JGRAM WORLD V2.0

Saturday 29 January 2005 – JOHN PEEL A CELEBRATION TRIBUTE SHOW

2005-01-29T05:50:00.000-08:00

January 29 (Saturday): Today was a day I had been looking forward to for a very long time. At the Colchester Arts Centre this evening is a John Peel tribute show made up of local bands that once recorded a session for him. It’s a genuine shame that Hirameka could not do this show considering they did two Peel sessions; this event should have reflected some gratitude from Gringo Records. It is a free event so as a result it will be packed and a lot of people will be out including Richard coming down from London for the show. Likewise Mark will be in attendance and so will Chris and Sofie.

After doing the newspaper run otherwise it is a pretty normal, stock Saturday sat waiting for the event to happen. I spend the day tidying my flat in anticipation of Richard’s stay and pulling together some CDs with view to possibly DJing at the gig as Staff asked me yesterday. With the prospect of it being a full house though this is a very scary prospect.

In the evening I meet up with Mark and head to the venue where we are plainly some of the first people to turn up.

Slowly the others turn up and when Richard arrives from London he has just come from watching the movies Sideways with his housemates. He says how the movie is pretty emotional and at the end his friend has to take some time to himself.

The Arts Centre looks great this evening. Behind the stage is a huge video backdrop playing a documentary about John Peel which has the audience transfixed at his greatness. Some people get more emotionally involved than others.

The first band to play are THE SECRET HAIRDRESSER performing in front of a huge backdrop of Peel’s head. There is something incredibly likeable this band, something reminiscent of Urusei Yatsura, chunky but clean and with some kind of sense of adventure and charm attached to their set.

In order to fit in so many acts (and a Steve Lamacq DJ set) this evening the bands are doing short sets which keeps things light and zippy.

Next comes Adam and his CATS AGAINST THE BOMB set. By this point the venue is now almost full and with so many baying people squashed towards the front below him Adam puts on a true industrial sounding heavy set in order to knock aside any detractors. Wearing his customary Hawaiian shirt there is a big sound applied to his set as he overcomes a potentially sceptical audience by pummelling them into the ground. With the photo of John Peel behind him looking on like the face in 1984 there is an almost Nine Inch Nails feel to the bubbling sound.

Following on the bill come the DAWN PARADE. Here is a band fucking designed to appeal to wet indie kids. With their sound some kind of filtered guitar schmindie you get the impression that their main inspirations and favourite bands are Suede and Placebo, in that order. They churn out their set, they pull poses and they attempt to look disjointed and rebellious while also concentrating really hard on getting every single part of their set right and perfect. This is so horribly well adjusted, adult approved rock. Why on earth did Peel see in them?

In contrast EXTREME NOISE TERROR rip up the stage, not caring what people think only that they think something. The two headed monster that screams out the vocals (and lyrics?) is what the spirit of Peel is truly about. In the audience today are some smart people in sensible clothes looking forward to seeing Steve Harley this evening. With their din EXTREME NOISE TERROR blow off their wigs. More times that not appears as if they are screaming direct into the face of the John Peel visual. The barrage rocks the old church and at this time seldom could there be a tribute so fitting.

By this point STEVE LAMACQ has turned up and just before he begins his DJ set he rolls out a short heartfelt tribute to John Peel of genuine affection and appreciation. He then tears into the first song of his set which is a Mudhoney song from the Peel Session Sub Pop compilation, a CD I have ripped songs from myself for DJing if required.

Some dance people, some people cry but all dispose memories of Peel onto proceedings. Behind us standing is the sour faced girl I always fancied when clubbing at this venue and for once she appears to be actually moved away from frown.

The night ends with STEVE HARLEY taking to the stage with his mate in tow playing guitar. He is well seasoned and well groomed professional. He shares anecdotes and oozes some kind of personality in the kind of form that appeals to the parents in attendance tonight. When he delivers “Come Make Me Smile” it is done so in manner that completely strips and mutates the song down to a level of personal connection with anyone in the audience looking to be touched. This truly displays the strength of the song and why over the years it has rightfully been acknowledged as a classic. His jokes about getting paid fail on the highest level (we are not his generation) but despite not being the most obvious of choices as a Peel act his performance feels sincere and true in its dedication.

As the night comes to an end Staff comes over to me to ask if I have “Teenage Kicks” in my CD collection. I nod vehemently, I truly hate that song. He looks at me disappointed before heading off elsewhere in search of a copy so that the night can end with tribute to the man with his favourite song.

After the Harley set Anthony from the Arts Centre hits the stage with a final appreciation and tribute for John Peel before the documentary rolls with “Teenage Kicks” playing and Anthony bowing in a “we’re not worthy” manner at the spectre of John Peel.

Quickly I get asked to DJ as Steve Lamacq has run out of tunes (more likely packed up for the evening) and as I grab the CD decks I open with “I Want You” by the Inspiral Carpets and Mark E. Smith. I say “hello” to Steve Lamacq and as ever I am pleasantly surprised/shocked when he remembers me. We do a brief bit of the usual chit chat before I remember that his dad may or may not have been an accountant in Halstead and I ask him if his dad has any jobs going.

At this point I am pulled away by a delighted punter shouting at me “is this the Inspiral Carpets?” See, I know my crowd and what they want. Sometimes.

My set is brief as the decks are switched off after the next song (The Fall’s version of “A Day In The Life” I think) in order for people to clear the venue.

Today was a great night, a true celebration that felt appropriate and well judged/measured.

After the show we linger outside the venue for a while, everyone freezing in the winter coats and the suffocation of a chilly January night. With this out comes the camera and many great memories are digitally caught for history. All reality of my current job situation is long forgotten for a brief evening and no worries are in sight.

We wind up in Sam’s Pizzeria where they make the finest pizza pies in Colchester. We sit eating facing mirrored walls with smiles glowing and true promise lying ahead.

We rule the school.

2005-01-22T02:19:00.000-08:00

January 19 (Wednesday): Who You Drivin’ Now. This morning I wake up on my parent’s sofa after a hard nights sleep. And as a result for the third morning this week I feel dog rough.

Today comes with the intention of leaving for home at midday, so I immediately jump on the computer asap. Today I am really stressed out, it all stems from having no job (thus no income) and now my impending surgical work tomorrow is really worrying me more than ever. I have known for months that this day was coming but I have almost been in total denial of it.

Once bonus for the day though, a man comes along in a van with Homer Simpson painted on the side of it and he mends our Sky telly and we are suddenly back in the game.

My mobile rings and it is a call from a man called Alex from the agency I went to in Chelmsford on Friday. He is calling from St Albans and doesn’t sound overly related to the gentleman I saw but he does appear to be coming up with what sounds a really good opportunity. Additionally he doesn’t sound like one of these on the hustle agency types; I almost have rapport with him. He asks me the stupid question of whether he should forward my CV to a practise in Colchester and it all ends on a high.

And then shortly afterwards my mobile rings again and it is the fine gentleman from Greenstead apologising for not being in touch but telling me that he is still on the job and that he might have a temp position on the cards on Ipswich. He asks me if I would be available for an immediate start, almost suggesting I go to the firm for an interview this afternoon at 3PM. I tell him about the delicate situation with the hospital and he nods verbally in recognition of the severity of the procedure. He is agency king!

Once more my phone rings and it is the guy from the first call. He tells me that he has spoken to the practise in Colchester and he moves on to asking me what kind of reputation my last employers have within Colchester. I say they’re probably high profile from being well presented on the social front and the agency guy mentions that the firm he has spoken to has made comment that my old firm has a bad reputation with them and around town but the agency assures me that this does not necessarily go against me (although I cannot imagine it would help me). The cap would fit though.

With the day now past midday, I officially find myself behind schedule as my phone beeps and Mark texts me asking if I want to go for lunch. I don’t really have the readies but certainly I could really do with hooking up on a day like this, a day when it would serve well to be talked down.

I wind up having lunch at the parents before heading off home to Colchester and at this point Dad begins showing me his latest batch of correspondence from his old employers in Colchester who are currently giving him the royal run around. Today however I really cannot deal with looking at this I just stare at the pages he gives me while I subtly begin to hyperventilate.

I originally set a meeting of time of 2PM for Mark but at 2PM I still find myself in Clacton. I tell him I’m going to be late and I tear out of Holland/Clacton and turn into Tesco Hythe to do a quick bit of shopping before bowling over to Mark’s.

When I finally get around Mark’s he is the most chilled out he has been since he got back from Japan. Turns out he did his big presentation on Monday and now that big monkey is off his back and its all good times ahead (kind of). We chill and he tells me that I am not myself as I continue to take things in vacantly feeling like a zombie as I find myself unable to stop thinking about the slice tomorrow. Its really fun hanging around his house though and his mum cracks us up telling us about her Italian class and how they were extras in some movie (something we could have done had we actually been told about it!). My visit is cut short when Mark and his mum go off to see some Italian film in Greyfriars when Mark really sounds like he wants to go see Team America instead (“deffo”). I give them a lift there and do my thing.

And my thing just turns out to be go to the post office and sending some post off before returning to my pigsty flat. And I manage to waste the majority of the remainder of the day looking for my appointment letter/documentation for tomorrow’s surgery. Eventually I wind up calling the hospital itself and when I speak to someone the lady informs that I now will not be having anything physically done, instead the it will now just be a consultation with the specialist. I feel a real goof but also eternally relieved.

Early evening and I get a text from Mark saying how the Italian movie (some left wing nonsense) was not only Italian in language; it was also Italian in subtitles. What a waste, should have gone to see Team America. And this idea also appears to occur to Mark who suggests we now go see Team America now that I no longer have to stress about surgery. Unfortunately though Man Utd are on BBC tonight and my heart was really set on watching them/that.

The Man Utd v Exeter replay turns out to be equally pathetic as the first game sounded. Early on Man Utd score and take the lead through Ronaldo and you begin to expect an avalanche of goals, especially seeing that on the night Man Utd have the majority of the ball and Exeter do not seem able to get anywhere near Man Utd’s goal. Indeed, originally when Exeter managed to draw 0-0 at Old Trafford, the smart money was on the result being a fix in order for Exeter make several thousand pounds from a TV replay and bankroll their club for the next few years (if not decade). However, Man Utd plough throw the game lacklustre devoid of any spark or closure and eventually have to wait into the game is almost over before Rooney scores a second to make the result 2-0. Its not a classic showing.

And its not a classic showing on Celebrity Big Brother as they sneakily evict Lisa I’Anson while all the other house members think they are playing hide and seek. Losers.

Beyond that, I find myself watching the latest episode of Desperate Housewives but also falling asleep in the process making me question if it really is all that good in the end anyway.

np: Gil Scott-Heron – Lady Day And John Coltrane

2005-01-22T01:17:00.000-08:00

January 18 (Tuesday): Everyone’s A VIP To Someone. This morning I wake up totally depressed and down, last night I didn’t even bother to set my alarm clock; I didn’t need to, I have nothing to do today.

Eventually I begin to murmur around 9.25 when I emerge from AM US sitcom hell but today really I don’t feel like doing anything.

Early on Dad hits me on MSN and to be honest I really don’t want to talk or deal with humanity. I decide however to go over to the olds today, there is stuff I have to do over there.

When I finally actually bother to look out of the window, I find that in fact it is a beautiful day and things start to feel/appear better.

After a few hic-cups in preparation, I eventually get out of the house to get going to Clacton and in the end I manage to get my stuff together and finally leave around midday. As I step out of my flat however there is a really suspicious looking woman just sat in the car park making notes from within her SUV. She is attractive however, so her intentions and threats get overlooked.

After I get a newspaper, I am really close to making moves to Clacton when I realise that I have forgotten to get a copy of my CV to take home to print off. This really shows how my priorities are set right now (job search least? Surely not!).

Eventually I get to Clacton around 1PM and when I get there Adrian is home talking to Dad. It doesn’t sound like things are getting any better for him. We all wind up talking until 3PM when Mum gets home and suddenly I realise I have wasted most of the day before I have finally got into doing some writing.

Around this time the parents go out to some bank appointment in Clacton (where I get the impression the banks are royally screwing my parents with their move) and when they get home Dad has had a mild diabetic attack which is really scary.

When I turned my parents’ computer on, sitting there was an email from my aunt, my Mum’s sister and the wife of one of Dad’s bosses at the company that is currently really messing him around. I just roll my eyes and ignore the email after reading the classic line from her: “as far as Bernard is concerned there is nothing up”. Nice one Bean.

Dinner happens and so does The Simpsons in order to give some structure to the world and I continue writing until 9PM when I find myself in front of the TV flicking between Celebrity Big Brother and the documentary about Auschwitz. And at times, its hard to decide which living option would be the worse.

Tonight is Tuesday and therefore Shameless night and tonight it is well back on form. The night ends with attempts to fall asleep on my parent’s sofa while on the boob tube is a combination of Big Momma’s House, Fletch and Live Celebrity Big Brother. Chevy Chase wins everytime.

np: PJ Harvey – C’mon Billy

2005-01-22T01:07:00.000-08:00

January 17 (Monday): Huddle Formation. Monday morning downer, I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go. I’m up at 6.40 after disturbing dreams and almost immediately I find myself checking the internet for work in a panic. According to online, it is a really dry season, even more so than pre-Christmas which only makes me feel more alarmed than ever. And the fact that I may be competing for jobs now after being out of work several months I feel will stand me at a disadvantage in any upcoming applications. Bad times.

