Thursday, July 01, 2010

Thursday 1 July 2010 – WORLD CUP DAY TWENTY ONE

Things are fine.

When I awaken this morning I have again slept through the night with my TV on as the first thing I see this morning is the new(ish) lady on Countdown picking letters.  Carol never looked this good.

Eventually my alarm clocks screeches and swiftly I pull myself together while on GMTV they have the cousin of one of the latest soldier casualty in Afghanistan mugging it to camera on GMTV.  This woman is such a disgrace, the grieving equivalent of “and another thing”.  Is it possible to grieve too much?  Sadly yes especially when a TV camera is stuck in your face, it takes thing beyond the realms of real emotion.  At what point do these things become disingenuous?

I head off slightly early this morning, a time where my clothes feel needlessly tight as the heat of the day begins to grab hold of my being and make things uncomfortable.  This is the summer that I have been dreading for years.

Once at the station when the train eventually arrives it is a mongrel piss streak hybrid screaming of cheapness and papering up cracks.  By rights National Express East Anglia shouldn’t even be charge full fare for having to ride one of these.

At Witham today Stare Girl decides not to sit near me.  What did I do to her?  I bet the glasses have scared her off.

Listening to the Guardian World Cup Daily podcast this morning it is relieving to hear Barry Glendenning ripping into the pundit performance of Edgar Davids.  I thought it was just me who couldn’t stand him and I was worried that it was for dubious reasons/measures.  Thus I feel I am proved right.

As the train pulls into Chelmsford the gust of the train blows Fading Blonde’s hair making her look young and no longer fading.  This is her element – windswept.

Unsurprisingly it is at Ingatestone where some fat arsed woman decides to squeeze into the small seat next to me.  Always at Ingatestone.

From here I spot the old couple sat outside their flat at Mile End before the train pulls into Liverpool Street in good time.  This is the way.

The trip across town is another ordinary one and as I arrive into work my boss is in my office well into proceedings dealing with the consultant.  This is a rude awakening.

I brace myself for an inevitable grilling and barrage of queries from the consultant but thankfully they never really arrive.  He asks me what I am up to and I manage to fob him off.  I do not need his interference at this time.

Around mid morning our boss leaves to attend his son’s university graduation in Reading and not long after lunch the consultant leaves also giving birth to a huge sigh of relief.  With no one around I only manage to waste away the afternoon.  Maybe I need these people more than I acknowledge.

Away from this The Girl is an annoying mood today first repeating every word I say and then referring to me by my embarrassing bisexual middle name.  Then later on she begins asking if she can cut my hair.  “What do you think?”

In the afternoon I discover that it is Canada Day which means Trafalgar Square has been taken over by Canucks.  When 5.30PM arrives I head straight down to Green Park where I head towards the Strand where I am seeing THE PRISONER OF SECOND AVENUE this evening.  As I head along Piccadilly and down Haymarket I eventually pass Trafalgar Square where it is rammed with maple leaf.  I continue towards the Strand in order to pick up my tickets from the Vaudeville Theatre, which I eventually find after confusion.

From here I return to Trafalgar Square where I want to check out Sleemans beer.  Unfortunately by the time I get served they have run out of the Honey Brown flavour which sounded like the money shot to me.  So instead of trying what I wanted I wind up paying £3.50 for a little can of the normal flavour.  It doesn’t taste any different or better than any other beer I usually drink.  I really wanted a McKenzie experience.

At this point onstage Dan Mangan is performing, arriving fresh from Glastonbury.  I remember this guy appearing on an NME cover CD a few years ago but I’ve never heard of him since.  Much like the beer it isn’t any different or better than usual singer songwriter stuff either.  Canada, quite frankly you disappoint me.

Briefly I scope the bison burger van but the queue much to my disbelief is excruciatingly half the length of Trafalgar Square.  Curious I message my friend in Canada to ask just what bison burgers are and apparently they’re just glorified beef burgers.

Swiftly I polish off my Sleemans and head back towards the Strand.  On the way I pop into Spar to grab a sandwich.  At the deli counter I notice a sweet tasting baguette which the guy behind the counter asks me if I would like heated.  Obviously I say “yes” as he proceeds to put the thing in a microwave.  Fail.  As we wait for the ping the guy begins asking me about my broken iPhone, asking if it is an iPhone 4.  I would have thought the crack would have given this answer away.  He promptly asks me why I don’t have an iPhone 4 (“I think they’re all sold out”) and suddenly I find myself in the midst of a conversation I do not necessarily want to be having.  A few seconds later I am literally saved by the bell (of the microwave).

As I go to pay for the now stiffening sandwich I spot a lad in a German football shirt.  That’s some fucking front.  I can’t help but feel a few years ago that this would have been allowed or permitted.

Despite all these mini adventures it is still pretty early and the day glorious and light.  With sandwich in hand I stand in a shop doorway and have my dinner.  While doing so I spot Milton Jones walking towards Trafalgar Square.  That guy’s a permanent vision of fun.

Soon I find myself returning to the Vaudeville Theatre and despite my ticket being Row A when I finally take my seat I am in the nosebleeds.

Despite this I have a great time watching THE PRISONER OF SECOND AVENUE; ultimately it is pretty difficult to ruin a Neil Simon play.  From even my stance/perch the set looks fantastic and the performances from Jeff Goldblum and Mercedes Ruehl are crisp and spot on, the kind that derives and commands empathy and association.

For years I absolutely loved the movie because I could see where it was coming, it was all very tangible just how easy it would be for a person to lose their livelihood and succumb to cabin fever in the process.  I am sure a few years ago during my bout of unemployment due to the blog dismissal I had some moments of gnawing at my own paw on occasion.  Also most definitely in such times of economic uncertainty it is no surprise how earlier this year the movie was playing on my mind and that somewhere someone also tapped into the same mindset and turned the tale into a West End performance.

When the play returns for its second act it opens with Goldblum throwing a baseball against the wall of his neighbours apartment until he unfortunately bobbles a catch and the ball drops into the audience causing a wonderful moment of the fourth wall breaking and Goldblum having to approach the audience with a “can I have my ball back?” gesture.  Annoying neighbours, we can get with that.

In later scenes the familiar face of Linal Haft pops up and although like most people I cannot put a name to his face he is certainly recognisable.  He arrives at the point where things begin to turn around for Goldblum as a fantastic fresh touch is added to close of the story ensuring optimism wins the day.

After the cast come out for a couple of bows and round of applause I step out onto the Strand with the time being terror twilight.  As the dark blue skies turn into night and tall buildings silhouette this truly feels like the most exciting place to be at this time.

Quickly I find myself boarding a tube at Charing Cross and heading to Tottenham Court Road then across to Liverpool Street.  When I finally get on a train home to Colchester exhaustion hits me as I begin to nod off during the ride.

Thankfully the train eventually gets back to Colchester.  As I step through the front door of our building tonight for some reason my neighbour has decided to put her black bin bag of rubbish out in front of my door/flat.  This gesture leaves me scratching my head as it is so wrong and inconsiderate on so many levels.  Fucked off by this I manage to retain my cool as I just pick up the bag and leisurely throw it over our landing balcony into the entrance area of our building for everyone to enjoy and see.

This gesture leaves me steaming as I head to sleep.  Hatred flows.

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