Wednesday, June 09, 2010

Wednesday 9 June 2010

Today my clothes feel tighter.  These are the psychological effects of comments such as those of the South African’s last night.  Why do people say such things?  What comfort, pleasure and satisfaction do they derive from belittling people?  I change my clothes once more and I am still not comfortable.  No wonder I can’t get anywhere in life when such comments remain resonating and knocking around in my mind, stinging the insides.

It’s gloom again today.  Where did the summer go to?

As I walk along the platform at the station the train is already pulling in signifying that once again I am late arriving for my train.  I am definitely losing my touch.

Today there is a ticket inspector on our train.  It begs the question: why?  This morning I had to put my ticket through the barrier in order to get onto this train.  Surely this is a responsible enough gesture/evidence of honesty and possession of ticket.  No, that would just be too sensible.  To be honest though this only niggles me because the inspector gets slightly tetchy with me, demanding to scrutinise my Travelcard more than is necessary (acceptable) because the date on it is beginning to rub off due to National Express East Anglia being too cheap to issue failsafe tickets/cards.  Usually this doesn’t seem to bother inspectors, a quick flash of the gold card and they are happy but this morning this guy is on one.  Perhaps he has a quota of lynchings to make.  Perhaps he is on commission.  Perhaps he has a tiny dick and gets off on bossing around people that are earning more than him.  All in all it sets a bad tone for the morning.  As he makes exaggerated gestures, on the outset I look at the woman sat opposite me as we mutually smile and roll our eyes as the wannabe jobsworth.

After giving it some thought on the train I respond to the email apparently from Facebook’s legal department (“Ethel”).  Without giving too much away I reply with a one word email asking “phish?”

Later as the train goes through Mile End once again I spot the old guy sat outside his apartment.  Is this what he spends his day doing?

By the time I reach London I have a headache, I truly am not up for today.

On the tube platform I spot Bellalike.  She looks like she is suffering from a hangover as she keeps vividly messing with her hair.  Has she recently experienced some kind of trauma?

When I finally pull into work all three bosses are already in.  This is a rarity, one for the collection.  Buoyed by this the posh boss immediately begins chasing me up for accounts.

Other than this the day begins comfortably with the bosses gearing up to head to court.  With them away you can almost guarantee a quiet day.

Early into proceedings The Girl phones in to say that she is going to be late due to a crash on the roads.  Then a few minutes later she is phoning the office for directions.  I don’t fucking know my way around the roads of central London.  Eventually she makes it in.

There is hint/suggestion that the Filipino may be pregnant and once again today The Girl plants such seeds in my mind and later when I ask her “what’s up?” The Girl informs me that she is apparently “trying.”  Surely you need to be having sex with somebody first?  So with The Girl once more making gestures towards going to college in September suddenly the team feels as if it is on the brink of falling apart.

All in all it’s a very quick day.  I am already behind on schedule for work and failing to pick up pace and this isn’t helping.  With the bosses leaning on me for accounts but not giving me a sensible amount of time to complete them, this makes it difficult to build up any steam.  Later things are not improved by the trouble I am having with my Excel links.  For some reason the schedules are just not taking them ever since the operations manager took over.  It all costs time.

I end the day having cobbled together a set of April drafts by they are very poor, quite frankly they are not finished or up to scratch.  They at least look like accounts but upon closer inspection they suck and will not hold up.

At 5.30PM I leave the restaurant heading straight to Bond Street with view to getting Racton a birthday present for tomorrow night and then attending DANDY IN THE UNDERWORLD at the Soho Theatre.  This turns out to be an act that ends in failure.  For the longest time I pursue/peruse what the big Oxford Street HMV has to offer in the way of comedy albums and books but nothing stands out.  Not good enough at this time.

From here I head down Berwick Street and check out Sister Ray, which once again resembles a ghost town, a shell of its former greatness.  After failing to uncover any gifts here I step to Soho Theatre to collect my ticket for DANDY IN THE UNDERWORLD

Tonight is the opening night for DANDY IN THE UNDERWORLD and naturally without any review buzz behind the show yet it is not packed.  Just before it begins a man that looks like Sebastian Horsley leads a quaint looking lady to a seat on the front row.  It soon becomes apparent to me that this is actually Sebastian Horsley.