I spend the morning split between writing and applying to bad jobs on the internet just to stay alive and in the mind/consciousness of the agency personnel. However splitting my attention to the two only equates to my doing a half arsed job of both (I would suspect).

Lunch arrives and at 12.30 the movie The Arsenal Stadium Mystery comes on Channel Four. I have seen this film before and it is unbelievably fantastic. The film is from 1940 and stars the Arsenal team of that year as they play a team of amateurs (amateurs!) who unfortunately, despite being very sporting and skilled, have a player die on them on the pitch in the second half. And it was murder! The game gets abandoned and then during the replay the following Wednesday afternoon (and swift re-arrangement the FA seem incapable of today) the local plod detective goes through the motions and catches the bugger who murdered the chap (his teammate?). Unlike today however, no one suspects the Arsenal players of doing any wrong; and rightfully so. Today however, things in football are different. Personally I think in order to learn some manners and etiquette, Arsene Wenger should be forced to watch this movie every single day of his life.

With that out of the way, I head over to the East Hill gates post office and then onto Tesco Hythe for my first food of the day (and a food shop under £5). As I enter the superstore, all I can smell are hot cross buns. The odour is encapsulating and fishes me right in as when I see the two for one offer (“toofer”) I snap them up immediately when I really do not need or really desire them. I’m a slave to consumerism.

As I drive home up Hythe my phone rings and it is a lady from Reed in Cambridge. Fantastic! I do the right thing though and tell her that I am driving and request that she please call me back when I get home. I get in and do stuff and eventually (about an hour later) she phones back. She tells how an opportunity has arisen with a large corporate in Bury St Edmunds (“is it Greene King? I know it is but would you just please tell me”). I mention that I had just been up there last night but not that it was a real trek in my opinion. This woman isn’t overly clued up though, she doesn’t even know/realise that I lost my job. And unfortunately when I tell that, almost immediately she seems to lose interest in me; I am damaged goods. From here my morale drops to the bottom as it all begins to feel like too much hard work for what are really generally run of the mill jobs (these are not exec positions).

My mood lowers and in an attempt to lift it out of the funk, I watch The Rutles movie which I am in the process of getting from Soulseek. This film gets better with each time as, with more experience and savvy, the references get clearer and more recognisable by the day. Cheese and onions.

Pathetically, after last night’s late night, I find myself falling asleep in late afternoon amd when I wake up, it is one of those depressing “disco” sleeps that Daniel Kitson was referring to in his set Saturday. When I come around I begin reading Hell’s Angels by Hunter S. Thompson before the Simpsons comes on and saves the day, proving that all is right with the world while I discover that over the course of the afternoon I have eaten six hot cross buns. Fat bloater.

My eventful evening has a kind of resignation air/feel to it as I put on the Biggie And Tupac DVD I bought in the Christmas sales, realising that I never really wanted to see/watch it in the first place. Naturally, again I fall asleep watching the turkey, disrespecting my homies in the process.

When I come around, Celebrity Big Brother is on and Bez is losing it fast. These are the signs of a dope fiend having withdrawal symptoms. These and semen stains on his trousers from too much jacking off. It looks like the leopard is revealing his spots now with his antisocial tendencies and he’s bound to be the next person to get voted off/out (whenever that will be) just because he is now just plain weird, strange and scary. And those eyes! Don’t they just scream: “I want to do bad things to you”.

And this isn’t even the big event on Celebrity Big Brother tonight as John McCirick (what his name is) gets voted off unsurprisingly. This guy has the worst persecution complex in history; I thought I hated myself! He did say some mildly amusing things but ultimately Mr Hate Pants is from a different planet (something that has been noticeable for years from his basic clothing taste). At least however he did say stuff that was mildly amusing and upset/insulted people (especially the little cocksure school boy wannabe rapper).

From there my night ends with me sailing the day out watching ER followed by Men Behaving Badly (this show still cuts it). I find myself having to sleep with my window open because the flat is just SO hot/warm. And I wind up leaving the TV on all night which really helps both my electricity bill and potentially keeps up (and annoys) some of my neighbours. Nevermind.

np: Blur – Oily Water

2005-01-21T12:39:00.000-08:00

like the effects of a Disney movie, the sounds Cats Against The Bomb emit turn into music notes around him

2005-01-21T12:34:00.000-08:00

Planet Beet and the Bury St Edmunds scene

2005-01-21T12:25:00.000-08:00

January 16 (Sunday): Friendship Update. Its an uncomfortable Sunday when I awaken. Misery abounds whilst outside its really not too bad, today I awaken grumpy. I ease into the day with the Sunday TV, where it all culminates with Millwall’s game being the featured game on The Championship.

Eventually I make moves and get up. I take my thrown for early morning twos and FINALLY I finish reading Kingdom Of Fear after repeatedly picking it up and putting it down for months now. By the end of my reading it through labour very little of it is registering, personally I think it is pretty incoherent and random even for Hunter S. Thompson. He is old after all.

I MSN with Racton for a while before noticing that outside, once more the guy is washing his clapped out black Fords again! I am so anti-social, I really do not want to have to have a twenty minute conversation about how I’ve lost my job and how the groundskeeper is weird and our property management are regularly taking the piss out of us living in this court. With godspeed, I avoid his advances and run to my car and speed out of dodge, wasting zero time in the process.

It is around 11.30 when I get to Asda, pretty much the calm before the storm period on a Sunday (lunchtime is murder time). I barely spend a pound, buying a little French stick and News Of The World to satisfy my Sunday needs. I do however freak out when I first step into the store and think I see the eldest boss at my old firm (he has the same balding hair style).

When I’m back in the flat, my phone rings and it is Staff asking if I’m still going to the Cats Against The Bomb show tonight in Bury St Edmunds. I say “yay” and offer him a lift, it gives me someone to go with.

I manage to get back into writing and finally begin to make progress on things, I only stop to have a break when Celebrity Big Brother comes on and I waste an hour of my time on that, not really learning anything about the world in the progress.

The afternoon movie on ITV is a movie version of War And Peace. It lasts almost four hours but I feel obliged to try and watch it because I will never ever read the book, so I guess it would be good to try and know the story in one capacity or other. Bad idea, this film is pretty terrible despite a couple of star names (Audrey Hepburn and Henry Fonda). Ultimately though, the film is boring and it sends me to sleep and I experience a “disco nap” when I awaken disorientated, feeling guilty about being lazy. To make amends, I almost immediately snap back into writing before realising that Twins is on the other channel and I wind up watching the end of that.

Back on the internet (anywhere but reality for me today it seems) I watch the trailer for the new Woody Allen movie called Melinda And Melinda. It looks fantastic, looking like one of those early nineties films he did set in plush New York about some kind of ridiculous drama. And Will Ferrell is the star in it. Scarily though, Chloe Sevigny is also in it with proper blonde hair and she looks almost exactly like Haslett that way. Makes me feel queasy a tad.

The Simpsons and dinner happen and then I head out at 7.30 to the show in Bury. I pick Staff up outside the derelict Odeon cinema on Crouch Street (where apparently there are a bunch of squatters living inside, I would really love to look inside the old cinema to see what it is like these days). I tear up my two least favourite roads (A12 then A14) while Staff tells me about his latest adventures with Extreme Noise Terror. The drive to Bury St Edmunds actually turns out to be a lot longer than I was expecting and arriving in Bury is a weird thing as it turns out to be a strange place (I have never been in this hood before). Eventually we find the venue (The Priors) and upon arrival Staff comments “it’s a beefeater!”.

We go inside and it costs £4 to do so. Immediately we catch glimpse of Adam and Doug and we find ourselves having stepped inside the Bury St Edmunds indie scene. Tonight’s show is being put on by Planet Beet which is run by a someone from the band The Secret Hairdresser and tonight is the Electro Beet night.

The first act tonight is some lad sat on stage cross legged at a laptop pushing out big beats in the style of the Chemical Brothers all in the name of distortion and noise pollution. The guy turns out to be called Bev and ultimately it is really really weird to see such a set occur it what is basically the backroom of a pub, always traditionally the domain of horribly bad rock bands. This is club music and it just seems so out of place here.

And following is something just as out of place as now three lads sit on the stage cross legged experimenting with noise pollution themselves, all in the name of Jack Nicholson (bet he would appreciate that). Here we have one longhair on a laptop with two oiks twiddling their guitars in the stylee of Sonic Youth in their most annoying and frustrating. This is that kind of non-melodic post rock people had us listening to a few years ago, taking music reviewed in The Wire straight to heart. It all reminds me of that Can track that sounds like an aeroplane flying/crossing inches above. I cannot recall many specific bands that actually get up and do this on stage (although there are loads) but the main reference I remember is Navigator from Norwich. This hurts. At the climax of the set Doug comments “very Mutebox” and that comment is so right.

The Cats Against The Bomb set tonight is special because it is the first time that Adam has headlined. I fear I may have sounded as if I were ripping on the venue with my comments earlier but the stage makes for a fantastic setting, it is lights everywhere to match the disorientating sounds emitting from the stage. Again he opens with Woodshed and it all starts out on a winning roll as the sound is pretty loud to match the ferocity of the material. Three songs in and the set threatens to break down as Cats Against The Bomb breaks a string, breaking flesh in the process as the set becomes bloodstained in a heated frenzy. Guitar Wolf Man rules the roost tonight as the tribute to the Orients seems to find it best possible environment. Tonight the I Wanna Be Sedated Ramones cover returns to the set as the person favourite of this writer (AKA Lover) falls to the wayside. Confusion abounds as Ant Gets Decked spews out inappropriate sounds and all too soon the sonic equivalent of a rollercoaster ridden on a deckchair set ends.

The night ends and Staff and I set off back down the A14 and then the A12. The weather appears to be taking a turn for the worse and I struggle to tear my way home on these roads, occasionally subtly flipping out in the process just in an attempt to stay on the road. Remember the impossible video game Pole Position? This was what I/we was/were living. Talk in the car turned to our metal past and exchanging our different versions/views of the infamous Colchester music scene over the past ten years. Regardless of what happens, it will always come full circle and wind up where it all began.

When I get in the TV options are The French Connection or Celebrity Big Brother. Once more, the latter prevails.

np: Sebadoh – Zone Doubt

2005-01-20T06:29:00.000-08:00

Daniel Kitson

2005-01-20T06:26:00.000-08:00

January 15 (Saturday): Bottle Rocket. This morning it is the most miserable day in the UK. When I finally I murmur, I discover I have left my keys on my heater all night and they now appear to be melting in the process. I now fear my push button car keys will no longer function. Surprisingly however, they do still work, all marks to Ford for making them so sturdy and resistant to idiots.

Early on I go out and do the Saturday morning newspaper run (The Sun and The Guardian for the Guardian Guide). In the process I clear the boot of my car of the trinkets and baubles I got lumbered with from home. This includes a twenty year old boxed Atari 2600 which has been crushed under a pile of NMEs. Twenty years existence for such a demise and lack of respect.

I pick up the Guardian Guide and Mark E. Smith is on the cover. Today is going to be a day of listening to The Fall I think/decide.

I manage to get into writing up until lunchtime when it is Liverpool v Man Utd, which I check out on internet radio. When I join it, Man Utd are winning 1-0 and apparently when Wayne Rooney scored the goal, a Liverpool fan threw his mobile phone at him. Wouldn’t that prove to be a costly missile, surely a Scouse scally wouldn’t have insurance on his phone. Ah, maybe it wasn’t his phone, if you know what I mean. Also though, if the phone had been the property of the owner, surely it’s the easiest thing in the world for finding/tracing its owner? Bit thick, especially when the phone didn’t actually hit Rooney in the first place! Useless.

The afternoon is spent with my watching the rest of the Adam And Joe DVD but I have to admit I do fall asleep during the best of the fourth series. I do patiently sit through all the Story Of Adam And Joe though which is really interesting and funny, tracing them right from their grass roots level.

During this Ben texts about going to see Daniel Kitson tonight. He suggests that he comes over to mine at 7PM but my home is an utter pigsty right now so instead I go “no, I’ll pick you up at 7PM”.

It is 4PM by the time the DVD finishes and I check the football to see that Millwall are already winning 2-0 at Nottingham Forest thanks to goals from Hayles and Dunne. The team Millwall has put out is almost its strongest lineup (no Ifill or Wise) and Harris is only on the bench for Forest. I read in The Sun this morning comments from Dennis Wise where he was snapping at Neil Harris for not performing and only scoring eight goals all the time that he has been manager, which further adds to the obvious truth that he just did not get along (fell out) with Wise or someone else in management at the club. The whole situation looks even stranger when in the middle of the second half Neil Harris gets book when he isn’t even on the field of play (being still an unused substitute). The official line is unsportsman like behaviour and the mind begins to boggle as to just what he did to deserve the booking. Towards the end Forest claw a late goal back and with Millwall’s general record for letting in late goals this season, I say to myself “here we go”. Apparently right at the death, having now finally got himself in the game, Neil Harris goes close to scoring an equaliser but in the end the game ends 2-1 to Millwall, the first game with Dave Bassett involved and it’s a winner.

