Wednesday, April 07, 2010


Wednesday 7 April 2010

Unsurprisingly I have what resembles a hangover this morning.  As a result I am sluggish in manoeuvring.  Must not operate heavy machinery.  Too late.

Despite this I eventually pull myself together and step out the door to the sight and smell of my neighbour’s stinking fucking bin bag once again.  The shoes/trainers still remain like some kind of cheap Do Not Disturb sign/item/gesture.

Again I manage to get a good parking spot at the station once more as it would appear the world is still on Easter holiday.  Not me though.

On the train today is a lookalike hybrid of Mindy and Olive from On The Buses.  Makes sense.

Later as the train stops at Ingatestone it occurs to me that none of the people stood on the platform look like anyone or anything I see on TV.  For me it begins to beg the question as to which is real and which is believe.  What is this existence?

For some reason anybody wearing a suit on the train these days looks like a politician.  Anyone.  It is not a flattering brush to be tarred and one that does not serve these people well as my natural disdain for them heads to the surface.

As the train rolls in Liverpool Street today the clock says 7.54AM.  For once this is truly impressive stuff from National Express East Anglia.  To think that they should have all been on strike this week, what a pleasant turn of fortunes.

Entering London today comes with an element of my headache remaining.  That slight portion could build to much.

Today my journey across town is being soothed by a Five Live Football Daily podcast featuring a Stuart Hall special of classic interviews with George Best, Dixie Dean, Brian Clough and inevitably Don Revie in that case.  The most interesting and astounding interview is from Harry Gregg recalling/recounting the Munich air disaster and being one of the few survivors.  With his recollection he explores beyond himself with a truly emotional retelling of the horror.  You can hear his voice unsurprisingly quiver over the course of the interview.

Everyone looks battered these days.  And not necessarily in a positive way.

When I arrive at the restaurant it is to the sight of the Filipino waiting to be let in.  I feel so sad about having to make her wait, especially as she is sporting such a sad expression.  In exchange she brings us each in little packs of Oreo biscuits.  There is a true imbalance in this exchange.  I think she just might be my favourite person in the world these days, the one and only genuinely nice and selfless individual I know.  She deserves better, the best.

Today turns out to be another distracted state of affairs.  The highlight of my morning is when Justin phones up.  He asks me if I am good for a reference as he hires a van for their house move up in Manchester soon.  Its all gravy.

It’s a weird thing I notice today but more and more people’s profile pictures on Facebook (and to a lesser extent Twitter) are looking like CGI animations.  What is that about?

By lunchtime I am almost at the stage on the accounts where I wanted to be at the beginning of the day.  I feel so shoddy these days in the execution of these things.

At the halftime point of proceedings my head has not improved any.  What to do.

For dinner I go for penne with chicken yet again which as ever shows/displays a distinct defiance towards carbohydrates.

In the afternoon things almost begin to pick up and productivity resumes.  At some point in proceedings the Filipino and I find ourselves stating just what a loser’s name “Gary” is.  Tough break.

Again the day goes fast but I go slow.  At least this means 5.30PM arrives swiftly.

Once on the tube at Kings Cross a Scouse beggar boards the carriage and begins his spiel up and down the train holding out his little cup for pennies.  I have never felt the desire to accommodate this, more deciding to concentrate on just how unnecessarily uncomfortable these guys make my journey.

Eventually I wind up on the 6.30PM Norwich train.  As I sit waiting for it to pull away the lights flicker as it would appear that we are on a malfunctioning train carriage (not for the first time).

Soon a track-suited girl takes the seat opposite me and she completely reminds me of Waynetta from Harry Enfield in the worst possible way.  Ideally she would sit elsewhere.

Around the point of Hatfield Peverel I experience something of a moment of clarity.  What am I doing?  To some extent I now feel that I have become detached from reality in some way.  How did I get here and how can I get away?  My stock feels low and not likely to recover at this rate.

Returning to Colchester I head straight to Asda for a midweek fruit run.  Afterwards as I drive home the Manchester United v Bayern Munich game has already started and by the time I get home they are already winning 2-0.

As I step through our building’s front door this evening I notice the bin bag has been moved down from our first floor landing to our entrance hall but not quite managing to make those few extra steps to the bins.  Just how fucking lazy is this girl?

Back inside my flat I put my groceries away and take my seat to see Nani add a third for Manchester United with an exhilarating goal.  For me this is perfection, a wonderful move and culminating with breathtaking contact of the ball as he fires it into the roof of the net solid as.  From here just before halftime Bayern Munich scrape a goal back but they’re already done.

Something is wrong though.  German footballers without moustaches are like me without clothes.

Early into the second half a bad thing happens as Rafael gets sent off and then not long afterwards Wayne Rooney hobbles off causing concern about the World Cup in a two months time.  Suddenly a game that looked smooth and settled is very much in the balance.

Eventually Arjen Robben scores with an incredible volley from a corner and ruins the game for United.  By this point despite the best efforts of Nani it appears that their only other option is to bring on Berbatov.  He is not a player that you can go to in a crisis.  Briefly there is a flicker of hope when Ryan Giggs follows him onto the pitch but who the fuck are they trying to fool?  Certainly they’re not managing to intimidate anyone.

The game finishes at 3-2 and Manchester United go out of the Champions League.  Disappointment abounds as during the after match interview Alex Ferguson goes ranting on scale about “typical Germans cheating.”  I didn’t think people were allowed to say things like that anymore.

From here I head to bed half giggling.  Chumps.

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