The set on stage is fantastic, a regal room with a wall of skulls that looks authentically Soho (or how I would imagine).  I would love to live high up in Soho, safe above the scum as so much life and humanity playing out beneath me.

It begins with Milo Twomey, a half Richard E. Grant half Ed Tudor-Pole hybrid, taking to the stage with perhaps more charm than you suspect Horsley possesses in real life.  Almost immediately he acknowledges Horsley in the front row as the monologue carries effectively through the entire duration of the one man show.

Against all the pomp, circumstance and adventure it is a pretty sad tale really.  Within this existence there is a lot of effort being made into not being alone and not being bored which ultimately makes a person wonder how much substance there actually is in such an existence.

The tale is full of bombast but when things fail to go to plan you get a real sense of the concealed sadness of the man.  He boasts of his suits, he boasts of his money spent on women and his subsequent encounters/adventures but when he has undesirables knocking on his door thinking his gaff is a knocking shop it is not pleasant for anybody.  Likewise when beautiful women turn him down for lunch it is with great effort that he hides his disappointment.

It ends with a more than subtle hint of recognition towards the loneliness that this lifestyle accompanies/provides.  The closing line is “if you see me around please say hello”.

Stating the obvious: it is a good show.

Afterwards I emerge onto the streets of Soho with the evening sun still out in force, a place now etched with an additional swagger.

From here I tear across town back to Liverpool Street, back to Colchester, back to my own loneliness.

Tonight is the first night of Big Brother and the promise of catching it on C4+1 serves to save my night.

I get home just after 10.30PM where I am able to switch onto opening night of Big Brother 11 at a relatively early stage.  At the point within which I join proceedings there are already three people in the house (Ben, Josie and Steve).

Rachel is the long mentioned Beyonce lookalike.  There is no surprise attached to who enters the house anymore.  This lady does indeed look like Beyonce until she pulls the wrong gestures and expressions and immediately her background is revealed and it becomes plain that she has not been properly/correctly schooled.

Nathan appears to be the man’s man entry for this year.  Initial impression is that he is like Alex Reid crossed with the lost Gallagher brother not least for his powerful monobrow.  He could go either way.

This year’s crazy appears to be an alternative bible thumping alcohol fryer tuck from Bristol (or somewhere equally South West).  He is a very silly man.  Surprisingly though I don’t dislike him.

With name that is pronounced “keever” (in other words she is either dyslexic or cannot spell) Caiomhe (I think) is an Irish lady wearing a nice shiny top with eighties dyke hair who reminds me of Magenta Devine.  She could go either way.

With an equally stupid Gevan is a mini version of Andi Peters.  This does not work in his favour.  Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout Willis?

Winning the first night award of being the most annoying and fake person comes Miss Shabby, a silver spooner squatter from Mayfair that looks like a clown crossed with Marc Bolan.  She announces that she wants to be an independent filmmaker but I get the impression that she doesn’t actually know what an independent film is.

Arriving next is the relatively normal Ife who doesn’t actually do or say anything noticeably stupid.  My gut instinct is that she is the BB equivalent of Alexandra Burke but also that she is not long for the house.

This year’s Aryan is an Australian in the form of John-James.  He says his nickname is “Achilles” – just how many fucking names does this guy want?  Apparently he looks like David Beckham but he reminds me more of Shane Warne.  Initial impressions of him are not good.

My gut instinct of Sunshine is that she is a horse faced cunt combination of Blossom and Amy Winehouse.  And whine she does as she explains why she is studying to be a medic, a medic that carries a chihuahua (or something).  She is blatantly dumb as dirt.

Much like Rachel being the Beyonce lookalike, Corin turns out to be the Katie Price lookalike that the press have been talking about.  As her introduction video runs the powers that be accidentally leave her mike on Gillian Duffy style.  Ultimately it distracts away from her video, which seems to suggest that she is as thick as her aspiration.

At this point the pre-chosen housemate process is complete and suddenly a random selection is made from the remaining 70 or so desperate souls aching to get into the house and demean themselves.  These souls include a Mr T lookalike, a female cyber goth and some kind of midget weightlifter at the front.

In the end a guy called Mario gets selected.  He looks a drip.  Then they put him in a mole outfit.

Maybe it’s not such a bad thing that this is going to be the final year of Big Brother.

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