around soon enough but first I have to check that The Girl is all right with her work, all in the name of team spirit. Deep down I am a sweetheart.

As I leave the restaurant the manager grabs me needing the name of the promoter/agent that I know. Annoyingly he then asks me to put a word in for him. Realistically this is not a band that stands a chance of being picked up. He continues to harass me to push his hobby band even though I can tell they haven’t got their shit together, are too old and aren’t very good. Without even enquiring to my friend the promoter I know that the books are closed. Unfortunately though in front of the waitress the manager offers to suck my dick, displaying desperation that embarrasses me more than him. I escape quickly listening to “Damaged” by Black Flag disillusioned by the stupidity of the world. I think really that is where indie and punk have always had it over metal the acts never had that baying need to impress and make people like them, instead DIY bands have always tended to have a bit more savvy than their metal counterparts regarding the finer sides of the business.

When I get to St Johns Wood station the escalator is still broken. This is fucking shit. Trudging down a broken escalator at a tube station is a strangely disorienting thing. These steps were not designed for these times or these shoes or the general level and degree of laziness that modern people display. By the time I get to the platform I find myself pathetically verging on being dizzy. Shoot me now.

Upon arrival at Liverpool Street I find myself having to run across the station in order to make the 6.20PM Norwich train home where I eventually wind up sitting at a table with a couple of mugs.

The majority of my journey feels spent exchanging glances with a goth girl sat opposite across the aisle. At the end of the day though they all look the same.

Right now I feel that my life resembles in all aspects something akin to throwing shit at the wall and seeing what sticks. This surely is settling for second best, the worst kind of existence compromise.

By the time I get back to Colchester it is with the train pulling in late and I feel in a foul mood and frame of mind. Some nights when you get off the train and get behind the wheel of a car you just feel like driving like a cunt, looking to cause some kind of incident just so that you get the opportunity to sound your horn and sound at some other schmuck driver. Unfortunately tonight is one of those nights but fortunately nobody dares indulge me, which ultimately is for the greater good of man I feel.

When I get home I actually manage to do some writing, stuff I for once actually find myself happy with. Eventually however tiredness and fatigue catches up on me and I turn in watching the Andrew Marr documentary about World War I. Suddenly it appears (and occurs to me) that I knew nothing about World War I.

Away from this I fall asleep with an air of disillusion attached to proceedings at the moment. I just want to be left alone.

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