Sunday, June 06, 2010

Sunday 6 June 2010

After strange, appropriate dreams related to yesterday I find myself awaking at 10.15AM, my greatest lay in for centuries.  Maybe.

Today is overcast and naturally it is less oppressive and relenting, a genuine break and relief.  Hopefully when I manage to wake up I will accomplish great things.  For the first hour though I feel like a zombie, which is a scary weird feeling.  What can I do to snap out of this shit?

Again I escape routine by not heading over to my parents for Sunday lunch.  Early mum phones to see if I am going over there and it sounds as if she half expected me to bail yet again this week.  She doesn’t actually sound as if she wants to speak as I try to have a conversation with her on the phone.  Strange days.

From here I begin writing but soon I find myself resigned to the nagging necessity that I have to head to Sainsburys in order to buy the Sunday Telegraph for the second free World Cup DVD.

As ever the Sunday drive to Sainsburys in Stanway is a mixed one, occasionally tempered (cars driving slowly) but also occasionally pleasant.  Once inside the store I feel slightly lost, aimless as I stagger around all these functioning adults, many of who are couples.  They just get in my way.

In addition to the Sunday Telegraph I also pick up The Observer with view to checking out it’s middle class and educated interpretation of the impending World Cup.  The high brow never get it.  Also I find Krave is still on promotion so like the child that I am I buy another box of that which comes with an inevitable sense that I will be eating dry in a depression binge at some point.

When I get home I attempt to resume writing but today I feel blocked.  Words are just not coming.

As my attention drifts to the TV I come across The Man Who Knew Too Little featuring Bill Murray in London on autopilot.  It’s funny to see John Thomson and Minty from Eastenders sharing the screen with Steve Zissou.  To their credit, they hold their own.

After this “classic” ends I then spot that Virgin are showing yet another Sunday afternoon Rocky movie which this week is Rocky 3 and like a mug I waste my afternoon.  This is perhaps my favourite Rocky movie because it has Hulk Hogan and Mr T.  Mr T is particularly entertaining ripping through anything standing in his way as he trash talks his way to the top with a bad attitude.  Indeed when the final fight happens between the pair of them I am indeed rooting for Clubber Lang to take the gormless Balboa back to school, in the hope that he busts him in half (as threatened).  Does it happen?  It happens once but sadly fails to happen twice.

The sad thing is that the bravado of Sylvester Stallone as Rocky Balboa goes beyond comedy, becoming more extreme with every movie.  If these films were comedies it would be fine but over the years I have known people to take the meaning of these stories seriously.  Of course these were working class people getting behind a working class hero but it does bring about many questions regarding the viewers.  I remember scarily how one of my best friend’s growing up (Aaron) had a huge poster of Rocky stuck on the wall at the top of the stairs at their house.  How was this allowed?

Way to squeeze all enjoyment out of an entertaining series of movies Jase.

Once this movie ends The Goonies then arrives on Channel Five but I wise up and opt out of watching another film from nostalgia hell, instead I hit online and put some blog stuff up.  However as I do this I find myself playing my newly purchased Cass DVD in the background.  I didn’t think football hooligan movies could get any cornier.  I was so very wrong.

In a matter of no time the movie comes and goes which only serves to display just how time consuming uploading the most basic of blog entries takes up.

Eventually the farce of a football match that is Soccer Aid arrives on TV with an England team playing a Rest Of The World team mostly made up of rubbish people from the rest of the British Isles with a few continental ex-players thrown in for colour.

I know its only for charity but this really is a lame duck of an event/spectacle especially when you consider how you have James Corden (too fat to play) pretending to be a coach/manager while the living embodiment of the Looking For Eric has-been Kenny Dalglish manages the Rest Of The World.  How on earth has he suddenly crawled his way out of the football wilderness?  And to manage a Rest Of The World side that features Westlife who are probably still grieving over the death of their gay member (oh no, that was Boyzone.  It’s all the same to me).

Surprisingly against the tide of my demeanour the game actually picks up and begins to resemble decent viewing.  From here it becomes something of a hoot as boy band members footballers do not make.  Neither does Mike Myers but at least you don’t feel the desire to punch him in the face.

Relatively early things begin to happen as Westlife fucks up a penalty before the equally annoying package holiday sales rep Jamie Redknapp scores a pretty decent goal making it 1-0 to some kind of England team at halftime.

In the second half the celebrity shit wizards go in goal and with it make some genuinely impressive saves.

At this point I have a bath out of boredom.  Meanwhile I can still hear the game playing in the background on TV and eventually former Millwall player Teddy Sheringham scores making the match 2-0 to the pretend England before the Rest Of The World score a couple of relatively late goals to make it 2-2 at the end.

Straight from here the game goes to penalties (as if it matters).  Host Dermot O’Leary however refers to these as “pennos”.  Who the fuck says “pennos”?  It’s as wrong as saying “footy” (or “footie”).

In the end the penalty shootout turns out to be surprising fun.  Suddenly out of nowhere Jamie Theakston (that pest) is making some amazing saves as all the boy band members and self absorbers (only the amateurs are taking penalties) miss their spot kicks while oldsters like Mike Myers, nervous as fuck and complete with belly, slot their efforts home.

Eventually it comes down to Woody Harrelson looking more like Mickey Knox than ever.  Now I don’t wish/want to point any fingers but as a man who advocates marijuana use with as much gusto as he does you suspect that he has had some assistance with his grin.  Perhaps it is this that gives him some kind of hand in slotting home his penalty as it appears like the real life version of Shaggy from Scooby Doo just won the day.

From here the Rest Of The World descend on him then collect the trophy while mugging as if they just won the World Cup.

Not long after this I turn in, putting on my One Night In Turin DVD.

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