During the game, Dad comes online to ask me the scores and whether I am going over theirs tomorrow (“nope”). I tell him I’m going to see Daniel Kitson tonight and it works out helpful that Dad has seen Phoenix Nights when explaining to him who Kitson is.

Early evening and I actually find myself half watching ET on TV. It is the 20th anniversary version of the movie and it sees ET up to all kinds of additional/extra shenanigans such as falling into a bath. This film is all killer no filler.

Time arrives to head over to Ben’s and I actually find myself getting slightly lost on the way to his house. And when I find it, once more I appear to have lost the automotive skills required to park a car. Before I even get chance to call at his door, he is out getting into my car, the engine not even turned off.

We head into town and it is still pretty early so we pop into the Hogshead for a drink. I really didn’t want to go to a pub beforehand, I find myself still really paranoid about bumping into ex-work colleagues and as a result when we get sat down chatting, I find myself nervously twitching/twisting in my seat, looking distracted and shifty.

Eventually we head over to the Arts Centre for the show and when we arrive there is a huge queue formed outside the building. We go in, we sit down.

At around 8.45 Daniel Kitson shuffles on stage looking, as expected, a proper state. He proceeds to talk all the way through until 11.30, having a brief 20 minute interval in the middle. And from what I can tell, as an act, he gets away with murder. The first half of his “set” just really consists of a shambolic ramble of funny moments but slurred and stuttered all the way. Within in a couple of moments of starting, he is telling the Colchester crowd how he had to walk through the town centre, because of a taxi foul up, commenting that the place just seems inhabited by “cunts and slags”. And he gets away with this because he is playing to his audience. He then further proceeds to reveal (joke?) how he had actually forgotten about the set that evening until 2PM that afternoon when his agent texted him. If true, it showed. He continues early on, telling the audience how he has thrown his back out playing football that week and so now he will also be grimacing his way through the set in addition to stuttering through it (although a couple of times he blames the microphone for his stutter). He tells how he plays football every Tuesday and how the levels of excitement/anticipation he has for the next game (next Tuesday) helps him to judge how well his life is going that week. It is exactly 52 weeks to the day since his last appearance in Colchester and he hints at the many developments in his life in the meantime, the main one of which appears to be the event of him falling in love and promptly falling out of love. Rather than being a bleeding heart on stage however, he only hints at the pain it caused for comedic ends. Instead he captures his own insecurities and digs at this management for referring to one of his spells after a daytime sleep as being a “disco nap” (a cool term for awaking to things having gone “Pete Tong”) when really, as Kitson points out, it is just a nutcase losing all use of his functions and forgetting who and where he is. Kitson’s shtick appears to be to address his audience in a friendly, likeable manner which (fortunately for him) serves to make him forgivable if not overly professional.

The half point arrives (as he keeps asking a guy in a blue shirt in the crowd what the time is) and I notice sitting down my row of seats and a client from my ex-employers (a dentist who drinks until the early hours then does root canals in the morning the same day apparently).

After the interval, when Kitson returns, things definitely begin to pick up pace and heads towards some level of cohesion. Kitson smartly lays out a number of sheets of paper in the floor in front of him, which he refers to as his “set list” (“just like a proper performer”). The second section turns out to be anecdotageddon as Kitson turns out not to be all that keen on every day life or anything popular around him. He talks about his family visit over Christmas and his experience of beating his Father at squash for the very first time, prompting him to feel entitled to the alpha male privileges of the homestead, those privileges being to grab the head chair in his parents’ living room (“red leather upholstery, which I know sounds awful”). He also mentions a visit to a local gym with his Father, prompting a tirade against men who go to gym, the real alpha male types. He particularly turns focus on those god-awful magazines Nuts and Zoo, mocking the Johnny Vaughan TV adverts, now inserting a line about being “raped by a hammer” into the spiel. Kitson expounds pity towards any woman involved with a man who would read such magazines, proudly declaring any such lady as being “like a rabbit caught in the headlights of misogyny”. The female stuff is not all one sided, he discloses how certain women have a hold over men, obviously speaking from experience, shares the sad truth of how there generally is that one special person who is capable of bringing everything in a person’s life just crashing down. He so sharply states how “you can be having the best time, the greatest life but one text message from that special person saying “I was just thinking about you” can unravel everything and bring doubt and questions to the most clear mind”.

A quick/sharp return to mocking TV adverts sees a well aimed (and deserved) pop at the teachers adverts currently doing the rounds: “do the people you work with require two cups of coffee in the morning?” = “do the people you work with occasionally threaten you with a knife?”. Swiftly he moves onto his experiences holidaying in America and just how great the country was and how he is really sick of the vogue vague anti-American feeling/sentiment that currently prevails (“but its just such a fun fucking place, I was eating Ukrainian food at 3AM in New York”). He adds how he travelled from New York to San Francisco on the train, illuminating (almost) how the countries problems just come from the sheer excess size of the place. At this point he tells of how he went to a Joanna Newsom show in America (confirming just what the annoying music pumping out of the PA all night has been, that horrible little elfin shit) and how he and his friend were judging indie girls and how, just because the girls were at a Joanna Newsom show, they felt that they had just that little bit more chance with them.

The set nears an end as he continues to clock watch with the help of the blue shirted guy in the crowd (“I have a cab booked for 11.30”). Around 11.15 a person gets up to leave. Kitson calls her out and asks why she is leaving. The poor girl turns out to be late returning home. It turns out that she is only 16 and that her parents “disapprove of Daniel Kitson”. Rock and roll. Kitson warmly enquires as to how she is getting home, alone and it turns out that she has a half hour walk ahead of her. He warmly expresses some concern for the safety of the girl whilst the crowd laughs along (“am I the only person a bit concerned about her?”), even to the point of offering her a lift to her house in his cab. When she is gone, Kitson still appears worried for her wellbeing for a few moments afterwards. The set winds up and ends with Kitson dressing himself onstage, gathering his stuff together ready to leave at 11.30 (hit and run). He ends with a brief Q&A but doesn’t really appear want to talk about anything interesting or juicy (“tell us about Phoenix Nights”). The set ends and we applaud. Ragged as it was (and also lengthy), it was peaks and troughs and being a person used to Bill Hicks kind of sets, it did slightly disappoint. However, Kitson gets in the last laugh as with half the hall making their way out of the building, he runs back on stage yelling “sit down, it’s all right my cab hasn’t arrived yet!” prompting half the audience to get back to their seats.

Post gig, Ben and I head for some food. My recent diet of cereal, cereal, cereal and water is really making me sick, so to just buy chips in pitta (a chip kebab!) turns out to be a real treat. I don’t know what the problem is, I don’t know if it is the beard, but the guy in the kebab shop suddenly appears to be having some trouble understanding what I say to him. Perhaps if I slapped him on the head his hearing would get better.

When I get home, almost immediately Racton is online asking me how the show was. With my gut reaction being disappointment, I sound a bit of a downer in the process of describing the night.

On TV, a late Saturday night, the choices turn out to be Manchester United The Movie or Celebrity Big Brother. I opt for latter, perving over it to the point I fall asleep.

np: The Fall – C.R.E.E.P.

2005-01-20T06:24:00.000-08:00

the V/VM mobile

2005-01-20T06:22:00.000-08:00

January 14 (Friday): Air Raid Gtr. Oh my, I wake up this morning (around 6.30) and it is so bitterly cold. It’s a slow start and it isn’t until 9.30 before I am active.

More chores today and these begin with sorting out my mortgage insurance documents out to send off to the people that do not seem too happy with me (ho ho).

I get ready for the agency interview and I’m not really too serious about it. In other words, I don’t bother to shave off my “beard” for the interview, especially after last night’s comment (I am fool). I put on my suit and it fills really funny, it has been over a month now since I last wore a suit. And I really should have this suit (the pinstripe) cleaned in the meantime as there appears to be some kind of gnarly comedy stain around the crotch area. This does not look good, it makes me look like a member of Arab Strap.

I make moves around 11.45, to get out of Colchester in good time to deal with the A12 in order to be in Chelmsford for 1PM. It is a beautiful day actually, sunny and not necessarily cold (although some really bitter weather must surely only be around the corner). The A12 turns out to be a breeze and I find myself in Chelmsford well before time, actually leaving enough time to find a post office.

I do the interview thing at the employment agency and I sense a real reaction on first impressions when I appear with my “beard” (I really should have lost it for my return into the working world). By now I am pretty sceptical and blasé about all these employment agencies, so I probably don’t go into the thing/interview with fully the right attitude. That said however, I do feel I manage to turn on the charm and NOT appear too laid back (something I now really have a complex about). Initially/immediately I get set up with filling out some forms on a PC while my interviewer disappears to photocopy my passport and no doubt laugh at my photo on it (which by the way I am actually quite proud of). He returns and we get into the routine of my explaining my employment history, not least recent negative developments. I actually find myself really liking my interviewer, he seems the most human and least bullshit person I have met. I get onto the thing about the blog dismissal, hoping that he has heard/read about the Waterstones case. Sadly he has not. Once more I find myself twisting myself up in knots trying to explain the circumstances of my dismissal but at least this guy knows what a blog is, he tells me that he has one himself. And suddenly I sense some empathy mixed with paranoia in the knowledge that he will probably do a search for mine at some point (or am I being too paranoid, too 1984?). The interview goes with a swing and I feel really encouraged by what I am hearing. He tells me how Colchester is “dry” for salaries and from the perspective of this agency, it looks like I will be looking for work outside of Colchester. I tell him about my last job and how I didn’t even have a telephone on my desk and he looks at me as I am/were an idiot. I couldn’t disagree. He mentions/suggests a position in Billericay, which is pretty far away but the position sounds a really good one, a good opportunity. I have to say, I think I really need to get back into work soon because I am getting pretty comfortable here at home doing my thing. My interview with him ends and he wheels in the temp lady who says she may have some positions coming up. Unfortunately I do however see her giving me some funny looks and expressions, I’m sure brought on by the “beard”. This all sounds a lot more solid and real than other agencies I have spoken to over the past two months and when she is done, I leave their offices feeling optimistic again. Job hunting is proving so rollercoaster with the emotions.

From there, happy, I indulge in the opposite of retail therapy, retail victory? I don’t know, I just feel good and confident in putting things on the credit card. I find the Nick Cave “God Is In The House” DVD in the sale, so I buy that coupled with the Go! Team “Ladyflash” CD single and The Rum Diary by Hunter S. Thompson. I then make a quick trip into Ottakers where I find The Great Shark Hunt in the shop, in really good condition. Almost always when I see this book in stores, it is always tatty as hell from where cheapskates have been fingering the 600 page tomb. I also briefly flick through the sale there and find Requiem For A Dream by Hubert Selby Jr for only £1.99. Result!

Chelmsford however lowers in my estimation when I think I almost get pick pocketed in WH Smith. As I bend over to see if they have the Toby Young book (nowhere else does), I find some Chav kid bending over in synchronity with me. I whip up as if to go “what the fuck?”. Not confident of my suspicions though, I don’t say anything as he moves away to pick up a Ben Elton novel, a sure fire sign he has not interest in buying a book. I hover around him for a bit, to piss him off back but the way I do it, it just comes over as if I am trying to pull him. I am so angry and so fucking offended and yet maybe it is all in my head, maybe I’m just being paranoid. I watch him as he ambles his way around another section to see if he is going to try it on with someone else. I watch as he picks up the Jonny Wilkinson autobiography with only confirms just what an arsehole wanker this kid. He doesn’t attempt to pickpocket anyone else so maybe I was being paranoid it seems but this is only thought until I see him hook up with his girl, a thicker tracksuited Chav than himself. So those are Chelmsford wrong ‘uns, I can now believe how Stevo was beaten/mugged in this town.

I fly back down the A12 back to Colchester and stop by at Asda on the way for some (deserved I feel) lunch. As I return home I find myself following a car with the number plate “VVM 1”. Oh wow, I bet the band V/VM would dig that I figure and I find myself attempting to get a photo of the car like a bored lunatic. And I actually do manage to get the snap (just about). I really need a job.

The afternoon sees me back in time to actually make something of the afternoon. Instead I watch outside my window as my neighbour, with the afternoon off himself, washes his crappy car for about the fourth time this month.

Myself, I wind up on MSN with both Justin and Racton exchanging world views. And this only gets interrupted as Steve Clear (Mark’s brother) emails during my mincing.

I manage to do some writing and eventually find myself in the evening when my phone rings and it is Stevo for some reason. He is calling me up after an ISP number for an internet connection where he is trying to fudge his mate’s old computer to get it online with a backdoor method it seems. It sounds absolutely excruciating just what he is trying to attempt, looking on the internet alone for a phone number turns out to be pretty painful work.

Friday night evening arrives but I have little recollection other than The Simpsons episode being the tennis one with the Williams sisters. After that is the first eviction night of this year’s Celebrity Big Brother. It is obviously the hilarious Jackie Stallone being booted out but before it happens, I find myself sent straight to sleep out of tedium.

np: Free Kitten – What’s Fair

2005-01-20T06:16:00.000-08:00

Atari!!!!!!!!

2005-01-20T06:14:00.000-08:00

January 13 (Thursday): Junior Kickstart. I awaken at my parent’s house, on the sofa, following a relatively good night’s sleep for being draped over the settee all night. I’m up around 8.30AM, which means that mum has already left for work by the time I’m moving.

