Monday, February 01, 2010

Monday 1 February 2010

Dream: I dream that my alarm clock goes off.  This promptly wakes me up into the real world as if it had gone off so really it might as well have gone off because the end product is just the same.  What a sordid web.

New month rising.

It is February, my month of redemption.  The intention is to better myself over the following four weeks and hopefully this will see me progress as an individual.  Easier said than done.

The day opens well as some dotty old Nana Moon type appears on GMTV.  She is supposed to be complaining about a bad experience she had in a hospital where she found herself bathing a fellow patient but she is actually happy as Larry, she doesn’t care.  This point is latter reiterated when halfway through the interview she accuses and comments to John Stapleton “you don’t smile very much do you.”  Yes, give him shit because he deserves it.

When I eventually leave home as I get to my car I discover it is frozen, which is something of a surprise to me because I thought we was over this already.  I guess this weather could be described as bitter but actually it’s just a bit of a nuisance.

With no real worries I get to the station swiftly/promptly and while standing on the platform I see big hair walking along in the distance and indeed it turns out to be The Wookiee who I haven’t seen in a while.  As ever she frowns and scowls at me when I pay her a glance.  We could be so good together.

It is noticeable this morning how the day is slightly more lighter than usual.  Thank god the mornings are beginning to pull out.  This is a point towards a positive direction.  By the time the train reaches Chelmsford it is almost light like daytime and with the buildings having a light dusting of snow on top of them it all makes for a beautiful sight.

Sat opposite me today on the train is some snoozing spod.  He isn’t wearing a coat (just a suit) but he does have a scarf on.  Surely the positive effects of the scarf are nullified by the lack of any real outer garment.  He sits sleeping and as he moves he bangs his knee against mine just where the bruises from Friday night are.  It hurts and I hate him.  He sleeps opposite me with his leg akimbo.  Would it really be so wrong of me to kick him in the cunt?  Why give me the temptation?

By the time we arrive into London the sun is fully out dragging with it a stunning day reminiscent of summer.  This is weather perfection.  The train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8.03AM, a lateness that means I may as well have just caught the 7.03AM train.

Stepping through the barriers at the station to the tube I notice a man carrying a car tyre.  What the fuck is that about?  This I have never seen on my train journey before.  Weirdo.

Once more this morning waiting on the platform for a tube I spot Bellalike sipping her Costa and looking vacant.  She does however also look very snug in her comfy looking coat and very huggable with it.  Perhaps I am cultivating some kind of weird attraction to her.  I wonder.

Eventually I get to work and in the bright sunlight of this freakishly beautiful day our office looks gorgeous.  Surrealism aside this is actually quite a good place to be right now.

Upon arrival into work the day turns out to be a slow and distracted day.  Today is the first day of February and with it comes some kind of desire to instigate a healthy regime.  It is this kind of mentality that saw me starting kickboxing two years ago, that little flash in the pan that failed to last a year.  What a shame that the club I did it with just did not cut it.  Typically though today as I endeavour to be good (healthy) with the salmon dish for lunch the others fail to support me by all ordering chips.  Too much temptation.

This week on Facebook is doppelganger week where people are supposed to be changing their profile picture.  I go for Ronald Koeman because that is who people usually tell me I look like (indeed a Japanese friend called Junko actually thought it was me with dyed blonde hair once).  I don’t mind though he was a great player and hasn’t really been hit with the ugly stick.

Fortunately the afternoon plays out without any real drama and soon 5.30PM arrives.  With this I head down to Green Park where upon emerging I walk along Piccadilly towards the Leicester Square Theatre where tonight the 100th episode of the COLLINGS AND HERRIN podcast is being recorded.

On the way I stop by Starbucks and dinner is served.  After this I quickly collect my ticket from the theatre before going to Fopp.  At the top of Newport Court is a gorgeous Chinese lady handing out leaflets.  As I pass her we exchange smiles (mine painfully squeezed out) but what am I going to do about it?

Inside Fopp it is business as usual, DVDs and CDs that I half want at half prices.  This place is turning into the cockroach of record shops now as while all the others get taken out and destroyed in the audio holocaust that is the apparent death of music and physical media this place remains standing, busier than most of its competitors.

Upstairs they are playing Nirvana at Reading 92 over the stereo and it sounds like the greatest music ever made, which for my generation is probably is.  It is due to the tunes that I actually linger longer than intended in the shop, basking in how great it sounds over a proper stereo for a change.  It has to be noted just what a strange setlist it now looks like.  As the band tore through the hits/singles early on and it was another year before In Utero came along the last two thirds of the set really is most album tracks that on the whole all sound fantastic.  For me it just screams quality through and through.

Eventually I head back to the Leicester Square Theatre where I am met with a huge crowd outside the venue awaiting entry to the record of the podcast.  I cannot think of many podcasts that would be able to command such a large audience but the COLLINGS AND HERRIN appears to be one that certainly can.  This is a hot ticket.  As we all stand outside shivering tourists pass our huddle thinking that some kind of star-studded event is occurring.

As I amble my way into the venue behind me I hear a couple of guys saying retro names of wrestlers.  And then they begin discussing the return of Bret Hart and his inevitable match at Wrestlemania with Vince McMahon.  Have I finally found where I belong tonight?

Tonight I have seat L7 which amuses me no, even to the point that I point this fact out to ANDREW COLLINS via Twitter.  Possessing this seat feels like a good omen to me.  I once had this seat number for a screening of Silver City at the Curzon where the usher took great amusement in pointing out the relevance to me that night.  It wasn’t funny when he did it.

Once sat down COLLINGS AND HERRIN eventually take to the stage and introduce the show in front of the curtains in an almost Mighty Boosh style.  We won’t hold that against them me thinks.  Right from the off it is obvious as to which member of the duo is regularly on a stage and more at home in these confines.

From here they make jokes about what proceedings lie ahead for the evening, saying how they (well, RICHARD HERRING) will use this time to get all the litigious content out of their system including pointing out that a certain aging pop singer is partial to “little boy’s bums.”

Soon HERRING vacates the stage leaving ANDREW COLLINS to do his short solo set.  Now I think he would be the first person to admit that he is not a stand-up comedian (this you can tell by the way he holds his microphone) but he does come armed with two jokes in his arsenal given to him by his partner (who sits by the stage ready to heckle).  The first joke runs along the lines of “I went to a Placebo concert the other night, they didn’t play any of their songs/hits but I liked it anyway.”  After this the second joke I now appear to have forgotten completely.  Must have been good.

With the jokes out of the way COLLINS now sets about doing his skit/bit that is “Secret Dancing” in which he goes to great pains and lengths to describe and demonstrate dance moves people can make in public without strangers noticing.  He proceeds to explain intricate and subtle moves, which indeed would not be visible to the untrained eye.  Part of me also expects however that with all the nutters on public transport in London anyway he could afford to take quite a few more liberties in the name of Secret Dancing.  Eventually he drags people up from the audience for a secret dance of, a strange brew of overweight young men and crazed looking girls.  There are no losers at this game as they all receive a large round of applause and a free CD from the man himself.

Quickly RICHARD HERRING takes to the stage with his Hitler moustache and mental missing link hair and he does a brief but nasty mini set, something of a taster and sampler to all his current activities and wares.  Now this is a man very much at home onstage and within his own hairy skin.

He begins by pushing out Hitler moustache material looking to explain (and justify) his appearance to the untrained eye while also hoping to put bums on seats for his upcoming tour.  Then he begins to get dirty and starts picking on people in the front row (including a man that looks like Jeremy Beadle).  With a glint in his eye on cue he gets pervy and disturbing, making the kind of hand gestures that I would have used at school before pointing out just how ergonomically inaccurate they are.  Also he points out the confusion attached to homosexual variations of these gestures.  If these gestures were to be believed being gay would be akin to have a sword fight with two erect penises while lesbian sex would equate to two gay women just bouncing their vaginas off each other.  Actually those descriptions probably aren’t that far from the truth (so I am led to believe).

Eventually HERRING pulls out the stories he wrote as a kid including the legend that is “The Men Of Phise”.  Passionately he reads these stories out to the audience and even though regular listeners of the podcast will have heard them many times before they still pack a clout.  Suddenly however we realise we have all been played for a sucker as this gives him the opportunity to talk about and mention the new (adult) book he has written.  Ah, I see what he has done by reading those.

At this point a brief interval occurs in anticipation of the recording of the actual podcast.  While waiting for proceedings to restart I suddenly notice a guy that really looks like Tom Hollander sat in the row in front of me.  From here I proceed to spend a large portion of the remainder of the night trying to work out whether it is he.  Also I begin to receive some text messages from Staff who has suddenly discovered my Facebook Cull today and he loves it suggesting that we incorporate it into my DJ set in May.  Unfortunately I don’t think I have that many people to cull to last that long into the future (he doesn’t quite appear to understand the 100 Days portion of the project).

Soon COLLINGS AND HERRIN return to the stage and the podcast recording proper begins as it is business as usual with the double act of HERRING acting like a foul mouthed child while COLLINS tries to salvage him kicks off.

There is a sense of jubilation and achievement in the air tonight.  To time the recording of the 100th podcast with tonight was a masterstroke and where there should be a party atmosphere, in its place is a metaphorical party atmosphere (whatever that means).

Straight from the off the podcast takes on a different tone to usual as the crowd interaction that comes from housekeeping soon descends into ghastly behaviour from HERRING who soon is suggesting sex with twins just off the back of a simple birthday shout out.  This is how his mind works it seems.  At this point ANDREW COLLINS asks “how are we going to top this?”

After the regular Peter Kay bashing and reverend baiting proceedings arrive at topical issues addressing subjects such as Sharron Davies equals “fecal matter” on Dancing On Ice and just how crap Andrew Murray is when he is Scottish and not British.

When the subject of a low cash machine in Whitchurch comes up HERRING begins to express concern that COLLINS is getting the upper hand on him.  God bless Ewok Brian Wheeler for creating this story.

From here the pant bomber and full body scanning machine comes up in conversation.  At this point HERRING comes up with, amongst other things, the boob bomb.  If it happens we all know now where the original concept came from.

Cilla Black’s arms don’t do much better in conversation either.

It all comes to a climax with the most topical of subjects at the moment: John Terry.  As you can imagine there is not a whole lot of sympathy for his plight attached to proceedings tonight.

And with that the recording reaches one hour and six minutes and podcast episode 100 comes to a close.  Afterwards we get some dessert with additional jokes (including a few about Haiti – too soon) and a slight Q&A session.

Soon the night comes to a close and we begin filtering out of the building, heading home happy as we get spewed out onto the streets of Chinatown.  I love this place.

Taking a tube from Leicester Square I head back to Liverpool Street (via Holborn) and soon I am on a train hurling itself towards Essex and my beloved Colchester where I get home in half decent time at a half decent hour (well, before midnight).

For the win.

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