Thursday, August 26, 2010


Thursday 26 August 2010

This morning I emerge just before 8.30AM with my head pounding and my body telling me that I am a cunt.  What a waste of time and energy last night was.  Regrets, I now have more than a few and my snarl is not decreasing (if anything it is emerging larger and harder).

Unsurprisingly I have a headache which causes my skull to pound.  Then I realise the thudding is actually the sound of somebody elsewhere within my building.  I am slowly becoming truly paranoid of just what my neighbours are up to.  Without going too potty or overboard I have actually envisaged them in my loft area where I have a few boxes of belongings.  Will those belongings still be there the next time I check up on them?

Eager for official word I try to catch the train incident on the local news but by now morning TV has slipped into celebrity and lifestyle mode and what thin possibility of getting news previously by now has fully disappeared as GMTV “interviews” Shobna Gulati (pretty as she is) while the BBC comments on the Brokeback Mountain-esqe music video reuniting Gary and Robbie (with “expert” opinion from Anthony Costa) before dragging out Tim Pigott-Smith to push something or other.  Defeated I just flip to Frasier on Channel Four where Patrick Stewart appears to think Frasier is gay.

Outside the day is horribly dry.  It is dry but I can’t see the rain holding off.  I cannot believe that this is already Thursday and I have almost wasted my holiday away.  At the moment I certainly do not feel refreshed or relaxed from taking a week off.  What a shower of shit.

Yesterday I ran out of toilet roll and while fortunately I have not been caught out by the lack of it originally the plan for yesterday was to pick some up upon returning home from London.  With this in mind I have to consider this my first task/chore/errand of the day.  However as I get dressed into the clothes I slept in for the journey/visit I still feel incredibly tired and not ready/prepared to operate such large machinery as my car.

Eventually I bite the bullet, promising myself that I will buy a treat there for breakfast.  Do I really deserve it?

As I step out my front door inadvertently I time things to perfection as my neighbour grabs for its door also.  With this I take in a breath in anticipation of some kind of interaction that I fear will result in me in just pleasantly exchanging salutations rather than telling it just what a worthless, useless, lousy cunt of a person they are.

Neither of these happen however as upon hearing my door the neighbour swiftly changes its mind and ceases exit of their apartment.  What did this happen?  Are they avoiding me as much as I am avoiding them?  Were they afraid I might stick it to ‘em?  The latter would surely/severely suggest they do not know me very well at all.

In a way its unfortunate because still jarred off from the train last night I think this morning (much like Friday) I would like to take the opportunity to take things out on another being.

I need to head out.  I have officially run out of provisions and now I need to go shopping.  I was hoping what I had would last until the weekend but this is not to be.  From here I have to pull myself together, put on fresh clothes, stick in my contact lenses and generally act like a normal, functioning human being.  But I am supposed to be on holiday.

Asda on a weekday morning can be a minefield.  Generally this is the domain of the bored, of housewives and the unemployed.  If you’re unfortunate enough to get caught up in the lunchtime slipstream you will cross paths with people in suits buying bad overpriced sandwiches but at least they don’t have kids.

I do my thing; I buy a few treats but nothing to write home about.  I also buy this week’s magazines and all in all this should get me through until the weekend now.

As I exit the store and approach my car I notice that my rear driver side tyre is pretty flat.  However I cannot be bothered to pump it up right now and thus I deem it will last a few more days.  Also the extent of the flat I put down as being an optical illusion and that it is not as bad as one would fear.

When I get back to Bohemian Grove I resume writing, soughting satisfaction that I fear will never arrive.  I am running out of time now, where did this holiday go?

Out of the blue I get a message from Mark suggesting that we meet up.  It sounds like a rare treat.  I suggest that we hit the Noodle Bar (I’ve been jonsing for a meal there for a long time).  He responds in the affirmative but says he wants to get there before 6PM to beat “the rush”.  Fair enough but typically when I suggest calling around 5.30PM naturally he has to change plans further.  Finally we scratch out an agreement the night gets set.

