Sunday, November 28, 2010

Sunday 28 November 2010


Sunday 28 November 2010

Dream: I am back at the party.  Justin is telling me off.  It is undeserved.

This morning I awaken to the sound of one of their fucking hamsters running in its wheel.  Is this a natural thing?  Are hamsters supposed to be awake at such an hour?  Are they trained to do the job of alarm clock?  Is this a gesture of hunger or insanity (or both)?  Questions.

The time is 9.50AM when people begin to murmur.  Considering I was sleeping on just an inflatable bed it represents a decent innings.

Thankfully the all too mature party (I mean, gathering) attendees did a fair bit of tidying up last night which means we step into a pretty clear day where little in the way of cleaning up seems required (provided a blind eye is turned towards the kitchen).

Soon I am handed a cup of tea by Justin and quickly things begin to get better and better.

On TV we briefly watch the FA Cup second round highlights where AFC Wimbledon were playing against Stevenage.  Looking at the line-ups I spot Chris Day in goal for Stevenage who has the dubious distinction of being Day Two of my Facebook Cull.  Additionally I also find myself trying to spot Stevo in the crowd who was Day 14 of Facebook Cull.  What a world.

Before long we are leaving Whalley Range and waiting for a bus to take us to the centre of Manchester for some breakfast.  Soon it comes along and picks us up as we wheel our way through Greater Manchester before stepping off at Piccadilly Gardens where the friendly bus driver lady bids us “good day”.

Mere seconds after we step onto Piccadilly Gardens a girl comes up to me asking where the train station is.  I guess I must look native.

From here we go in search of breakfast, initially attempting to get some food in an arts café that resembles a playschool crèche.  It does not appeal to me.  Thankfully they’re not serving food until midday so we look elsewhere.  The place barely has furniture for fucks sake.

We wind up in a place called Teacup on Thomas Street and here we get served by a guy that looks like Jon Favreau.  This place is a bit higher end as I order an overpriced and fancy Eggs Benedict which comes with Capers.  As a condiment I get to us Stokes Real Brown Sauce with date puree.  This almost justifies the price for what is in essence eggs.

Over breakfast I get into an interesting conversation with the German over psychology, which appears to be something she has been looking into recently as she has helped her friend out with her degree or something.  Eventually as all talk relates to the usage of such person skills in the workplace she ends up recommending the new Tim Roth series Lie To Me.

As we near the end of our food the others turn up with Pauly from Stockport but there isn’t room for another three people on our already cramped seven person strong table.  Also at the front of the café people are currently queuing to get seated, this is just not going to work.

With the time now past midday we head towards Piccadilly station with view to meeting up with the others who it turns out have wound up in a greasy spoon.  Inside the people look terrifying but the food looks amazing, fucking my poxy Eggs Benedict several times over.

From here we wind up in the Caffé Nero near the station.  Like a true mark I buy a festive hazelnut latte in addition to a small box of chocolate covered coffee beans which the minimum wage girl behind the counter expresses a fondness for.

This Caffé Nero café sucks as I experience one of those crucifying moments in the bathroom where the stall has no toilet paper.  A sitcom moment almost ensues as I find myself having to wait for the guy in the stall next to me to finish up and leave so that I can creep into the other toilet in the hope that it has paper.  Pathetic.  This could have gone wrong in so many ways but in the end its all gravy.

Soon the others catch up from their greasy spoon and we head to board our train back to the safety of the South.   By this point the German has now latched onto us.  With this we bid everyone farewell as they bid us bon voyage and we face the prospect of having to sit still in a cramped space for two hours.

On the train a girl with dark hair, dark eyes and a bubble butt housed in leopard print leggings appears to have booked the seat next to me.  She looks like Dawn Porter except without the personality.  That is pretty low.  Briefly it appears that I have struck the jackpot as our bodies having to rub up against each other in the seats and exchange warmth is not necessarily disgusting to me.  However in her moronic (ironic?) “I Heart NY” t-shirt she quickly kicks off as her group reconvene at a table seat, knocking people from it who were already sat there.  Their bullying is unfortunate.

Thankfully I manage to go the whole journey without anybody sitting next to me (while the German sat behind gets a pretty Japanese girl sitting next to her, no fair).  I spend the journey catching up on podcasts while typing notes into my iPhone which eventually causes me to feel/experience motion sickness.

At 2PM the train goes through Rugby where there is a visible carpet of snow.  Then around 2.30PM after I attempt to resume further writing on my iPhone again once more I find myself suffering from some kind of travel sickness.

We get to Milton Keynes around 2.45PM which marks the home straight to London and officially the security of the south.  Then fifteen minutes later we go through Hemel Hempstead as I begin to feel I can taste London.

Eventually we arrive back into Euston pretty much on schedule at which point we all gather ourselves, bid bon voyage and scarper off home in our respective directions.

From here my route resembles the Northern Line down to Tottenham Court Road followed by a trawl across half of the Central Line to Newbury Park.  This ain’t pleasure.

As the tube nears Newbury Park the time is 4.15PM and suddenly I realise that everyone around me appears to be old ladies with luggage.  What a genuine nightmare.  I guess I should really offer to lift/carry the cases for one of them.  Nah.

In the end I get to Newbury Park just after 4.20PM where we promptly get squeezed and herded onto an Addison Lee reject coach.  As I board I can’t help but wonder why people put their luggage on the seats next to them.  I will forever harbour hatred towards people who bring their bags onto public transport.  If they can afford to travel, they can afford a cab journey.

Ultimately there is little in life more depressing than being stuck on a coach driving along the A12 on a winter Sunday evening.  It comes with the stench of failure, of being fucked with and belittled by the man while having to pay a premium for the privilege.  This is how life beats you down, disrupts your flow and cheapens your existence.  My time is more valuable than this, the expense of this hold-up is more expensive than National Express East Anglia will ever acknowledge.  At least the could smile while they rape the consumer.

Finally the bus gets to Ingatestone at 4.50PM and by 4.55PM I am traipsing onto a train with all the other idiots and their fucking luggage seemingly designed to trip me up and bash against me like a weapon.

The train pulls away at 5PM by which point I have spotted an attractive lady staring at me from across the aisle.  Now I wonder is she looking at me thinking “what a handsome man” or “look at the fucked up guy all haggard and dishevelled bent out of shape from dealing with the ills and bullshit of weekend, what a joke of a man”.  This crap does not serve me well, does not improve my being, if anything it serves to diminish me.  Still, I continue stealing looks in hope of her idea being the former.

The girl has droopy dog eyes that surprisingly make her gorgeous.  This is a weird trait.  She looks like the one that used to be in Emmerdale only better.

Eight minutes into the journey a conductor called “Dave” (very professional) has the fucking gall to check our tickets.  The thing is the trains are not correctly or appropriately running in order to justify such a check.  If this is not smearing and rubbing transport shit in our faces then I do not know what is.

In the end to its credit the train is a Norwich one and thus manages to pull into Colchester just before 5.25PM.  This confuses me slightly.  So trains can do Ingatestone to Colchester in 25 minutes provided they don’t stop at any stations.  Then why don’t they during the week, when it counts?

Once finally back into Colchester I walk from the station to my parents where I manage to grab some much required and appreciated dinner before I happen across the car crash spectacle that is the third round draw of the FA Cup as performed by Serge from Kasabian and Noel Gallagher.  Where to begin?  In Serge I have never seen a “rock star” more eager to please.

From here eventually time comes to head over to the Colchester Arts Centre for PART CHIMP.  I head over with some hesitation and reluctance as I have no idea if anyone else is going.

When I get to the door I don’t even bother to see if I am on the guestlist as I happily hand over my money while BEATGLIDER begin their set.

Tonight BEATGLIDER are great.  Their playing appears loose and comfortable and being that we are in a climate where Deerhunter are ruling with a similar sound this set tastes like triumph.  With this they churn out a lofty and subtly distorted torrent which proves an exhilarating turn.

After the set I spot Lee then Adam and Michelle and suddenly we have a scene.  As I mumble out some kind of catch up I am not too subtle in dropping/revealing that I have been to Manchester this weekend (which is code for “where were you?”).  Its all gravy as it harkens back to better times.  Why do things have to change?

Following comes LIBEREZ who set about stinking up the evening with their strings and noise.  In the centre of stage is a woman resembling some kind of Jesus freak.  She doesn’t so much sing, more just using vowels while spewing her being into the microphone like a shrunken Diamanda Galas.  She truly is a red Mother Teresa.

I sense the band is going for some kind of Swans via Lydia Lunch vibe but I am just not sold.  On a night of loud guitars, this stands out in a negative manner.  There is not a whole lot of fun to had with this band.

Thankfully PART CHIMP storm it this evening.  They remain chunky motherfuckers, firing riffs to obliterate any man.  Its an impressive feat.  Basically as ever PART CHIMP is a very loud thing.  And with it very exhilarating as once more this sound is one that feels part of a dying breed.  Catch this band now while you can still can.  Catch then stuff it and mount it.  Word is that PART CHIMP are splitting in the new year but when they are still able to smash it in such a fashion, it is a bigger loss than anymore appears to realise.

As the set lurches through proceedings the night only improves as seldom are there dull, quiet or blind spots attached to this band.  In other words they just rock more consummately than the majority of other acts in existence.  In execution they gurn out equal parts Melvins, Mogwai and Kyuss.  This is taking down-tuned stoner rock sludge metal up a whole new avenue, one where only the smart will stray.

Tonight their set stretches across their entire songbook, probably even including the songs they have unfortunately been reduced to releasing on Gringo Records (the acknowledged kiss of death for any act).

Seemingly wrestling against an annoying lo-fi lightshow, PART CHIMP appear to sweat all bodily fluids as they play heads down stuff, growling and furrowing.  It still feels weird to think that it was six years ago when they last played here and how things have become so much better.  And then thus it ends in explosive fashion.

After the show, after picking myself up off the floor, I get into a chat with Pete from Abominable Mr Tinkler who asks me if I have finally got around to putting up the Long Division With Remainders interview up online.  I suck, I haven’t.

In the end I go home satisfied with my ears ringing true.

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