Tuesday, February 09, 2010

Tuesday 9 February 2010

Today I wake up with a headache.  This was to be expected.  Schoolboy error, I went to bed with the tiny hint of a sour head after drinking and now it has bloomed into something more excessive.  It pains.

This morning is ever so slightly lighter again this morning and with it the week flourishes.  So it will all be back to normal now and I will be able to leave in the light and return home in the light.  Hibernation will truly be over.

While I wait on the platform I spot one of the Kym Marsh lookalikes.  I never see them together anymore; maybe they have melded into one.

As I check my AOL email this morning somebody has left a nice comment on one of my No Pictures reviews (on the Nirvana “Triple Platinum EP” review).  It really cheers me up to think that somebody is reading this stuff.  With this in mind it enthuses me to listen once more to the Nirvana Reading 92 set yet again.  While I do this Martin points me towards his holiday photos on Flickr of his visit to Northern Exposure and Twin Peaks film sets.  He entitles the Flickr set as “The 90s Never Died” I think in some kind of reference to me.  Ironically just as I check out the photos I am listening to the version of “All Apologies” from Reading 92, which Martin recently mixed with Pulp’s “Disco 2000” when he record it under his moniker of The Sound Of The Ladies.  It’s a genuinely really great version combining both songs into some kind of wonderful.

At Chelmsford the blonde woman that aged over the course/duration of the journey yesterday boards our carriage again.  Today she looks even older.  Dare I suggest that by the time we get to London today she will once more look young again?  She truly is Benjamin Mutton.

Elsewhere this morning at Shenfield the Barry Humphires/Andy Warhol skeleton guy boards the train looking as terrifying as ever.  He is still read Harry Potter books.

In my seat I find myself sat opposite a Before And After Girl, one that spends the entire duration of the ride applying her makeup.  She is already pretty to begin with, especially when she keeps smiling into her Blackberry probably at responses from the guy she fucked last night.  By the time we reach Liverpool Street her cheeks are all rosy and she is all done up.  Whether this improves her is open to debate but while the smile remains, no longer is she quite so pretty as at the start.

When I arrive onto the tube platform it is straight into commuter carnage due to a fucked train at Farringdon.  I blame The Guardian.  As the platform slowly begins to fill to an alarming degree I spot Bellalike sipping her coffee, as per her routine, now looking weirder by the day.

In the end I give in on this line and head to the Central Line for a train to Bond Street (as suggested by the angry black Mrs Information Jimmy).  In my opinion they should change name the of the Central Line to the Cattle truck Line, it is truly horrible and to be avoided at all costs.  I cannot believe I did this every morning and every evening for three years.  Honestly, how did I hold it together for so long?

Eventually I get to Bond Street and off the Central Line and onto the Jubilee Line.  As I board the tube up to St Johns Wood I spot an eHarmony advert on the train.  Once more those slimes appear to be following me, mocking me, reminding me of my frailties and imperfections.

When I walk into work it is to the soundtrack of Gil Scott-Heron and “Pieces Of A Man” which is actually somewhat more of a positive record than you would think/expect.

Now in work I find myself genuinely feeling happy today, last night honestly served to give me a true lift.

Unfortunately this momentum gets cut slightly as soon after arriving it is to the news that The Girl is not in today.  It is always such a pain in the arse when she doesn’t make it in (although to her credit her attendance has been much improved this year, for this I credit the influence of the Filipino).  Sadly now with a degree of her stuff to cover and deal with I proceed to spend the day finding myself distracted all morning, never really able to tear into work fully.

Halfway through the morning Dad puts a message on my Facebook wall asking: “is my email password” and with it he puts his fucking AOL password on my Facebook profile where quite a few people can actually see it.  I can’t believe he does this and I get into one of those brat flaps, one of those worrying instances where my generation gets to scold our elders because they don’t really understand this modern world.  After deleting the message, changing his AOL password and telling everyone I begin to find the funny side in it.  Plonker.

Today is a day for buying tickets to events: I must REALLY be feeling low and lonely.  I fork out on tickets for Gil Scott-Heron at the Southbank Centre and John Landis at the BFI and suddenly in one foul swoop I have almost spent £50 on what is actually little to show.  Luckily Racton displays interest in John Landis also and he gets a ticket meaning at least I won’t be flying solo on that one.

At lunchtime our computers crash and being that we no longer pay the IT Guy his invoices he understandably isn’t the most cooperative or enthusiastic of people when we go running to him on the phone.

In the end we play out the final three hours of the day with busy work.  Luckily I have my flashdrive with me so I am able to do stuff, even if it is personal stuff but unfortunately the Filipino has nothing to do and naturally begins to glaze over.

I make plans to meet Germaine for 6.25PM at Victoria.  As ever I arrive early; which offers me opportunity to get a Starbucks for dinner.  Additionally it gives the opportunity to indulge in one of my favourite past times of people watching as I take a hard metal seat outside the WH Smith and gradually experience of my arse freezing to the point of almost falling off.

Eventually Germaine turns up with smiles and all is gravy.  Swiftly she hands me an envelope of CD promos and thanks to the caffeine I am chatty meaning that the evening is lively.

We head to the Phillips de Pury gallery where the place is buzzing when we arrive.  This feels like the domain of socialites, people from a section of society foreign to mine, people all dressed up and ready to go.  Soon we snag some comp champagne and ourselves are ready to go and macking the works that are up for sale.

Tonight’s showcase is for a vast collection up for auction/sale that features works from most modern arts.  We come across works from the usual suspects such as Basquiat, Warhol, Hirst, Emin, Banksy etc.  Elsewhere Ai Weiwei makes a return to the gallery (as with this time last year) and Germaine points out the Kaws pieces as being the next big thing.

Entering into the main space the work is of a mixed variety and standard.  There is a set of photo portraits of a beaten up tramp and his many expressions.  As it all begins to get a bit Nathan Barley you wonder how genuine these shots are.  Quickly however our attention is drawn to the gold shopping cart situated next to the pictures.  It looks tacky, like some kind of chav wet dream.  Later this gesture then gets topped by the sight of a fluorescent deckchair, which is kind of cool but at the same also not sensible.

Conversation flows as things sound sticky in our respective lives.  With various flutes of champagne consumed it is easier to talk and reveal, we get tipsy and slag off the world and participants within it.  Then we spot the canapés and how everyone is swarming on the poor waitresses like flies around shit.  And now we become no better.  The decadence overspills as people rush as if they have never eaten before.  The idea of a prawn wrapped in bacon is pretty novel and priceless (and very tasty).

Germaine is full of praise for my Facebook Cull, she tells me how much she likes my writing and just what a great idea she considers this to be.  Flattery will get her everywhere.

I do like it at this place even if really I am not wealthy enough to be here/there.

Around 8PM we have had our fill and we make moves back to Victoria station.  Once there we part ways as I board the Circle And District Line, riding it a different direction to usual.  On the way a truly fucked up guy staggers about, staggering close to me.  I genuinely prepare myself to slap him about if he becomes intrusive or begins throwing up over me and my shoes.

Back at Liverpool Street I wind up on a weird 9PM train to Halesworth.  Now where the fuck did this one come from?  And where the hell is Halesworth?

At Shenfield some guy dares sit next to me and mentally I react as if violated.  That’s not very nice of me.

Finally I get home just after 10PM, just in time for Newswipe.  This week it is not strong.

Eventually I head to bed and pass out.

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