From here I play out the afternoon listening to the Danny Baker show on BBC London.  This is how I spend my afternoons when I have the day off.  The guy remains quality.

Eventually time comes to head out as I pull up and call around for Mark.  As I do so I spot his dad in a first floor window.  I guess this is why Mark didn’t want me calling around.  It’s good to see him (in any capacity) following his illness.

We head out towards the Noodle Bar on North Hill in the rain as we exchange nightmare tales of recent train journeys.  Last night was particularly bad; I haven’t experienced a delay such as that for a couple of years.

Being that it is now two months since we last met up, despite him being in Colchester that time, there is something of an elephant in the room of proceedings.  As conversation begins with my birthday we talk about Neil Hamburger on Monday and the hypocrisy that I feel exudes from his audience.  Invariably chat moves onto the Larry David moment that night and in classic predictable fashion as I describe the scene Mark agrees with my disdain but when I describe my reaction (of getting people to move and correct the faux pas) suddenly he does the turncoat thing and criticises my action.  What’s the reverse/opposite of fairweather?

Tonight is the first time I have been in the Noodle Bar since the Joe Lally gig last November.  Naturally I opt for Pad Thai and suggest a squid starter.  Ever since the squid popcorn at bowling last November squid has been king for me.

Soon it becomes apparent why I haven’t seen or heard from the guy for the past two months: he has a new friend in Colchester.  After years of being repeatedly told “you’re my only remaining friend left in Colchester” suddenly I feel myself becoming childishly red faced as the reality that I have been dropped on the social ladder is revealed.

Eventually we finish up eating and head towards the squaddie pub, the suggestion only maintaining through curiosity.  I can recall coming here twice before.  The first time was the night before the Gringo Records All Dayer where they ID’d me despite me being into my twenties and then the second visit was on a Friday night after work at Butt Road when for some reason I was out on the piss with Jock playing pinball.  It was one of the few times I thought the guy displayed any humanity.

As per expectations the place has a group of hard bastards sat at the bar.  These guys don’t need to put effort into being intimidating, they just are that way.  To fit in I have a pint of Stella while my friend opts for some local weird brew.

Comfortably we find a table in the corner away from the noise and testosterone but things still feel convoluted.  From time to time my friend contradicts himself including saying that he would like to see in person Take That headline at Glastonbury.  This attitude then gets contradicted by tales of acting like an arsehole at a stag do in some buttfuck town in the south west.  This is jumping the shark.

Invariably we wind up talking about indie music, which is something I am new very conscious to try to avoid here.  It turns out that he is heading to the Part Chimp all dayer in Bethnal Green next Saturday and I can’t help but find it sneaky that he hasn’t bothered to mention it to me.

When I get the second round I switch from Stella to Coke as getting pissed tonight is far from appealing to me.  From here after a weird conversation about Anthony Kiedis we call it a night having to exit through the intimidating huddle (gaggle) of tattooed hard bastards.

We walk back to Creffield Road where my car and his house is.  Along the way he requests that if anything good is happening that I let him know for inclusion but the problem is that he it doesn’t return the favour.  Crossing streams is a two way thing and yet it would appear most of my friends do not deem me worthy or interesting enough for inclusion into their casual social scenes.  Works both ways.  Or rather it doesn’t.

Upon getting to my car I again notice that the rear tyre is down and as I look closer it is now pretty much flat indicating a puncture.  Swiftly I dispose of Mark before setting out on a fool’s journey to Asda in the hope of pumping the tyre up before it is too late.  Unfortunately it is and when I get to the pump it is an epic fail.

Like a fool I drive home with my flat tyre in the realisation that I am only making the wheel worse, potentially fucking it permanently as suddenly what should be the most routine of journeys becomes a hairy one.

Against odds I get home safely where I catch the arse end of a Hurricane Katrina documentary.

As per usual I find myself phoning home to see if the old man is about tomorrow in order to help me out with the tyre.  He responds in the affirmative.

From here I pass out watching a combination of Big Brother and The Mexican as I flip between channels.  I always thought Tony Soprano was pretty cool as a gay hitman.

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