Spirits are high this morning, not least for seeing Bob Odenkirk guest in Everybody Loves Raymond. I know who he is while the majority of people won’t really know (or care) who he actually is but still it’s a pleasant little in joke I have between me, myself and I.

I’m still lounging when my mobile phone rings early. It is a number I do not recognise and upon receipt of the call, it is yet another employment agency asking me about myself. This agency turns out to be one I almost had dealings with last year, applying to jobs via their website to zero response. Therefore I am rather blasé about arranging a meeting with them. Still, I go for it and a date is set for tomorrow at 1PM in Chelmsford. Anything that gets me out of the house has to be a good thing. And a step back into the professional world should surely mark a return for me to reality and mean my shaving my “beard” off. We’ll see.

Eventually I get up and running and into writing and scanning on my parents’ computer. I have plenty to do today and tonight is my return to the English class, which I am really excited about actually, especially being that I actually did my homework and enjoyed the book in the process.

My morning gets disrupted by another phonecall when a woman from the booking agency for the Johnny Vegas Show asks if I would be interested in audience participation in the show. I reply “I don’t think that would be wise”. Apparently the tickets are in the post.

Checking on the internet, I find out today that Dave Bassett has joined the Millwall coaching team. What? Gut reaction is that this is not that great.

At 12.30, the last St Trinian’s film of the week comes on and it is The Great St Trinian’s Train Robbery. This is the first colour St Trinian’s movie and the first I actually manage to sit all the way through this week, really enjoying it in the process actually. This movie starred still starred George Cole but now Frankie Howerd came aboard and along with him came Reg Varney from On The Buses. None of the school staff or kids were famous by Terry Scott and Arthur Mullard do turns in the film too. The films ends with an insane train scene where the bank robbers (Howerd’s crew) find themselves first chased, then chasing up and down train tracks, in times like these it all looks insane. And it very entertaining.

During the movie, Dad pops out and once the film ends, I quickly pop out to get a newspaper to see today’s news stories on the sacked blogger. When I get home and flick through The Guardian, there does not appear to be anything (although I don’t look through it thoroughly).

Almost immediately after I get back in, mum gets home and she’s stressing over something to do with the building society, their mortgage and their house moving. As soon as she gets in, she goes out. And I’m not made to feel welcome still being around. Not long after she goes, Dad gets back and not long after, my aunt Sue turns up, who I briefly talk to but I’m really busy doing stuff.

Kindly mum sorts out dinner early so that I can indulge before leaving at 5.30 in order to guarantee that I get to my English class in good time (without having to rush and crash my car). Today, amongst the old rubbish that I am having to drag from my parents’ house back to my flat is a boxed Atari 2600, which probably doesn’t work, surely a games console with wood panelling has to suffering some kind of dry rot/wood worm over the course of twenty years.

On time, I head out to English class really excited about returning. As I enter the college, I see one of the other students (a very attractive other student) and she makes comment about my “beard” saying “its quite sexual actually”. You shouldn’t say things like that to me. I step into the group and its all pretty nonchalant and blasé. Teacher also comments my “rough look” before saying “dare I ask?” and it doesn’t even register with me that she is enquiring about my work situation. I’m lost for words. The class begins and I get smart arse remarks in my direction from the teacher which I’m not really in the mood for today. Unintentionally, I can feel my face of thunder, I’m lacking a sense of humour tonight and I feel the questioning I am receiving only serves to make me look stupid as my face goes red with each remark.

We tear into the book and it turns out that my perception of it varies/differs greatly from the rest of the class. And this really bothers me, makes me feel like I didn’t read the book closely or more that I didn’t read it properly. When I dare consider that the step father (but real father) having sex with the main character was not actually rape but consensual it occurs to me that I have probably got Lolita too much on the brain. And this bothers me. Then again, why would the wife being aiming her gun at the daughter and not the father?

Fortunately we get a breather when the fire alarms go off. We casually go downstairs and out the building where we are met by the crazing centre manager going “this is not a drill”. No, she appears to be holding some kind of torch. I actually used to work at this centre and I know/knew/remember the woman from 1993, scarily nearly 12 years ago now. I’m sure she does not remember me though while I still remember that the caretaker used to call/refer to her as “bum lips”.

We stand outside in the cold and I talk and rip the piss with Emma. Fire engines turn up but there doesn’t appear to be a real fire really. Around us, several groups of handicapped people have also been dragged outside in the cold and they begin to get distressed and start crying. I find myself more concerned just with my books getting burned.

We return to the class and the teacher looks really pissed off and phased when we get back. We launch into further analysis of the book and I don’t chip in while all around put in their ten cents (sense), only confirming further how different (wrong?) my interpretation of the book was to theirs. We begin some really analyse of the first six pages of the book, really looking into the piece in depth to a point I have never applied before. It all serves to make me really feel like some kind of hack writer.

Eventually I am put out of my misery and the class ends (thankfully). As I leave I tell teacher that “I probably be here next week” which probably sounded more sinister than the fact that I will just be in hospital having horrible work done on horrible parts.

Getting home, I watch the remainder of Celebrity Big Brother and Jackie Stallone gets funnier by the day but also less popular with it. She is a freak and yet makes just as much sense in that house as anyone else.

Finally tonight Channel Four shows some drama called Yasmin about a young Muslim lady living in England in the aftermath of Sept 11. It’s a pretty horrific programme and not really strictly how my experiences of Muslims have led me to believe that that is the way it is for Muslims (one of the Muslim characters is perceived/performed as almost feral). Its pretty depressing stuff to watch and I fall asleep before the end, before I predict whitey is revealed as the ultimate bad guy. It gives me bad dreams.

np: The Jesus Lizard - Boilermaker

2005-01-20T06:12:00.001-08:00

worst Waterstones ever!

2005-01-20T06:02:00.000-08:00

January 12 (Wednesday): Get It Together. Hard times. I awaken at 4AM and for some reason check the MSN beeps. Indeed they were from Tom but instead of asking for another chess match (the big rematch) he is alerting my attention to a news article in The Guardian. I just know it has to be blog related and indeed it is as some guy in Edinburgh has now been sacked by Waterstones for his blog and being in the media first, he obviously gets first claims which somewhat steals my little “local” thunder. Good luck to him though, its not a laughing matter or something that remedies quickly in the aftermath, 15 minutes may not last a lifetime.

My alarm clock goes off at 7AM but I’m really not interested, so I turn it off and roll over back asleep. I eventual re-emerge to the day at around 9AM, catching the arse end of King Of Queens on TV.

In the light of day, with hesitation, I begin looking into the day’s blog dismissal stories and looking at the incriminating blog itself. It is called The Woolamaloo Gazette and pretty harmless really, he has a reason to feel more aggrieved than me but I still don’t think the going to the media option is very productive for either party. The gentleman appears to be a SF geek, akin the Comic Store Guy from the Simpsons, and used the profanity “smegger” when dissing his boss at Waterstones. I sense an apparent lack of sense of humour on their part but being a corporate entity I guess they must be seen to be firm standing and could well be suggested/accused of being made to make an example out of Mr Gordon. It is also kind of ridiculous how Waterstones have taken such a dim view at being referred to as “Bastardstones”, sticks and stones and all that jazz.

I have to say to that I do semi envy all the courage of Mr Gordon and am pretty aggrieved myself that he has been handed the moniker of “first UK Blogger to be dismissed”. I always knew/realised that I could have taken the case to the press, especially after the high profile Queen Of The Sky story, but my old employers had slapped me on the hand and threatened me with apparent litigation, so best leave sleeping dogs lie it seemed. Still my trade off doesn’t really seem to have been very fair, I keep my ex-employer (and its reputation) out of the media and they have kept me out of work.

In the meantime Marceline hops online to point the story out and I’m resigned to going “yup, I saw it”.

Tearing into the day, now obviously bored of not working, being stuck at home suffering from cabin fever, I find myself perusing the internet looking for audience tickets for TV and radio shows. I stop short at applying for tickets for Trisha but I have to tell you, I come pretty (ugly) close.

Justin smacks me up on MSN and we get into some conversation. Today is his birthday, so I guess amongst items he is fishing for birthday wishes. I really hope I’ll be able to make it up for his birthday bash but I don’t think I’ll be up to it (something between Colchester and Leytonstone/London is bound to arose me and cause discomfort).

Finally, there is the dreaded thud at my door: the post arrives. There is a large brown envelope and this is what I have been fearing it seems. However, the enquiry into my dismissal against my ex-employers appears to have been ruled in my favour with “…..on how your job with GLOBOCHEM ended. We have now decided that this doubt no longer applies.” For once in my life, common sense prevails and a huge weight feels as if it has been lifted from me. Today I dodge a real bullet, so no therapy needed today.

Finally I manage to get out the house in order to go get a newspaper to check actually check out the “doocing” article in the Guardian. As I drive over, some insane woman in an SUV cuts me up. And it is one of those silver grey SUVs. Why is it that all cars in the silver grey colour are owned by complete wankers and are utter menaces on the roads, seemingly being the vehicles always causing the accidents? And even worse, when I drive back home after Asda, what seems to be the exact same SUV appears to attempt to cut me up and cause an accident on a roundabout yet again! I look in my mirror and it looks like some cranky professional housewife/mother talking on her mobile phone. That is how it appears. In reality I suspect it may be some kind of assignation attempt, akin to the way Princess Di was bumped off/whacked.

The SUV is a stupid fucking vehicle. It is too big for our roads. And too many women drive them as soccer mums and for school runs/pick ups. The stereotype goes that women cannot park cars, so how are the poor cows expecting to be able to manage a ridiculous off road, Big Foot car?

Back to Asda. I step into Asda and get my newspapers, the NME and some lunch. As I stagger around the store bemused, I see in the distance someone I used to go to school with, the kid in our year that was picked on more than anyone else (and no, I am not seeing my reflection in a mirror). As soon as I see him, I make a quick exit and pretty much hide from him seeing me. I always thought this guy was going to be big in computers, not big in grocery management (if). I should not mock vocations though, how close am I too losing my status and having to take a McJob? That will be the call/decision of Visa.

I get home and look at The Guardian. The Waterstone guy’s article is HUGE. He has made page five and almost has the entire page dedicated to his story. Once more, my former employers should bless for keeping my story out of the press and not really ruining the goodwill of their company (as they weakly claimed in my dismissal notice anyway).

I begin panic writing now, all this heat for blogs means that my “doocing” now hold less weight by the day it seems/feels.

While I’m doing this, Chris pops up on MSN and we find ourselves reminiscing over Christmas.

Today’s St Trinian’s movie is The Pure Hell Of St Trinian’s. It’s on but I don’t really pay any/much attention to it. Again the cast is fantastic (George Cole, Joyce Grenfell, Irene Handl, Sid James, John Le Mesurier and Warren Mitchell) but it is so apparent that these movies are a part of my youth that I will always view with rose tinted glasses.

Instead, now shook with the horror of my potentially missing the boat with the blogger sacking hype, I text a number of my friends asking them if they have seen the Guardian today.

I find, in order to continue with my writing, there are some things that I need to get from my parents (because those disks didn’t work) so I get on the phone and ask Dad if it is all right for me to go over to theirs (again!). Its cool with him but I sense it might not be cool with mum.

Regardless, I leave Colchester at 3.30, stopping by PC World to pick up some rechargeable batteries for my camera. This is daytime PC World then. I watch the girl sit at the checkout with her head on her hand holding it up, she looks as if she is about to fall asleep. I also witness the most insane Dad, wheeling his kids through the checkout hitting home how they have both just spent their month’s pocket money. And the weirdo just keeps going on and on, really labouring the point to his kids (“five pounds is more than I ever got”). Bad Dad. I do my thing within seconds and feel relieved to get out of there.

I speed home to Holland, listening to the Jesus Lizard tape that I just unearthed this week. I had forgotten just how good this stuff is, there is no music in the indie/alternative scene these days that sounds so edgy, tense or dangerous. Independent music to me now seems/appears to be the home of simpering wimps, intellectualising their music way too much, making it utterly boring in the process. How far away are we from All Tomorrows Parties?

I get home to Holland around 4PM where Mum is indeed in a strop. It however seems down to the fact that they have had a removals man discussing their move in their house chewing off Dad’s ear for two hours. He must be seriously casing the place, maybe he should get out of the removal’s industry and into robbing houses or something. An argument between my olds looks imminent.

I almost immediately hit the computer and get going on my thing, praying that my problems with disks so far have been down to disk issues as opposed to file issues. These facts/fears are really boring.

Dinner happens and mum sorts us out with some kind of stew. It makes a break from eating nothing but cereal I guess. From there I watch The Simpsons and then quickly get back into writing and computer work.

While I am doing stuff, Stevo phones up and asks me if I had asked Ben if he wanted to boycott MK Dons on Saturday and go to an AFC Wimbledon game instead. I got the obvious response from, three years down the line, AFC Wimbledon are no longer loved in the way that they were as they slowly/gradually turn into a non-league Man Utd/Arsenal/Chelsea. He mentions coming to a Millwall game this year and I point out that there still is Leeds at home and he goes “yeah, I really want to see some crowd trouble/footy violence this season”. Whoops, I thought he was over all that after getting smacked at football matches a couple of times.

I continue working on the computer, hearing Dad watch my Sopranos DVDs in the front room (the episode where Pussy has to wear a wire in Tony’s house). I plough through old music magazines and come across the Brat Pop-era press for Gringo Records. It all seems like a different era now.

I pack up at 10PM and find myself watching the second episode of Desperate Housewives. Its very watchable if unaccomplished in the process. The women are attractive at varying levels, which gives it eye candy appeal. The voiceover appears to be trying to give it a spookier feel than it all manages.

After that, I watch Celebrity Big Brother with more adventures of Sylvester Stallone’s mum experiencing some text book rejection, followed by Peep Show re-runs (where Mark befriend’s a racist workmate, horribly copying reality for me) before I end up falling asleep watching A Night On The Town, which everyone knows as Adventures In Babysitting. I’m getting used to sleeping on sofas again it seems.

np: Screaming Trees – Halo Of Ashes

2005-01-20T06:00:00.000-08:00

January 11 (Tuesday): The Power Is On. Again this morning I set my alarm for 7AM, it is my new (pointless) declaration and I guess my new year’s resolution.

This morning I receive an early email from Andrea the lawyer asking me about my situation and potential case. At this stage, I don’t want to pre-empt strikes (nor run up a bill!). I’m almost cagey when describing the situation to her, attempting to change the subject/focus onto her.

This morning another new employment agency gets in touch with me. As basic as the services seems to me, they always find different ways of wording things. I come to the horrible realisation that this is the seventh such agency I have spoken to in two months, a fact/statistic that would make the best intentioned person jaded and cynical. Again this man does not specifically mention the position I applied for, making me wonder if half the jobs on the internet actually exist, they more seeming like a way of hooking and fishing candidates in. I never envisaged getting a new job would ever be this difficult.

Plans for today do not quite go to plan, when I find myself only getting around to reading my English book at around 11AM. Again I find myself really enjoying reading the book but it is somewhat predictable whilst also very touching but it screams of the Woody Allen movie September, surely the writer must have seen it and thought “right, I’ll write a book about that”.

Around lunchtime, the star accountancy personnel agency from yesterday phones again. The man is suggesting that I go up for a temp vacancy just to get me “back in the game”. It means taking a slight drop on an apparent hourly rate but it would do me. The man even suggests I might be able to start this Thursday, which is music to my ears as all writing aspirations fly out of the window as the bills/debts mount up.

Today is sign on day at the Job Centre and to celebrate this fact, I have a bath (ha ha). If these people are to continue giving me money, I figure giving them some hygiene in return to be a sound investment (ha ha).

Today’s St Trinian’s movie on Channel Four is Blue Murder At St Trinian’s. This movie isn’t as star studded as the first movie (shown yesterday) but it still boasts Terry Thomas, George Cole, Alastair Sim, Joyce Grenfell and Lionel Jeffries with a turn by Terry Scott. This film is much better than the first film but its kind of interesting to note just how all the men in the movie are trying it on with the schoolgirls and how the headmistress is trying to farm them out as an earner (the St Trinian’s Marriage Bureau?). Surely this is paedophilia and child trafficking for the sex trade, especially when exporting them is a consideration. And Clacton beach/pier gets a mention early on as a girl poses for a saucy picture/photo. Well, I guess it was 48 years ago.

In the afternoon I email Staff and Allen with various requests before heading off to the Job Centre to my thing there. I get parked up pretty easily and wander into town for the first time this week. I’m getting bored of Colchester now it seems, which might explain all my recent trips/visits to Clacton. As I head to the Job Centre with the expectation of flack to come from the enquiry over the ending of my job, I find myself becoming really paranoid as I think I see an ex-work colleague, one that would have taken the dimmest light of the blog (other than management). Stupidly though, the lady turns out to be a poor lookalike at best, suggesting that all this stuff is playing much too much on my mind.

I get to the Job Centre and wait upstairs, awaiting my fate. Next to me sits a guy that looks dead, or past out at the very least. This is not my environment. I get called over for my third bout of job hunting explanation and today I have a lady interview instead. She actually seems to take some interest/notice into developments, actually asking me questions about my activities (shock horror). I tell her this, tell her that but as usual it all seems to fall on deaf ears as the lady seems to concentrate more on filling in forms on her computer screen. At least though, she doesn’t patronise me by calling me “mate”. Today I go in armed with an envelope of questions though, mainly what happens if I’m lucky enough to get temp work and what about my mortgage insurance. I don’t bring up the enquiry/review into my dismissal, I wait for her to bring it up first. This does not happen though. She changes the time for my next appointment and very quickly it is all job done and I am able to go and happily claim again for another two weeks.

Before leaving the Job Centre I check on their computers for accountancy vacancies and I look in every possible line of work and there is absolutely nothing, zero, nada. I was lead to believe January would be fruitful, especially with the self assessment tax deadline coming up. What’s going on with the world if I can’t get employment?

I stagger around for a while, getting something copied in the library to send of with regards to my dismissal. I notice that the library is getting a coffee shop installed in the gallery area/section it seems. What’s that about? A sure fire money spinner but this is a library! A library is supposed to be inhabited by geeks, the unemployed and the elderly, a coffee shop is a setting for Friends and Central Perk types. The times are changing too much.

I get home around 4.30 and decide to attack the cupboard of demos left over from Gringo that inhabit (ruin) my kitchen area. I waste far too long on these CDs, most of which look awful making me remember why I put them there in the first place. Indeed, none of these artists have ever gone on to anything. Maybe, if I get enough time, I review them for a website. Then again, life really is too short.

Richard And Judy comes on around 5PM and they are reporting that Germaine Greer has walked out of the Celebrity Big Brother house. She was actually coming over as one of the best people in the house and was probably well out of place by appearing to be a real, intelligent and genuinely funny person. Whereas Kitten last summer represented liberalism in the worst possible way, her representation of liberalism came over as the opposite of a ranting and raving lunatic and at the end of the ridiculous Queen royal task, she just cut through the nonsense and called for it to be knocked on the head. Ultimately, she came over better in this than she does on the Late Review.

After dinner and the Simpsons, I get back into the book and finish it on the dot for 9PM. The book turned out to be pretty predictable and generic but I enjoyed it all the same, the writer made it very readable and rarely do I find myself able to read books at such a pace (Nick Hornby being the only other reader I can recall reading so fast). It stands me in good stead for returning to class Thursday I think.

In between, Dad briefly speaks to me on MSN as well as Racton but I really want to finish the book, so I’m probably a bit curt with them.

At 9PM I watch the Auschwitz programme on BBC2. I always get suckered in by these documentaries, it is as if I want to depress myself. I had never heard about block 11 before though. These poor people always stir me.

At 10PM, episode two of Shameless series two comes on and tonight I am less than interested by it, for reasons none to no one. During the show, MSN beeps and Tom has invited me into a three way with him and Sam B. And then Tom promptly disappears, leaving it to me and Sam B just to talk awkwardly (Tom is our conduit).

Late late and Tom plays sets me and him up to play chess on MSN via Chess Club (his jokey take on Fight Club). I want to play though and we end up getting into a really good hour long game. I turn out better than I would ever expect and by the end I am several pieces ahead of him by playing gradual and defensive (but nowhere near as intentionally tactical as that statement might suggest). I think I am about 6 pieces to his king at the end of the game when I go and make a foul stroke (for reasons unknown to the pair of us) and the game ends a draw. It was good fun though, please someone come along and challenge me to a game.

Later on TV, I watch the Germaine Greer exit interview on Celebrity Big Brother, then realising at the end that I have been missing a programme about the Comedy Store in London on BBC.

I fall asleep watching Angel Heart on ITV, which sucks because I was really enjoying the movie.

At 1.30, my computer beeps and it is someone on MSN trying to get in touch with me but instead just waking me up. I suspect it is Tom, asking for a chess rematch. He is the most notorious night owl.

np: Big In Albania - Bigboote

2005-01-20T05:57:00.000-08:00

January 10 (Monday): Feel Good By Numbers. Monday morning and I awaken like a good guy at 7AM when my alarm clock goes off, apparently for nothing, I have no job to go to, so why don’t I lie in? I don’t wish to get complacent I guess.

Early on, around 9.30, I get the first of responses from my online job application gorge on Friday night. Sadly however it is a vague response from an agency, not really relating to the actual position I applied for itself. I email back immediately, guarded in its snottiness and almost immediately the phone rings and it is the gentleman in question from the agency. This is agency is a firm that an old acquaintance called Kenny used to highly recommend and the guy on the phone sounds cool (albeit with a voice exactly like Alan Partridge). It seems that people from smaller personnel agencies possess less of an attitude and in the process are more helpful. I am honest about my dismissal circumstances but once more find myself twisting myself up in knots in the process, something that is duly noted by Mr Man, although it does not appear to make him immediately dismiss me. The position itself that I applied for actually turns out to be with the first accounting practise that I ever worked for. I didn’t leave them on bad terms but I was hardly a star, stuck out in the sticks of a satellite office in Frinton while everything happening within the organisation was occurring at their duelling offices in Colchester and Ipswich (fighting for firm supremacy in effect, to be the number one office). The calls ends but it is encouragingly.

I spend this morning fearing the post, there can only be bad to come from any correspondence currently but I really must (have) to face the music on the Job Centre enquiry.

Around mid morning the phone rings again and it is another agency and some woman asking me questions about myself and telling me how there are a few positions about (but never specifying on anything). At least I’m getting some interest but I get the impression that this agency is not much cop by the way the woman represents herself.

For the longest time this morning, my clock appears frozen on 10.47; I guess this represents life appearing to stand still for me currently.

This morning I also find myself on MSN with Justin and I manage to get the email address out of him of the lawyer I met Friday night. Nice.

Again today I pick up the book (Eden Close by Anita Shreve) that I need to read for English class on Thursday. I actually find myself really getting into the book today, its good.

For lunch I head out to Sainsburys. I wasn’t going to bother with going out today but I fancy something of taste for dinner and there is a new Uncut also I feel like reading. While I am in the cereal aisle Hays in London telephones me asking me if I am still looking for work. Oh yes. And especially when she mentions a dream job/opportunity for me: a practise just off Piccadilly Circus that specialises in media clients. That sounds a bit of a bridge too far for me even before I tell her of my circumstances, as I once more tie myself up in knots trying to describe the weirdness of the situation and generally overreaction on my ex-employer’s that it was really. The girl however seems happy for me to stand in Sainsburys and go through all the facts. I tell her that I will send her an email with more specifics and then it turns out that I have never spoken to this girl before. My god, she sounded exactly like the one I used to deal with, they must all be clones up that way, maybe all tutored in the same impersonal line of bullshit?

As the call ends, a woman comes coyly around the corner and slowly wheels her shopping trolley past me; it is obvious that she has been eavesdropping. I initially don’t take offence because she is attractive but then the situation of discussing such important issues in Sainsburys occurs to me and I roll my eye balls, shaking my head.

This week Channel Four is showing St Trinian’s films every afternoon. I was raised on these movies (almost) so I check out today’s movie in morbid fascination. Today’s film is The Belles Of St Trinian’s and I am blown away by the cast of the movie; its features Alastair Sim, Joyce Grenfell and George Cole (Arthur Daley) in the main characters with supporting parts from Beryl Reid, Irene Handl and Joan Sims. Sid James, Barbara Windsor and Arthur Mullard all pop up in it also, which completes a mind-blowing cast. The film however isn’t nowhere good as I fondly remember it and soon I’m back into doing something of use.

And that something of use turns out to be returning to my book for college (again, Eden Close by Anita Shreve). I’m actually making major progressed on the book today and at this rate, I will have read it easily before Thursday’s lesson. And I’m finding myself enjoying it in the process, always a bonus when reading a book I guess.

My afternoon improves when I receive an email from Tura Satana, the star of Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! This blows my mind. And she hits 70 this year.

I stop for dinner and The Simpsons and tonight’s episode is the one with the A Streetcar Named Desire musical, which is yet another reminder to 11 Dec 2004, as it was the movie that was on that afternoon. Will that night ever stop haunting me, following me around with reminders?

I resume reading my book before remembering that there is a documentary on Channel Four called “What Would Jesus Drive?” about the driving habits of America and how the pollution is adding to the green house effect blah blah blah. Its part of their War On Terra season in the light of the tsunami in Asia, a real scaremongering job. The show however is pretty interesting and makes some serious points about the excess of car ownership in the US. And then it ends by focusing on the latest vehicle of choice for your successful young (and not so young) American: the Hummer.

During the programme, they show the Thierry Henry advert where he is smugly driving a bubble car around Las Vegas and when it shows him being overtaken by a Hummer himself and the goof giggles like a bitch, it suddenly occurs to me just how much of a dig this is aimed at David Beckham. Good! But Henry ultimately is no better, the little corporate whore.

Celebrity Big Brother comes on, continuing with the Lisa as Queen of the house nonsense and then tonight Sylvester Stallone’s mum enters the house. She is pretty terrifying to look at; she looks like something Jim Henson put into his movie The Dark Crystal. Maybe Jim Henson did her plastic surgery, basing it on a Muppet?

During the show, Sara comes online to talk on MSN. I tell her that I am busy and she gets pissed off snapping “what busy getting a job?”. This coming from a girl who it was said used to go into job interviews, flash her tits and get immediate employment from that. I wish I was a silver spooner too, that might have been nice.

I turn in for the evening watching ER (which actually turns out pretty entertaining as usual), over to a fine Men Behaving Badly re-run and eventually I go to sleep like a loser watching Film 2005. Need to get out.

np: Palace Brothers – Come In

2005-01-20T05:54:00.000-08:00

January 9 (Sunday): Ladyflash. Sunday morning and I’m up at around 9AM feeling pretty rough from nothing. I’d like to pull myself together early in an attempt to get moving and on the road for the day but almost immediately I find myself slipping back into the old Sunday morning routine of Match Of The Day, Frost and then the Heaven And Earth Show (for some reason). And then all of a sudden, with nothing accomplished or achieved, it is already 11.30!

Today I am heading back to the olds in Holland/Clacton and before going straight home, I pop into Clacton. As much as this place is now run down, I have a kind of love/hate emotions towards it as I have so many rough memories here that are all now viewed relatively fondly. It reminds me of how Peter Kay jokes about his home life and upbringing; it pretty much represents the eighties for me. And now it is weird, with my parents about to move away from here, that Clacton will no longer be regarded as my home and a place to come, return to for, in effect, refuge.

When I get back to my parents, its all good, my parents seem well, healthy and happy. The Sky is still broke though and sadness accrues. To amuse himself it seems Dad has bought himself a shredder for reasons only known to him. There is a lot of paranoia at the moment (probably brought on my Watchdog and GMTV) of people rummaging through rubbish piles for correspondence and personal details and committing all kinds of frauds and posing as other individuals, stealing identities. I wish I had a hand in that shredder buck and industry. Personally I don’t think you need a shredder but a person’s rubbish does need to be somewhat guarded. I have been semi paranoid (but not enough to purchase a shredder) since I spoke to my groundskeeper on a wet Boxing Day in 2003 and he jumped on the communal dumpsters where I live, telling me all sorts of information about my neighbours. However, if a person is willing to rummage through piss and shit stained rubbish to get your personal details/identity, you have to question their intellect in the first place.

We watch Yeading v Newcastle in the FA Cup from Loftus Road on BBC. It’s a rough old game but as expected. I think really Newcastle could have put a hat full away, against inferior opposition but I think the tendency is to go easy on these teams (Dad and I swap theories that Man Utd’s 0-0 draw with Exeter was a fix in order to generate TV money and funds from the replay). Eventually Newcastle win 2-0 in a game about damage limitation where, regardless, Yeading were always going to emerge as heroes if not victors.

I return to writing while I hear Dad in the front room actually watching Back To The Future 2, I think he is really missing Sky.

I write solid for the remainder of the evening, only breaking for dinner and The Simpsons, one of my favourite episodes, where Comic Store Guy has a heart attack and Bart and Milhouse take over looking after his shop.

I write until 9PM when I leave to return to Colchester (and my own bed). Almost immediately after getting in, Sara is online trying to contact me on MSN. She is harping on over some guy in Chelmsford told her that he has loved her for 14 years or something and what can she do to deal with it (“he’s really upset”). I suggest maybe that she get him to buy some tickets and put him out of pocket. Eventually Gimp Boy stops hassling her and she goes off on one again about her period being late etc. Poor baby, I’m not interested.

Tonight’s TV choice is From Dusk Till Dawn or She’s The One. I’ve seen them both before and didn’t really like either all that much. I generally stick to She’s The One, without really paying any attention (but I do think Edward Burns is pretty talented). Instead I come across Phoebe Toronto online, so I speak to her a bit between attempting to write but by now it is too late. I go to sleep watching crap Celebrity Big Brother.

np: Lemonheads - Rudderless

2005-01-20T05:53:00.000-08:00

January 8 (Saturday): Panther Dash. Saturday morning, wake up to good times. Last night was a gas and today I’m full good stuff. I head out to the Layer Road shop to get the Saturday newspapers (Guardian Guide day!).

Today I am focused and busy but find myself hampered when one of the two disks of work I did at my parent’s house yesterday, today does not work (for the second time). Regardless, I find myself able to get on with enough stuff to make today productive enough.

Mid morning I find myself rummaging through several boxes of old NMEs and Melody Makers I was forced to bring home from my parents and I then hit paydirt as I come across the infamous NME On piece/interview with Hirameka where Tom and Steve argued their way through it. This is classic stuff, really fantastic to read again and the photo is totally hilarious, in a serious kind of way.

Around midday Stevo phones. It is the first time I have heard from him this year. He sounds OK, the normal. I ask him why he isn’t watching AFC (AFC Wimbledon) today and apparently it’s an away game and none of PISA are interested nor going. He points out that Colchester are playing at Milton Keynes next week and wonders if Ben would fancy boycotting going to MK Dons to go and see AFC instead (do teams still do that?). I remember falsely getting my back patted the first time I went to an AFC Wimbledon game because the same day Millwall were playing the old Wimbledon.

While I’m on the phone to Steve, the phone beeps and it is a text from Mark. He asks “are you still scanning shit in Clacton?” and I reply “no, I’m uploading shit in Colchester”. He asks about doing lunch but I really had my day planned and stuff to do. I suggest a compromise at later but no dice, he’s off to London later.

Today is FA Cup Third Round day and as usual BBC are in the act, showing Sheff Utd v Aston Villa at lunchtime. I watch it half arsed, more concerned with getting Millwall v Wolves on internet radio. Cyberspace lets me down and while I find myself at war with technology, Wolves score after about seven minutes. And then before I know it, they have scored a second a few minutes later, this even before I have had chance to look at the lineup. And the lineup is unbelievable, reserve players, players playing out of position, Braniff playing up front and reserves I doubt have half dozen first team games in total to their name. Either Dennis Wise has gone insane or the club has injury problems. Looks like no Cup Final or Europe this year.

I revert to the Sheff Utd v Aston Villa game on TV and the second half actually turns out to be a cracker when Aston Villa take the lead early in the second half only for Sheff Utd to happen upon an equalizer before scoring a couple of really dubious late goals from the same guy (Liddell, who he?) which would/should have left Aston Villa feeling pretty aggrieved.

After that game ends, I finally manage to get Millwall on internet radio and it all sounds fatal. The two early goals obviously killed off Millwall, who by all reports with a really weakened side put in a really good battle whilst also Barry Hayles apparently misses a sitter of an open goal. Shouldn’t have sold Neil Harris. The game ends 2-0 to Wolves and I believe the first game Wolves have not drawn 1-1 since Glenn “God” Hoddle took over as manager. Geek manager.

3PM hits and the full day’s FA Cup Third Round programme kicks off. By the end of the day, non-league come away with a 0-0 draw at Old Trafford against Man Utd reserves and Colchester come away from in-form Hull having won 2-0 at their place.

Afternoon TV sees Brewster’s Millions on Channel Four. You should always have time for Richard Pryor and this is a pretty interesting/cool movie, typically eighties with a great support from John Candy. And it features baseball, bonus! I have to admit I had never noticed Rick Moranis in the movie before.

Then on ITV, Dr Doolittle turns up, talking of Richard Pryor and his “son” Eddie Murphy. I actually really like this remake, being a huge fan of Norm MacDonald and generally a fan of talking animals. I half watch it (with one eye), having seen it enough times to know where/when the good jokes are coming from. Cool to see Paul Giamatti (American Splendor dude) on TV.

That ends and BBC are showing Plymouth v Everton. When I start watching it, Everton are already winning 2-0 and the game looks a bit of a mess, the referee really looks bad, making way too many mistakes. Tim Cahill isn’t playing strangely but he comes on as a substitute late in the second half (replacing the debuting James Beattie), as another ex-Millwall player Nick Chadwick comes on as a substitute and scores the third to make it 3-0. Football on a Saturday evening is the best!

Like a proper geek, I spend the rest of my Saturday evening working on websites and actually feeling some accomplishment as a result (coupled with nerd satisfaction). I really need to go out and just get pissed and offensive methinks, a blow out may be on the horizon. How long is it to All Tomorrows Parties?

Tired with that and done for the evening, I finally get around to watching a DVD I picked up in the sales: The Adam And Joe DVD. This stuff is really funny; I had forgotten how good they were. The hard chore of laughing out loud is made easier as they do all kinds of inventive stupid shit like organising a piss up in a brewery, going into a supermarket and only taking (eating and drinking) the “free” percentages of goods. And of course there are the great Star Wars figures TV show piss takes of TFI Friday and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire etc. How could they desecrate their Star Wars figures in that way though?

During watching the DVD, Sara comes online and hits me on MSN. I really can’t be arsed to speak to her (again). She tells me how her old man has the arse with her because of her antics with the 37 year old squaddie with Gulf War syndrome apparently. She is stressing about her period being late and basically: bothered. I’m more concerned about getting my ticket money back but to be honest this is a girl who chose to spend her money on nose candy instead of pay her council tax/rates, all to the point of her being taken to court in some kind of judgement and court order (or something). She asks me if I DJed last night and I ditch the bitch.

Jerry Springer night comes on TV and I figure I might as well wallow in shit and check out what I missed four weeks ago exactly. The show is ok. I reckon it would actually have been pretty good to watch in person, it would have been a really good night. I fail to see what all the fuss was over; it isn’t really all that shocking, just generally pretty silly. It does portray some sacred cows in a new, unique light but its nothing worse than anything else on TV even if it does affect people’s sensibilities.

Then I pass out.

np: Jesus & Mary Chain - Snakedriver

2005-01-17T01:24:00.000-08:00

Cats Against The Bomb as per beer goggles

2005-01-17T01:21:00.000-08:00

January 7 (Friday): Thunder Lightning Strike. Dream: I find myself out, knocking around with an old ex-best friend from school days. His gorgeous sister is there, one I once fancied to death, and we are at some acid tennis club in Little Clacton (but not the one down the road I used to live curiously). I don’t think I have seen these people more than twice this century but every now and them I am (sarcastically) privileged to news updates from mum via her work. Its always one too many success story to take. My dream swiftly moves to a waiting room for a job. Sara is also there in the waiting room and it appears that we are together but also competing for the same job. In another chair/seat I see Peter Cook, slouched and almost passed out. I awaken him and bug him and fun times begin.

I awaken feeling rough, these aren’t good times all the time. I get up (off the sofa and out the front room) to find mum getting ready for work. She still does not look well but she is getting ready to leave all the same. I find myself genuinely concerned for her wellbeing.

She leaves and I begin working on the computer. Early on Adrian (my cousin) comes over. He and his wife have now indeed decided to split. I talk to him about it but I feel really out of place, I am now authority or experience on this subject (an unmarried marriage counsellor). We discuss work and finances and there we hit something in common. Our credit card debts sound about similar and the circumstances and reasons are semi related (although mine sound less out of necessity). It would seem the whole credit card finance trap is something most people are falling into and perhaps represents and whole new trend and reality of life and a nod towards finances becoming tighter and harder for people, dare I say, working class.

I’m relieved when he goes to talk to dad, to leave me to my thing (seems I’m experiencing some kind of escapism keeping coming here and using this computer). I continue writing all morning until lunch time when my mobile phone rings. The immediate reaction “its trouble” coupled with a hope that it might be a job. I look at the caller and it is Mark. Happily I answer and he is calling me, asking if I want to go get some lunch. Sounds like he has done a draft of his presentation and feels like celebrating. Unfortunately I still have plenty here to do. I press him again on going to the Cats Against The Bomb gig tonight but it’s a no-goer.

Afternoon and mum gets home, seemingly very unimpressed that I am still around the house, which I can understand really. Perhaps though she is raggy from still feeling ill.

Sara comes on MSN and goes “Jason?”. I go “Jason” and we briefly get into another MSN conversation I really don’t want to be having while the money subject is hanging over our heads. She asks me how things are at home and I really really don’t want to talk about any of it. I’m curt and the call (cool) ends.

I stick around long enough to cheekily blag dinner. After that, while watching The Simpsons, I panic attack and worry about work hits me. I suddenly take a different view to the apparent enquiry into my circumstances of my dismissal and I wonder if they (my ex-employers) are actually claiming another thing that I had not considered, a scenario pretty plausible actually. Will I ever get a job again? I feel physically sick.

Eventually I make moves to get home for around 7.30. On the way I stop by at Tesco Hythe where I buy a newspaper and some milk. When I use the self serve checkout a woman and her child stare at me gormlessly as if I were a genius. I thank you. When I get in, it is so good to be back home (my home).

The phone rings and it isn’t a number I recognise. I answer and its Justin, he is already in Ipswich so I head out immediately. It feels so great to be going out again on a Friday night, my social life has been horribly barren lately (barring Christmas).

I arrive at the Steamboat pub in Ipswich and its in a lovely position (right near the docks on the water) but I still find it intimidating. I call up Justin to see where he’s at and they’re already inside.

I step inside the venue (the pub) and it is packed to the rafters, this is something I am not used to from a gig. It is being put on my Blank Generation who do a really good set of punk shows in Ipswich and are really enthusiastic. They put on the original last Hirameka show back in Dec 03 and it was one of my favourite ever Hirameka shows.

I plough through several jailbait punkers looking for Justin or Adam while some gnarly heavy band turns on parts of the crowd. Eventually I hook up with the others sat outside in the beer garden (Adam sat outside in a beer garden in January wearing a Hawaiian shirt and not freezing!). With them is a young lady called Andrea who turns out to be a lawyer, who will be someone very useful to know the next time I get arrested.

Not long after I arrive Cats Against The Bomb begin playing. After the first band, there were aching fears and reality (and common sense) that the kids (the jailbait punkers) were probably unlikely to dig the boombox beats and samples of Cats Against The Bomb. However, to their credit, several kids stuck around to check out Adam and appeared to really get into his set. I guess stick some heavy beats behind distasted vocals and the punkers will have it as their Digital Hardcore. I find myself really anticipating the set tonight and it turns out to be one of my favourite ones I have seen Adam do (my first since June 04) and all coming with a new sense of seriousness. He however wears 3D glasses atop his head, so fortunately its not too serious though. As the set carries on, more and more people take interest and check the antics out often saying between themselves: “what the fuck is that?” but in a positive, cool vibe. My personal favourite AKA Lover blasts as Adam pulls out his drill as the evening threatens to be a lesson in/of B&Q. He slips in a Lee Harvey Oswald Band cover (“69 Comeback”) and it all goes smoothly. Cats Against The Bomb appear to be intent on making all kinds of distortions and sound variations a priorities, the most redeeming effect generally being to make his guitar sound like some sci fi raygun, the burnt cousin of the Blitters. At the close, people are heckling for an encore but that is all, that would be commercial suicide surely.

Justin has to leave before the headliners come on but I stick around regardless. The headliners turn out to be The Secret Hairdresser who I saw play the summer before last when Bilge Pump played a show in Ipswich. Noticeable back then was how the keyboardist was rocking the Enid from Ghost World look and it seems the song remains the same. There is this band from Norwich called Kaito and The Secret Hairdresser really remind me of them. They also sound like Blur do (attempting) punk songs but remaining playful pop and also Urusei Yatsura, although this band is far from distorted. Their set sounds a lot better than the previous time I saw them and when they slip in a cover of Only Shallow by My Bloody Valentine. People walk/move around all set including Goldie Lookin’ Chain-esqe chavs clutching tightly their iPods, having the headphones permanently in ears while a real band is playing on stage. This may explain as to why the singer/band do not come over/act as the happiest puppies in the world. They end with a crowd favourite and audience participation as they clap and “miaow” in time to something kitsch and twee, almost straight out of Heavenly. There is life.

The night ends and I come away having had a great time. Before I leave, Adam’s brother hands me a demo of his band Big In Albania and everyone seems a winner. I leave Ipswich via Portman Road, really to see if the curb crawling legends are true. Nope, the only thing pulling birds here tonight is the Bobby Robson statue gathering bird shit.

I tear home back down the maniac A12 listening to Radio 2 for some reason. I get home buzzing just in time to catch the live feed of Celebrity Big Brother. I watch as John McCrirrick winds up all the women in the house (at least I hope he is and isn’t serious in what he says). It is also noticeably horrible just how grey Bez’s hair is. He is officially an old man, a survivor of a different drug: does this make him our Keith Richards? Please no. Night.

np: Primus - DMV

2005-01-17T01:20:00.000-08:00

January 6 (Thursday): The Theory Of Eternal Dating. Up at seven again and up with a headache again, right now life seems to be one long big headache.

I was early morning TV to bring round into consciousness and Channel Four appear to be showing those Uncle Ben adverts again, the ones that feature Hesh from the Sopranos. I bet he is not at all embarrassed by them.

As I get my stuff together, to go home to visit the parents before the move homes, I find myself falling into the unemployed Chav trap of catching a glimpse of Trisha and being captivated. Today some crazy Scottish (not unlike certain other Scotsmen I have met before) goes bollo whilst arguing over the visitation rights of his child while also accusing the madman of harassing her as he accuses her of cheating. And then the drippy crowd chips in with its opinion. As the say goes, arseholes are like opinions, everybody gotta have one. Is this where my life is heading?

Sara decides to MSN again but I’m not interested today. She sounds concerned, almost genuine but you cannot trust such a person. “You can turn your back on a person but never turn your back on……”. When I get my money back, I’ll be Mr Happy for her once again.

Eventually I manage to get out of the flat and I head over to Asda where I find my heart in my mouth as I check my bank balance at the ATM to find it will not allow me to take any money out. Ouch, I must be hovering on the overdraft limit although the balance shows I haven’t quite gone over it (yet). I get £200 out on a credit card and do my thing inside Asda. I pick up today’s Sun and on the cover is an uproar over the Jerry Springer Opera. Will that hell night ever stop haunting and tormenting me? And as a bonus addition, the performance of the show that the BBC are showing Saturday was the performance I wasted money on the tickets for. Sucker.

Done here, I know find myself having to rush return home to collect a cheque and/or paying in book in order to go bank some credit card cash into my bank account just to stay afloat. I decide to do this in Clacton, I feel I’ve had enough of Colchester for one day.

When I get to Clacton, I quickly bank £190 and I get evil looks, it really must appear I am laundering money as this is the second time I have banked such a cash amount here in a few days. Today is a brisk but beautiful day in Clacton. People here today seem friendlier as opposed to my other recent visits here. Of course the cheery folks are the elder ones, today doesn’t seem so chav central that the place usually looks like (although poor old Clacton I fear may be too poor for even Chavs). As I return to my car in the car park, a girl walks out of a solicitors and she smiles me. I think she is laughing at me (my beard?) and I scowl but she was probably just being nice. Oh man, I’m becoming paranoid.

Upon arriving at my parents home, I discover mum and dad sat in the front watching bad daytime TV, with mum still looking really rough. I myself don’t feel great either but not to such degrees it seems. Dad gives me a strip of his Codamol painkillers and I have a horrible feeling that I may be getting addicted to these. Maybe.

Today I’m feeling down and unemployable again and this couples with guilt about me making my family worry and in the process fall ill.

Dad has been complaining for days that Sky is broken but the other day it only appeared to be on the fritz, like the dish had been banged/knocked slightly. However, he has been fucking about with things (the Sky, TV, video and DVD) and when I look at it, it is all in a complete mess. When I attempt to switch the Sky box on the lights flicker and zip rapidly like something out of Close Encounters. OK, the Sky is now officially broken but it appears the old man was the one that did the damage. Lucky they won’t still be leaving her next week so they don’t have to worry/bother about getting it mended.

I get on with doing my thing on their PC and using their scanner only breaking for dinner and to watch The Simpsons. While watching The Simpsons (Burns giving Homer an out of court settlement for his apparent low sperm count) it suddenly occurs to me that I have learned so many life skills from The Simpsons that it is probably the most education TV show ever.

The evening sees me twice suffering from the squirts and I begin to wonder if my parents are trying to poison me. Kind of upsetting after the codamol pills did such a good job on clearing my headache.

Tonight is the start of Celebrity Big Brother, something I didn’t even realise was starting. I stand watching it in the kitchen with my parents and when Bez comes on, the generation gap has never felt so ample and funny. Dad just stares at him going “what the fuck?” while mum laughs at his pratfalls and general shenanigans unaware that he is just that way from being wrecked by drugs. Shaun Ryder makes an appearance in his skit/spiel and once more the bloke only manages to look more like Bernard Manning by the day.

Of the celebrities in the house this year, Lisa I’Anson is the coolest. I have always fancied the pants/arse off her and now she just resembles someone I knew. Otherwise though, there looks like there is no one there of any real interest.

At 10PM, Channel Four shows a programme called Jump Britain which features a bunch of muscled dickheads jumping like ponces onto and around various landmarks in the country in the name of “Pakour”. The team is obviously led by a French man as he makes claims that this is the new extreme sport, that people are suggesting will rival skateboarding. It is pretty offensively stupid to watch.

I fall asleep on my parent’s sofa with a pea under my mattress it feels.

np: PJ Harvey - Dress

2005-01-17T01:17:00.000-08:00

January 5 (Wednesday): Expect The Best. I set my alarm this morning for 7AM and an early start to hopefully a fruitful day. Only I wake up with a headache. Apparently today would have been Elvis’ seventieth birthday.

I get up and Haslett is online but the supposed money she has sent me isn’t. We begin an MSN session, with me asking where the money has gone:
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
morning
Sara says:
meeting
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
money?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
web meeting
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you said your dad was going to Sri Lanka?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
oi
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
have a word when you're done
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
also check this out www.diskant.net I'm almost famous
Sara says:
sorry was in a proper meeting
Sara says:
dad is in sri lanka
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
just wondering about the money thing because Paypal is instant
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
hello
Sara says:
im in a meeting for the 20th time
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
twenty meetings in one day, poor baby
Sara says:
sarcastic git
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
good meeting
Sara says:
auditors
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
oh my, are you quite the liar. scary proposition
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
"HEY AUDITORS, MAKE SURE YOU DON'T BUY HER ANY THEATRE TICKETS OR ARRANGE TO TAKE HER OUT ANYWHERE"
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
i'm bored
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
entertain me
Sara says:
meeting
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
don't believe you mate
Sara says:
tought shit
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
"tought" - meaning?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
uh, hello?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
oi
Sara says:
fucking meeting
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
but you're online!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Sara says:
yes
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
not in meeting then
Sara says:
fucking yes
Sara says:
i am
Sara says:
on and off
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
sorry, I'm in one of these moods today
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
bored
Sara says:
i can talk now for 5
Sara says:
but i might have to go
Sara says:
off and get stuuf
Sara says:
and i am leaving office in hour
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
so, wondering about Paypal, what's the hold up again?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you know Sri Lanka is flooded don't you
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you know, it renders me down to the level of the other people at BS you left money owing to, like our staying in touch and remaining friends has really equated to nothing
Sara says:
my dad has gone cos of teh flood
Sara says:
*the
Sara says:
fuck off
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
there's money to be had
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
so what is the hold up?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
did you go to that website?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
gone?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
what's he actually gone to Sri Lanka for?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
couriering aid?
Sara says:
im calling my bank now
Sara says:
yes
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
its an online credit card transaction
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
have you never used Ebay?
Sara says:
visa - bank - debit
Sara says:
okj
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
do you hate me?
Sara says:
no
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you act it sometimes
Sara says:
its year end im busy sorry
Sara says:
i dont hate you
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you should
Sara says:
why
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
obvious reasons
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:

Sara says:
im not that fickle
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you're a girl, you all are
Sara says:
whatever
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
ha ha
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
how's the bank going?
Sara says:
she is checking
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
sceptical
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
are you a twin?
Sara says:
what
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
is there a good Sara somewhere, to counter your evil Sara?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
lol
Sara says:
fuck off
Sara says:
fuck off
Sara says:
yeah, i do hate you at the second
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
little sense of humour?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
its my job
Sara says:
and mine is getting me year end closed!
Sara says:
do you have one yet....
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
nah, new years resolution is to mince and chav
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
need money for fags and booze
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
and fake Burberry
Sara says:
and the streets
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
so...........
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
how we doing?
Sara says:
left my account
Sara says:
my cc had been debited
Sara says:
so as far as im concerned not my problem
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
don't jump the gun
Sara says:
pardon
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
just, not yet
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
are you really doing year end while the auditors are also there? ouch
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
still there?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
the words "run" and "around" spring to mind.
Sara says:
stock take
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
lots of stock?
Sara says:
yes
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
bummer
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
don't think you bank has worked. bloody people
Sara says:
it has gone
Sara says:
perhaps its yours
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
ha ha
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you arse
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
lol
Sara says:
im tired
Sara says:
very tired
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
I bet
Sara says:
very
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
I'm quite tired too
Sara says:
why are you tired
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
late night
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
early morning
Sara says:
snap
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
someone coming round today
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you need a good nights sleep
Sara says:
sleep
Sara says:
whats that
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
so, when can I be expecting the money?
Sara says:
you tell me
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
why you not sleeping?
Sara says:
*read earlier comment
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
four days ago, it was four days
Sara says:
shagging
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you won't shit right for a week
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
see, you probably earned £80 last night then!!!!!
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
a person needs its sleep
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
what did the bank say then?
Sara says:
fuck off
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
did they say "hello, how can I help you?"
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
and you go "can I transfer some money please?"
Sara says:
no i said id like to check whether a payment has left my card
Sara says:
and you can fuck off with your comments
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
sorry but you can appreciate how I don't really trust you after what happened
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
but to execute Paypal, you do not need to involve a bank
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
so, obviously suspicious
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
oh!!!!!!! you know its on BBC2 this week
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you're really different right now since when you were in Australia
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you almost seem like a different person
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:

Sara says:
different?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
very
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
nasty
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you admitted yourself you've been mulling things over, telling me the other night how "you could get emo"
Sara says:
you are the only person that has said i have changed
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
one up for me then
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
whatever that means
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
still considering the move back to England?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
still broody?
Sara says:
england no
Sara says:
broody yes
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you were all concerned late last year "I'll be dead if I continue like this"
Sara says:
i dunno
Sara says:
i really dunno
Sara says:
off again soon
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
at which point you'll get lonely and starting thinking too much again
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
hating your job
Sara says:
i dont hate my job
Sara says:
lust being away for so long
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you were in Australia
Sara says:
*just
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you were expressing unhappiness about Dubai also
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
how everyone is fake and full of bullshit and how you are getting caught up in it all
Sara says:
its true they are
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
so, when in rome
Sara says:
but i thought the uk was a shit hole at the end of the day
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
no, your circumstances were shit hole
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
poor relatives with illnesses
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
that's quite a substantial part of the UK
Sara says:
yeah but i still thought england was shit
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
as opposed to living in a Muslim country
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
its not shit and you know it
Sara says:
it was
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you said "its so good to be home" and then suddenly some kind of reality hit you
Sara says:
shit
Sara says:
good for 2 weeks
Sara says:
then enuf
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
you can't even own your own home in Dubai
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
is your dad getting danger money for going to Sri Lanka?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
into the drink
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
gone?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:

JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
oi!!!!!!!!!!
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
meeting? thought it had gone a bit quiet
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
what was the name of the company you worked for again?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
so what you doing currently, on the phone to the imaginary bank or in a pretend meeting with the fictional auditors?
JGRAM MAAT - (NO MSN AFTER MIDNIGHT!!!!) says:
BORED! AMUSE ME!

