Monday, September 13, 2010

Monday 13 September 2010

Dream: zombies are on the attack and we (my family etc) are holed up in the house in Little Clacton that I grew up in.  We are all sat in the kitchen looking out over the fields behind the Holland Road bungalow.  It is night time and things are very edgy.  Elsewhere the Brazilian/Albanian chef from work is getting gung ho, acting overzealous and attacking the fuckers.  He is reckless and endangering us all.  I warn him about this but he does not listen instead disappearing off into the distance.  Suddenly zombies break in through the window in the kitchen extension.  They are female zombies and for some reason are not attacking instead just walking around the house and brushing past us like harmless ghouls.  It is not an unpleasant feeling.  What is going on?

With this I awaken in the early hours with my headache remaining.  This is a different kind of headache/migraine, one which causes me great concern and hints towards something serious and/or permanent.

From here I manage to go back to sleep and avoid further bad dreams as the alarm eventually buzzes on my clock and shoves me into proceedings.

In a rare gesture of laziness I fall back asleep only to reawaken at 6.25AM in a panic.  Thankfully my head is now feeling a bit better but I do feel dizzy with it.  I’m a state.

With the time in mind I quickly pull myself together and exit.

Stepping out onto the landing there is still the shocking stench coming from the open rubbish bags and discarded bike tube outside the door of 15 Hollytree Court.  Are the bins really so far off in the distance?  Jesus, I thought she was a personal trainer.  Surely that would mean she has the fitness levels and energy with which to walk a minute to the end of our car park and place the bags in the communal bins.  One can only wonder just what she is like as a personal trainer.  I bet lots of her clients remain fat as the nature of her incompetence cuts into her vocation as the illegal drugs and excessive shagging kick into her spirit and wellbeing, tiring her arms and legs to the point that she is unable to lift something such as a bag of rubbish.  Cunt.

Dazed I find myself leaving slightly late and in the process I spot The Ghost which eventually means I find myself cutting it close when catching my train.

In the end I find myself stuck at the back of the train where the journey is slightly quieter even if it is filled with annoying losers.  As hard as I try and attempt to sleep, I just fail.  Eventually my chariot pulls in London where freedom and stimulation awaits.  By this stage I am not necessarily feeling good.

Thankfully the journey across town is a relatively smooth one which doesn’t make me feel too bad in comparison.  Unfortunately as I step into the restaurant I am met with the new that my boss’s wife has been taken poorly.

With this knowledge I am asked to do the banks.  I never know how to react to such news.  At least I don’t giggle nervously at such news anymore (as I worryingly did when I was in my troubled puberty).

With this in mind I tear into putting the August accounts to bed so that we can get it off our backs and the boss will have one less thing to worry about.  From here we soon reach lunchtime where I have penne with chicken as per the now routine of “Pasta Monday”.  I am so fucking boring.

Into the afternoon things run swimmingly as the August accounts are now nailed (on top of put to bed) which means proceedings play out happily where before long we arrive at 5.30PM.

Tonight I am heading down to the South Bank to see STEPHEN FRY do an event at the Royal Festival Hall.  Being a member I managed to snag a seat in the fourth row for this evening.  When I arrive at the venue the whole of the Southbank appears to be truly buzzing as I pass it and sought the solace and quiet of the Queen Elizabeth Hall.

After a hot chocolate and online randomness on my iPhone I head back to the Royal Festival Hall where I take my seat.  As I was fearing, I wind up sat next to a giddy idiot reeling off to the woman he is trying to fuck a list of the many things he has seen at the Southbank.  This is definitely an event for the squares.  That said his list is pretty impressive even if he is not.

Not long before the event begins I spot Dawn French entering the venue and taking a seat amongst the proles.  She is an impressive lady, not least in the reality that even I find the seats of the Royal Festival Hall a little bit snug.

When STEPHEN FRY finally takes to the stage it is to a flurry of heavy applause, deep appreciation and a healthy dose of genuine awe.  FRY is FRY, floppy and almost mockingly a buffoon in a manner that takes effort.  This is a man we probably already know too much information about regarding his private life but as a result this is also what people love him for.  And here goes with more heart on sleeve honesty.

Tonight is an event promoting his new autobiography.  The show is being beamed to numerous cinemas up and down the country and with this in mind after a brief introduction to proceedings he sets about on a big alphabetical shout out to the many cinemas up and down the country.

With a third of the nation having been acknowledged the ball begins rolling proper as he does a brief description of the basis and origin of his new book before launching into some readings of passages/chapters.

The first portion regards his relationship with sugar over the years.  It begins with a detailed description of his affection for early breakfast cereal and where/how it figured quite heavily in his youth.  Unsurprisingly with this it eventually turns to how his family roots are in sugar farming (as detailed in his episode of Who Do You Think You Are?).  More or less due to his family working in the industry and coming over to the UK (Bury St Edmunds) it saved them from the Nazis and the Holocaust.

After this section he resumes more geographical shout outs before moving on and sharing an anecdote from/about his school days where he found himself with a little follower who he strategically manipulated to do chores before moving on his education experience to recounting when he first met Hugh Laurie at university.  For the record it was through Emma Thompson.

Eventually the final passage he reads is regarding being involved with Blackadder, which he rightfully points out was the finest moment of many people involved in the series.  Personally I find it funny and unnerving to suddenly have the actual Melchett in front of me after years of referring to one of my old bosses as the character.  I have come a long way.

The description of Blackadder is truly affectionate, genuinely moving and thankfully also very funny as he describes the various quirks and whims of his co-stars who Fry states were the real talents of the show who allowed him to easily slot in and look fantastic.  When he colourfully describes Rik Mayall as Lord Flashheart big laughter emerges from an area over my left shoulder which without doubt is Dawn French laughing at something/somebody she obviously knows and recognises.

As the window of ninety minutes of satellite time comes to a close FRY delivers a truly moving closing address regarding his gifts and how despite the fact it has over the years his sense of individuality has caused him to feel away from the crowd, often at times feeling like being a party he has not been invited to, they have also given him the strength and drive to accomplish his many feats (in so many words).  With this he bids us all a good night as a mass exodus flies to the foyer for the book signing where the crowded scene is immense.

Myself I just head home in the hope of catching the first episode of the third series of The Inbetweeners.  In the end I get back around 10.30PM having royally missed it but thanks to E4+1 I eventually get my wish.

The Inbetweeners begins on another high note.  I don’t think ever before has the cutely obnoxious streak of teens has ever been portrayed more charmingly.  After a classic line from Jay at the beginning about drivers giving way to the left it eventually culminates with a bit of bollock/testicle visual humour/humiliation.  Is that actually allowed?

Regardless I go to bed happy.

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