Friday, August 27, 2010

Friday 27 August 2010

Unwisely I enter into the day around 6.25AM with things still very grey outside.  If I’m honest I thought it was earlier than that as for a second morning running awaken to the sight of The Fog Of War DVD menu screen on my TV.

I awaken to a decent email from Tom, genuine and lengthy and very appreciated at this time of friendship confusion my part.  In the end I spend almost an hour and a half typing an immediate response where I set the nation straight and spew out 2000 words of bile and gripe coupled with insane writing advice that I am in no way qualified to dish out.

I have a lot to do today and what appears only a morning with which to do it.  My number one priority today has to be to replace my tyre but as ever this means me having to lean on dad for assistance.

Despite all this I pick up writing through the shining hour, wasting valuable chore time that should really be spend pulling my house in order for a potential visit from the old man later on today.

For some reason there is a whiff in the air, a subtle stench that suggests yet more bad things of my building.  I am feeling so paranoid right now, I really hope I do not discover/uncover a foul act has caused my tyre to flatten.  At this time my natural instincts are to be suspicious of my neighbours performing an act to cause the flat.  Are they really so low?

I wonder if the smell is coming from the line of grotty trainers that now aligned our landing where the bin bags and rubbish used to go.  Is this yet another gesture designed to drive me insane, to infuriate me beyond rationality.  And why are their so many shoes?  I swear there were four pairs there yesterday.  Is some kind of gang bang taking place in there?  Is she sneaking in more people than by rights the apartment should be capable to accommodate.  Perhaps that is the smell, the odour of overcapacity.  What is it with these people fuelling my warped imagination, its all their fault.  I am blameless.  I am the victim in this piece, the person sad with the flat tyre.

Around 11AM the old man phones to say that he is done at the doctors and ready to come over whenever I’m ready.  I was hoping to have my flat relatively straight for him visiting but I just give up and ask that he comes over but doesn’t step into my flat.

Soon he is over and jacking up my car.  I have done this before but naturally he takes over and quickly has the car up and is unscrewing the bolts.  After a struggle to remove the fourth bolt we (well, dad) finally remove the wheel to discover a screw lodged in the tyre.

While we were struggling with the wheel I look up to notice a neighbour watching.  I fire her a smile in the face of the humiliation that comes with being 34 and having your dad changing the tyre on your car for you.

Eventually we (he) put the skinny spare tyre and head to the tyre place at the bottom of North Hill.  After pulling into their car park we step into their office where dad takes over and sorts things out as we disrupt four people sitting around waiting for something (or someone) to do.  From here the old man begins engaging them in conversation undaunted, even dropping his anecdote about his World Cup near punch up in the summer.  Very quickly they sort out my tyre while we wait and in the end it only comes to £20, which is quite a bit more cheaper than I was expecting.

Within minutes we are paid up and I am back in my car pulling out of the garage.  As I reverse out my car makes an unholy grinding noise which causes the people in the office to all turn and look at what I’ve done.  “I didn’t do anything”.  Is it supposed to make that noise when it gets a tyre change?

Driving against lunchtime traffic I head to my parents, arriving before the old man.  Once there I promptly begin looking at the latest virus on the old man’s computer.  This is the weirdest one yet.  As the computer boots the screen fills with a photo of mum on holiday before the monitor melts into a pink mess.  This might be a hardware issue instead of a software one.  After a few reboots I appear to clear it with a random System Restore, which doesn’t necessarily fill me with confidence.

In the afternoon I pop into town to have a quick look around.  For some reason Friday afternoon holds a weird sense of nostalgia for me but sadly my efforts to relive them today fall sadly short.

Stepping into HMV I come across some fairly decent DVDs in the sale (the Will Ferrell George Bush one man show and the first season of Sarah Silverman) but I’m not necessarily in the mood to buy them.

I return to my parents place before eventually heading home for the remainder of Friday afternoon that becomes Friday evening.  I wish I had somewhere else to be.

From here I listen to Danny Baker’s BBC London show where he is doing an alphabet of favourite songs in pure FM style.

After this I do some writing before looking towards heading out for the Dead Air Recordings Eight Track Remind listening party at the V Bar.  When time eventually comes around to head off I pull myself together and head to the Hole where Doug has arrived early.

Once parked up as I walk to the ATM on Crouch Street I spot Nina at the bus stop across the road where we chat briefly.  Unfortunately she shows me that she is reading a Twilight book.  Like a couple of chumps we discuss work and Big Brother, the usual gubbins.  Soon her bus arrives and I begin heading towards the V Bar where the listening party is at.  By now Doug has texted me to say how he has left the Hole and headed there himself.  I can’t help but feel I have failed him.

Tonight Colchester High Street unsurprisingly remains an unfriendly place and once inside the V Bar the vibe doesn’t improve any as I find myself confronted by various rude bastards.

Soon it is only a matter of time before I begin experiencing flashbacks to the first time I came to this place which was with my old boss Mr James from Butt Road on the Friday night after Dr David Kelly “killed” himself.  While I was pissed out of my mind we discussed, of all things, Sex And The City before I actually found myself saying one day how I would like to be a partner at the company/firm.  I don’t think I ever believed I could become one, I was not cut from the right cloth but certainly a few of the partners there who had made left a little something to be desired.  Later that night I would eventually find myself being thrown out of Colchester’s old man’s nightclub for being sick over myself while I think my boss had lined up a brass for me.  It could have been a beautiful thing.

After something of a brief but painful search I finally find where the playback is occurring.  Already in attendance are Lee and Maria (and that’s it) as the Eight Track cassette plays on a magnificent looking yellow machine which appears to be similar to the one on the cover of the Big Black record.  With a nice sofa/couch to spread out on we listen to the muddy tune emitting from the player sucking it in.  Despite the technological flaws it eight track sounds surprisingly great, half making me regret not ordering one.  The hiss and the flaws of the media actually appears to add to the songs offering the songs a more organic and strangely distinguished air.

By this stage Doug has managed to get lost looking for the V Bar instead having head to what used to be the What Bar.  This ain’t Ipswich now.  Eventually he turns up just as the second playback is beginning.

A few more people turn up as some kind of club prepares for Friday night ahead.  Everyone looks so young to me these days.

Soon that is that and the playbacks are complete.  For a while we linger socially although I have to admit most of the time I have my eye on my watch.  Then eventually I find a convenient point to head off home while the strong (the drunks) remain.

The walk along Friday night Colchester High Street is the usual sight of carnage although one of the first things I view is a truly breathtaking Oriental girl.  Shame she knows it.  It is also a shame that she and her friend appear to be chatting up a bloke manning the mobile STI van.

As ever my soundtrack for this walk of terror is Your Future Our Clutter which manages to get me through.

When I get home I pick up the end of Big Brother.  Unsurprisingly John McCririck gets evicted.  It’s what he would have wanted.

No comments: