Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Tuesday 31 August 2010

Rough night.  The TV shouting awakens me in addition to the breeze from my open window, which naturally makes me shiver.  Obviously I wake up ahead of time, ahead of my alarm clock, in anticipation of my fate.

When the alarm eventually buzzes at 6AM I hop out of bed aggressively to turn it off in a firm manner of malice.  This fucking siren is too much for me sometimes.

On TV the lead story on the news is the Pakistan bowling fix.  Really?  We are a nation half in poverty and half headed to poverty but it is those guys that take centre stage?  Its sport, its not news.  Sport is not important.

Today the weather girl Clare is looking slim and frisky.  Quite frankly she is acting out of character and is beginning to remind me of Ellen Burstyn in Requiem For A Dream.  The lady going insane on diet pills.

I pull myself together at a leisurely rate.  It is probably a mistake that I haven’t had a shave or haircut for my return to work but whatever.

Thankfully before leaving I remember to renew my parking and thus I avoid the escapades and panic of last month.

As I exit the flat I pass the big TV and busted up bed on the landing.  What are these freaks in 15 Hollytree Court playing at?  Is this stolen property?  With these guys, truly it would not surprise me.

Stepping into my car as I turn on the radio I am met by the sound of Vernon Kay filling in for Chris Moyles on Radio One.  The fact that this person is allowed to open his mouth in public is one of the most sure fire signs that this nation is rapidly headed down the shitter.  When gormless vacant but vacuous non-talents such as that are able to hold the ear of millions of people we are pretty much doomed as a race of people.  Quite frankly Islam our nation is ripe for invasion.  Take us.

The drive to the station is leisurely, laidback after my holiday I can’t be bothered to hustle.

Upon returning back to the commuter routine one of the first things/people I see is Disney Face.  She remains pregnant, now larger than ever.  Also ever since she cut her hair short she appears to have aged a decade over the course of only six months.  Choices made.

Eventually I stagger to the platform where unsurprisingly the post bank holiday service and train is slightly delayed.  This is almost always occurs.  Where did the pride of the British workman go to?

While waiting for my ride I spot Epiphany Girl.  At first I almost fail to recognise her, she also appears to have aged (five years) since I last saw her.  What is happening here?

When the train finally arrives some drippy girl neglects to press the button that opens the door of our carriage, instead choosing to play with her phone.  It is fortunate that her looks are going to get her through life.

Jumping back in the saddle of the train begins badly as a guy with a rucksack swings it and almost bowls me over.  I am staggered in more ways than one.  I shake my head furiously at him.  That certainly showed him.

Sat in the corner is the Sturrock Gang.  Its good to be back.  Likewise at Witham Stare Girl boards but chooses not to sit near me.  I suspect my beard frightens her off.  There is scary comfort in getting back to this routine.

Eventually the train beaches at Wanstead invariably meaning it rolls in ten minutes late at 8.05AM.

Once on the tube platform there is an annoying wait for a Watford tube which eventually arrives coupled with beaching at Moorgate.  Its good to be back.

This morning I consider how the last two years have gone so fast.  Things felt fresh and optimistic back then as people gave me confidence and things felt like they were moving forward.  Now however things are worryingly familiar and the routine of the process seldom unleashes/sparks excitement.  Am I in a better place now?  This is open to debate.  What do you think?

From here the tube journey is painless and routine.  Swift in a nonchalant way.  When I finally get into the office I fire up my email to a message from the consultant saying that he will be in at midday.  I truly am not prepared to deal with his latest line of interrogation right now.  Give it a day.

Soon the Filipino turns up and it has been almost five weeks now since I last saw her.  Its good to be back.  Its weird though.  Conversation is stunted and overdue as I am genuinely really happy to see her.

Before long she is handing me a bottle of gin from the Philippines.  Its sealed in a really strict airtight bag from the airport, welcome to modern air travel security.  The bottle is amazing, basic and just really nice to the touch.

Back in the flow of things I endeavour to pull the accounts together ready for the consultant to look at.

Just after midday we order lunch as I make a return to penne with chicken, feeling fairly healthy from my week plus of being away from the heavy food of our menu.  This is a sensation that won’t last.

At the exact moment I stick my fork into my dish the consultant arrives.  This is an arrival as welcome as a swarm of wasps at a picnic.  Through gritted teeth and a shit eating grin I bid him “hello” somewhat honestly/genuinely peeved by the time of his arrival.  Why does he do this?

From here it turns out to be something of a tense visit where as usual he picks up minor issues on areas of the accounts he has long since ceased taking any interest in.  How can I work with this when he displays such a nonchalant attitude?  Of course I don’t question him, he’s older and more senior than I.  By nature he knows more about accounts, just not these ones.

His presence gives off the impression that is going to be a long visit which causes me to question whether I am actually going to get out on time this evening.

It is at around this point that Kluzek phones me half asking “are we still going to the movie tonight?” and half asking “what the hell is going on?”  With the consultant lingering I respond in short that I am still up for seeing GAINSBOURG tonight and that he has just caught me in the eye of a slight shitstorm.  Regardless we make plans to hit the 6PM screening at Curzon Mayfair although I am not entirely confident that I will make it there in time.  I sense I’ll be having to make apologies to somebody at some point today.

After a couple of hours lingering, requesting schedules/spreadsheets and speaking on the phone to clients (other clients) the consultant eventually heads off with the threat that he will be back next week.  Fine, just as long as he has his shit together and I receive ample warning so I can suitably prepare the accounts for his needs.

From here the rest of the afternoon flies by and in the end I manage to duck out of work a bit early as I take the post in order to get to Green Park and Curzon Mayfair on time.  This is essential.

In the end a few Jubilee Line stops later I find myself arriving with ten minutes spare to walk to the cinema.  This is the way forward.  On the way I make a point of stepping up Half Moon Street, an address that now possesses for me something of a mystique after that terrible movie years ago.

Finally I get to the Curzon where immediately I spot Mark patiently waiting for me (and to some degree I suspect doubting me).  Swiftly we check in with one another as I buy my ticket and we head up into the cinema.  It has to be said that Screen 2 of Curzon Mayfair is not one of the most impressive cinemas in London.

GAINSBOURG turns out to be a great movie, far exceeding expectations.  For some reason I only realised in the past few days that it would be in French and thus with that the Clouseau fear was allayed.

Beginning at his earliest days (as a kid) almost immediately his being a Jew is what becomes emphasised first as he rolls along the way showing himself off as a gifted artist on many (most) levels to varying degrees of response.  From the off GAINSBOURG was belligerent.

Early on into the movie it becomes evident that there are a few touches being employed that remind me of Pan’s Labyrinth, which was something I wasn’t expecting from today.  Regardless it serves to add a dark and effective edge to proceedings.

As the film continues and he arrives into adulthood it goes through the emotional and creative highs and how he continuously pushed things both personally and professionally to the limit, testing people and tastes along the way.  Almost immediately he displays charm, even as a child, and soon it becomes obvious how he arrived at his celebrity swordsman status.  As a result you find it difficult (impossible) to resent him his conquests, not least as it is against being saddled with his nose born self loathing.  All in all though suddenly France appears to be a very cool place.

Taking in the career highs and lows and all the pain suffered along the way as things moved towards the end of days GAINSBOURG seems to take on the appearance and demeanour of Richard Hell as he eventually craps out and winds up recording a reggae version of the French national anthem.

As with these things seldom do they end well although GAINSBOURG’s final love does appear to be one of his most attractive if not strongest.  Obviously elements of the piece end badly but at least on a good note he bookends his life with beautiful ladies.  And with that his life and the movie ends.

When the lights come up Mark adds more weight to the piece by telling me how the actress that played Jane Birkin (Lucy Gordon) committed suicide in real life just after the movie.  This coming after the sad realisation that Sotigui Kouyate died shortly after the completion of London River its yet another sad tone to add to this year’s movies.

From here we emerge onto Curzon street where two heavily armed policemen guard a building that has no discernable identity.  I later discover that it is the Saudi embassy.  Is this really necessary?  I resent my taxes being spent on this.

Exiting Mayfair we head direct to Green Park station as Mark feeds me with yet more background information on GAINSBOURG.

Before long we are parting ways as I head up to Holborn and across to Liverpool Street.  In the end I manage to snag a relatively early train back which serves me well as I return home at a fairly sensible hour.

Pour de win.

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