Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Wednesday 26 May 2010

Dream: I’m at work, which now resembles the basement bar from last night (yes, that mistake).  We find our department collective ragging on the operations manager who promptly shoots back “when was the last time anything was reconciled?”  Touché.  Fair point.

Today I wake up at 5.40AM with a hangover.  This is not surprising; this was on the cards long before I passed out last night.

Eventually my alarm clock buzzes alerting me and the world to the fact that it is 6AM and when I get up to turn it off it is a truly painful process.

As I settle into GMTV news there is a brief story about how one in ten people are going into work with a hangover.  Is this a message from above directed straight at me on this fine morning?

Slowly I emerge sluggish and miserable, emotionally beaten by a person (Sophie Rooke) who to be honest shouldn’t necessarily have such an impact/influence on my mindset.  Tell that to my heart though.  Fucking cunt.  From here I pull myself together still feeling somewhat bemused by events last night.  Did that all really happen?  Was I wearing wine goggles?

I exit my flat ahead of time noting that my pig neighbours still have the bin bag dumped outside their door on the landing stinking up the communal area of our building and displaying a general ignorance, selfishness and disdain towards the other people that live in this block.  When are these people going to learn or realise?  When they finally buy their own property somewhere in the future, in the distant future.  Meanwhile they keep on rutting and kidding themselves that they are happy, that this futile existence they have is adequate and will do for now while they niggle me and slowly drive me mad as the small things make my life hell.  Then again I’m only happy when I’m complaining if I’m truly being honest to myself.  Regardless, by the smell of the bin bags they can (and do) eat shit and will hopefully die.

As per usual (routine) I drive to the station listening to Chris Moyles as today he has some kind of apparent on air breakdown.  This is all PR, it is not Howard Beale and Network (unfortunately).

Easily I board the 6.59AM train and get my seat, spotting the Sturrock Gang in the process.  I overhear them mention “Harris” and I wonder if they are talking about Neil Harris and this coming Saturday.  They should be.

The journey up to town is OK up until Ingatestone when some Daily Mail reading annoyance squeezes into the seat next to me.  He is a grey haired old cunt.

Eventually we get to Liverpool Street with my mind still in knots over last night.

I hate to labour the fact but I fucking hate humanity.

Soon I find myself on a tube whizzing across town where I find myself surrounded by females on the train.  It is unpleasant.

Finally I step into work where it is just the angry boss and I.  I don’t want anything to do with anyone today, again the evidence it would seem points to people only being horrible and a waste of time.

Gradually people fumble in but I have no time for any of them today, good or bad, old or new.

Ultimately today is a distracted one.  Part of me expects Sophie Rooke to email with an apology.  When 9.30AM hits and she is supposedly at her ill prepared presentation for PWC I have to concede to a little chuckle.

Today work echoes Monday from a couple of weeks ago.  I’d like to say that in my stupor I get my head down and do a lot of work but ultimately unfortunately I spend the day floating around on the internet.  What’s the point in doing anything else?

Early on I reply to an email from Racton and in it I recount the events from last night.  It’s a long whinging blah blah but it’s nice to tell somebody about it, to get it off my chest.  Not long afterwards I then repeat the whinge ritual with a couple of other friends, probably even just cutting and pasting the content from my first email.

Soon enough lunchtime comes around and feeling nihilistic I opt for burger and chips in cavalier fashion.  It is the culinary equivalent of spitting in the face of the world.

Out of boredom I email Adlex Solicitors to see whatever happened with the Balkerne Heights legal action threat from last December when it would appear local MP Terry Sutton took offence to a website I set up.  Sensibly I should really be leaving sleeping dogs to lie but at the same time I hate the unprofessional and half arsed manner at which this whole situation has been carried out and actioned.  The manner in which nothing has been done with this issue echoes the manner in which little appears to get done with regards the management of the Balkerne Heights complex (although I am sure this is not entirely the case).  I just cannot understand the mentality behind these people who appeared so angered and vehement for five minutes just before Christmas.

As with the morning there is little to report for the afternoon and when 5.30PM comes around I am relieved to be able to hop aboard a tube down to Baker Street and onto a hiccupping tube across to Liverpool Street.  As a result of these delays I end up arriving late to catch my train and wind up on the 6.30PM Norwich train.  God hates me.

When I finally get back to Colchester I decide to hit Sainsburys in Stanway where I buy a bottle of Sailor Jerry along with other happiness including fizzy caffeine drinks.  After the incident with Racton the other Thursday I actually find myself feeling nervous about buying booze tonight, about being asked for ID at the age of 33.  Humiliation waits around the corner.

In the end I’m in like Flynn with my booze, caffeine and peanuts.  This is the breakfast of champions, something Sophie Rooke will never understand.

Once home I proceed to tear into the bottle of Sailor Jerry while attempting some writing.  Somehow the combination works as I tear into the words while listening to the Buffalo 66 soundtrack at an ear-splitting volume.  My revenge.

The words and works flow although I do fear that when I eventually read it back (if) it will be shit but for now it’s all gold (in this drunken haze with goggles).

Soon I go off the Sailor Jerry and dip back into my bottle of Jagermeister, which tastes (and goes down) somewhat better.

At 9PM the second part of the Money (by Martin Amis) adaptation starring Nick Frost arrives on TV.  In my haze it is either the greatest or worst TV show I have ever seen in my life.

By now the effects of drinking at home alone begin to kick in as time flies by at an extortionate rate.  Following Money this week’s Have I Got News For You gets repeated which also flies by swiftly as I drunkenly laugh (holler) at the content.

From here I wisely head to bed before I end up staying awake all night and howling at the moon.

No comments: