Saturday, January 22, 2011

Saturday 22 January 2011

Saturday 22 January 2011

Typically after a week of glorious sunny weather (barring Monday), today resumes the norm of dank grey.  I emerge into the day just after 7.30AM.  All in all last night’s slumber represents a decent innings.  Full steam ahead.

On cue I flip on the news.  There is no news.  The government is falling apart, prices are going up and petrol is fasting becoming affordable only to the highest end of earners in the country.  Its all take, take, take.

As per routine I pull myself together and head to Asda just after 8.30AM.  This is a trip I relish with less and less excitement every week now.  Why do I insist on heading out to do this at the crack of dawn every weekend, why don’t I just stay in bed for a bit.

On autopilot I step through the doors just as I am going through some kind of internal monologue I suddenly fear is spreading to the external.

Inside the shop is as it was last week.  Little changes around these parts.  Asda is as usual unchanged and unconvincing.  With this I go through the motions as on cue I spot the victim (the bottom feeder) from my year at school.

From here I flick through the DVDs and spot that Cop Out is already in the sales and that there is hardly any sign of Tracy Morgan on the sleeve and artwork instead the cover is a big dumb picture of Bruce Willis.  The point of the piece though is that they are a duo!

With this for a third week running the gift that keeps on giving is the Chinese section of the ethnic aisle, which today comes up with a jar of satay sauce.  This should prevent wasting my time and mixing Tabasco into peanut butter in a shit effort to make my own.

Beyond this I buy the usual crap and quickly go through the self-service checkout and fly home.

I return home with a plan to write but in an environment such as my flat its not an easy thing to do.  The physical clutter serves to equally present itself as mental clutter and provides far too many distractions for a healthy mind.  Are things going to always resemble this?

Flipping on Radio Five to the Danny Baker slot it is now Christian O’Connell doing his show that today has Jon Richardson on as a guest who usually tends to be great at such things.  He proves pathetically earnest, a tiny hero in big times.

Eventually 11AM comes and goes with me still trying to work out where to begin with my flat/my life/my world.  Baby steps begat a crawl.  In the end I decide to continue my attempts to write while listening to the surprise Danny Baker appearance on Radio London yesterday.  Its greats to hear him back on air, especially as he sounds in good form while not hiding how the cancer is hitting him.

While listening to the show I receive a text from Mark Nintendo to see if I am heading up to London for the Doomed Bird show tonight and/or if I want to get a drink today.  Due to the trains (and National Express) being wank at the weekends I am not doing the former but I feel obliged to do the latter.  With this suggestions get made and a plan hatched,

By midday our building is vibrating the sound of what appears to be elephants bounding on the landing in and out of the flat next door (15 Hollytree Court).  Just what are these people up to now?

One hour later the banging maintains as once more I get the impression that the Trash Humpers (mainly Caroline Geary) are gutting their flat.  Why are they doing this?  They are just renting the place, they cannot take those fixtures and fittings with them when they move on.  One thing for sure though, it suggests that they are in it for the long game with regards to this address and making my life misery in the process.

Despite this I write into the afternoon even though it remains stilted and laboured.  At least I am producing though.

The plan arranged is to meet Mark at 3.30PM where we proceed to step into the grunge pub on a busy Saturday afternoon.  Will this place ever cease being depressing?  This especially resonates today as our enjoyment of a pint is hindered by the table of lairy dickheads just sat drinking themselves into oblivion while putting money into the jukebox with view to playing the absolute worst Radio One playlist tracks that the machine has to offer.  That and “Slide Away” by Oasis which prompts Mark to comment “I like this song” to which I respond “I used to”.

From here I struggle against the noise to ask Mark about his dad’s funeral this past Monday but soundtracked by such thumping mainstream beats the juxtaposition makes the conversation feel inappropriate.  Despite this I still get the low-down on what it is like to participate in your father’s funeral.  Even listening to it sounds draining, these are things that play in the back of my mind, cause me concern and make me fearful of the future.  The reality however is that you just have to get on with these things as Mark tells it like it was with clear recollection taking solace in how the day was able to run out smoothly despite the awful weather.

When we finish our drinks we decide to move on as Mark tells me of his immediate plans to head back to Berlin and see out his original tenure until he returns to the UK in March where he appears destined to head back to London.  Once again we wind up in the squaddie pub with the scary hard bastards huddled around the bar.  In contrast we now have our corner, a now regular place where we continue to splice current affairs conversation with indie rock recollection.

Eventually we get to 5.30PM and we both head off home for our respective dinner.  With him being back off to Berlin this week it will probably be a while before I see him again.  I miss having friends in Colchester, these feel like desperate times from a social standing.

When I return home I manage to snag some dinner.  I guess this is what Saturday evenings were always about: family.

From here I hang around and linger too long into Saturday evening as I watch mum tease the dog with saying “see my finger, seem my thumb, here’s my fist, here it comes” before  swinging at him.  Apparently she used to play this trick on me too, which quite frankly would explain a lot.

Saturday night happens as BBC2 houses its Allo Allo night which I watch at my parents place as I indulge in harmful nostalgia that I fear will see me sat in this position when I hit the age of 40.  Still the eighties must have been a great time if this was one of the shows with highest audience figures.

By 9PM it is over as I wisely head home where the British Comedy Awards take place and send me to sleep causing me to miss The 40 Year Old Virgin elsewhere on TV.

All over rubbish.

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