And with that, she goes off to lunch and I remain without my money (I am really being so cheap?). She does however, before leaving for lunch, tell me that she is “shagging” a squaddie. I guess, “you can take the girl out of Essex but you can’t….”

Dad comes online and hits me on MSN, telling me how he will be over later on this morning to drop some stuff (hoarded clutter) off at my flat and go up into the loft to renovate it somewhat. I’m not really sure if in my leasehold agreement/contract that this is allowable. Oh well, he is a man with a mission, in the zone.

Today isn’t going very well or productive already, which is capped when I check my library book (The Raymond Chandler Papers) to discover that it should have been returned yesterday. How much do they charge for overdue books these days?

Today I’m itchy about being unemployed again and today is the first day proper of job pursuing in 2005. I start off/out by telephoning my two employment agencies, starting with Hays. I don’t actually manage to speak to the gentleman I generally deal with but instead I speak another lady there who gives me some information. I feel in their eyes now, I have elevated my status to/as general bad penny/bad seed as the lady proceeds to tell me that is a problem with them gaining a reference from my previous employer prior to the company that dooced me. The lady on the line tells me how they have been quoted as saying: “it is against company policy to give references” which sounds pretty bad to me, did I go and upset them at some point too? No, joking aside, it is a peculiar practise but a very modern one I suspect to match the modern practises of the owner/director/partner. Ouch. I do remember, just before leaving, the company stitching up and dismissing the office manager for the most spurious of sexual harassment accusations, which I am sure would give birth/rise to reference issues, causing the implantation of such a policy. Regardless though I give the lady contact details at my employer prior to that in the hope of remedying the situation on the reference front. I ask the lady how the job front is looking and whether there are any positions currently open. She tells me that the gentleman I was trying to contact is himself currently speaking to employers and that they have been busy. I ask the lady about the supposed wealth of temporary positions that were supposed to be open in January and she tells me that due to my referencing problems that they have not been able to put me forward to/for any such positions. Then why on earth didn’t they contact me sooner? She then proceeds to mention the Alresford position I went up for just prior to Christmas which was ill suited for me to be honest and she goes to town on me, saying how all my interview technique was bad and how they need to be pitching me for the right vacancies and how that unfortunate interview was down to my doing. More ouch. Once more, communication with them leaves/renders me feeling unemployable, which doesn’t really give me much hope for when (if) the next interview turns up. My head begins to pound.

During the call, I receive a text from Ben and he tells me that he has managed to get Daniel Kitson tickets. Ding dang do.

With hope, I pick up the phone and approach the other personnel agency: Reed. This call proves shorter (curt?) and is also proves alarming. Whereas around my exams, I could stop them from telephoning me, all since Christmas it has (expectedly) been quiet on there part. I speak to the lady there and she says something arose from my last interview (the one in Hadleigh) with regards to the circumstances of my dismissal. Once more I fall over my words, failing to talk my way out of it. However the Reed seems to accept my plundering explanation, as unsatisfactory as it is. She does though remain tight-lipped when I ask about current positions and opportunities and when I ask about the possibility of any temp positions, after a brief wait, she returns with a nada. This is a worrying seachange compared to them ringing my phone off the hook a month ago in early December. None of this gets any easier.

With that, Dad arrives and suddenly there is even more on a plate than I could wish for/desire. I tell him I have been making calls and the outcome and he responds: “doesn’t look like you’re gonna get a job then”. Great, that’s just the kind of encouraging remark/statement my parents have become famous for.

With him, post arrives including a letter from the Job Centre enquiring further into the circumstances of my dismissal. Further headache, it seems I am yet more trouble and I have to prepare a statement for the Job Centre detailing the circumstances of my dismissal. You don’t win friends with salad. The letter reads:

“When someone claims Jobseeker’s Allowance and/or National Insurance credits we need to find out why their job ended. Your former employer XXXX has said that your job ended because you were dismissed for misconduct for publicly disclosing information (which) would be prejudicial to the good name of the partnership and not devoting the whole of his time during working hours to his duties.

If you lose your job through what the law calls misconduct you may lose Jobseeker’s Allowance and/or National Insurance credits up to 26 weeks.

We are writing to ask you for your version of how the job ended and to comment on what your former employer has said.

Please answer the questions and give your comments over the page even if you are already receiving Jobseeker’s Allowance. Send the completed form back as soon as you can and no later than one week from the date shown above. A pre-paid envelope or label is enclosed for this purpose. We may have to send a copy of what you say to your former employer.

Please note that it is in your interest to respond to this letter as you may lose Jobseeker’s Allowance/National Insurance if you do not.

Please note that this letter concerns your claim for Jobseeker’s Allowance and/or National Insurance credits only and not any other matter to do with the loss of your job (about which you may need to approach other authorities).”

Ouch, is this the “stick” that my old boss said he would be coming at me with? All I know is it is depression on a stick having to recount these incidents, not least for when my ex-employers claim “Did Mr Graham admit not devoting this time to his duties? Yes”. Gobsmacked. I quake as I write my retort to their version of events, I have the worst feeling that this is going to get worse before it gets better.

What I don’t understand about this situation is that if feasibly people cannot claim benefit for six months if they lose their job through misconduct, what are they supposed to do? Surely a fair proportion of people losing their jobs are through misconduct; not strictly a dismissal limited to thugs alone. My head no aches, it is spinning.

Dad hangs around my flat and does his thing and thankfully we manage to go a couple of hours around each other without falling out or arguing. He tells me how mum is feeling ill and has actually taken the day off work today; mum never takes days off work. And then Dad tells me how he has got to go to the doctors for tests this Friday before launching into his spiel and the latest news on how HIS old (except technically current) employers are making HIS life hell too. He was actually supposed to return to work this week but its apparent management don’t want him there (he’s old) but it is also apparent that they don’t want to make him redundant and pay him off. The words “run” and “around” apply to Dad’s situation and it all breaks your heart.

What was I doing at midday today?

Moving on, I phone up and sort out my late library book fine by the way, the fine being 12p and set about sorting out my finances with view to another month of paying for my mortgage on the credit card.

Late afternoon and I shake my head in disbelief: “today is Wednesday?”. Oh dear, I was completely convinced that today was Tuesday. Now there is a sure sign of losing it all.

I begin tearing apart my flat, attempting to tidy another forbidden part of my flat. I attempt to unearth various goodies and I actually dig out and find an old pair of girl’s underwear. Whoops, who did they belong to?

In the evening I do the “Good Son” bit and phone home to speak to Mum to ask how she is. She actually sounds pretty terrible on the other end of the line, vacant and distracted more than I have ever known her before. Prior to making the call and I braced myself for the likelihood of coping some flack but nothing of such heads my way. Oh dear, she must really be bad.

TV is hell tonight, What Women Want is on and it only serves to remind me of the time I took Bella to go see it at the cinema, when we had an argument before the movie but by the end were leaving in like, the film sure warmed the cockles of a happy pair.

Light relief for the evening occurs when I discover that I have downloaded the Peter Cook episode of Room 101 from 1993 (I think). Very funny.

That programme Desperate Housewives debuts on Channel Four tonight, so I fall for all the hype and watch that before turning in for bed shagged.

np: Derek And Clive - Records

2005-01-17T01:15:00.000-08:00

January 4 (Tuesday): Blue Seattle. Christmas is finally history and I wake up this morning with the world (weather) outside still darker than dark, is it really 8AM I ask myself.

It’s hell day in Bohemian Grove today as I slowly have to squeeze too much stuff (too much shit) into a too small space.

Around 9AM my phone beeps and it is a welcome distraction. Mark is texting to ask if I have PowerPoint. I do. I offer to pop around and says “whenever”.

Hygiene now becomes an issue (ho ho), so I pop a quick bath before heading over around 10AM. Mark still seems jetlagged and shattered. In such a state all things are pretty philosophical. And his house sounds more quiet than I have ever heard it before (despite both his parents being home). We go upstairs to his Dad’s study to do the computer thing. Its done in minutes and it seems knowing me can actually enhance a person’s life after all (ha ha).

Around 12.30 I leave and head over to Asda to do my thing (groceries and newspaper). As I drive back home, I listen to the news coverage on the radio of the tsunami in Asia and it just sounds like something out of Brass Eye or The Day Today (“man remains alive by eating bark off a tree”, “fallen cow prevents aircraft from landing on runway”). Have I become too cynical?

This afternoon Channel Four are showing It’s A Mad Mad Mad Mad Mad World which is always worth a look.

With the old man coming over tomorrow to drop more shit (stuff) off at my flat prior to their moving house, I have to tidy the flat even more to make even more space. I make a proper bo effort, daring to touch areas that have remained intact since arrived at my home over three years ago. I attack the forbidden area, fill four binbags, waste several hours on it and afterwards it still appears/remains filled with clutter.

I check my email and the Dead Or American answers turn up.

In the evening I check the Diskant website and find that Marceline has voted my website her third favourite of the year 2004. The description reads:

“#3 - JGRAM WORLDSo good it got him sacked so maybe it should have been #1. Or maybe JGram World will be all the better for learning those important rules about Google proofing, pseudonyms and not talking about your workmates and boss on your blog (Hi everyone at my work!). V1 is now no longer online as was but instead you can jump straight into the aftermath on V 2.0. What puts this above most peoples’ blogs is Jason’s prolificness and seeming complete lack of shame. Most bloggers post once every two weeks with an edited take on what they’ve been up to, kinda. Jason, on the other hand, posts lengthy daily posts in great detail without worrying about making himself look good. So you can really get into JGram’s World for what it is which is often riveting and hilarious. The changes in tone from the work entries to the days of unemployment have been particularly poignant. If you know Jason it’s twice as fun and if he knows you then beware! You will be mentioned and you may not look cool either. Read it now before he gets a book deal and why not see if you can be the first person to get sacked for reading blogs at work instead of working.”

Ding dang do.

Justin (Bad Hand Records) inviting a bunch of his to his birthday do on the 22nd. Sounds good but bearing in mind I go into hospital for serious stuff on the 20th, I’m really not sure if I will be able to make it. Couldn’t imagine anything better than a Saturday night out in Leytonstone though.

On TV tonight is a show called Drugland which features people at play and the coke industry in London (probably Hoxton or something). It is a different totally. It is interesting (funny) to hear how they cut it with Pro Plus though. I’ll never look at those tabs in the same way again.

Shameless comes on tonight for its new (second) series and it rules, with Frank’s Dad turning up and further spicing (messing) things up.

Late night and I consider staying up to watch the epic James Dean fest that is Giant but generally, I can’t be arsed. Instead I put in/on the Prisoner DVD and it immediately sends me to sleep. I am not a number either.

np: Magoo – Queen Of The 8-Bus Singers

2005-01-17T01:14:00.000-08:00

January 3 (Bank Holiday Monday): Blues For A T-Shirt. Woke up this morning, I have to laugh. Today is a good day; it represents my first good night’s sleep on a sofa in an eternity. I awaken enthused about things (life) for the first time in 2005. Outside the skies are blue and I have plenty on my mind to match those colours, dare I say I am almost excited about today’s prospects. I think today is going to be productive.

The plan for today is to get writing done but there is the obstacle of the Rocky And Bullwinkle movie on TV this morning, which wrongly I rate. However, I eventually opt out of it, continuing to bash out on the computer.

Soon the morning has gone and lunchtime arrives and with it a cooked meal from Mum (I never cook at home; it only gives birth to washing up). At the same as this, West Side Story comes on Channel Four and I feel the TV is mocking me. I sit and watch a little of it but today feels like time is of the essence so I return to my parents PC and continue working on that.

I find myself continuing to wade through old Gringo items (news stories in the music press etc) and it’s a gas gas gas.

Today is a full line-up of games and Millwall are at home to Rotherham. I was originally intended to go along but with money now becoming very tight (instead of slightly tight) I have chosen not to. As I’ve probably said before, Rotherham are a slight bogey team and whenever Millwall have to play them I feel apprehensive (that 6-0 game will never leave the memory I think). Today’s game sees a disjointed disrupted line-up yet again with even Braniff back in the team (with Hayles and Dichio missing). Things look though when it comes over the BBC that Alan Dunne (now apparently a winger) scores to give Millwall the lead and I immediately regret not going. Rotherham however equalise just before half time. The second half doesn’t go much better when it is reported that Dennis Wise limps off with an injury and then the sadly inevitable happens when Rotherham score a second which ultimately proves to be the winner (2-1).

Late afternoon and my phone beeps and it is Phoebe wishing me a happy new year and giving me a movie recommendation for tonight (The Astronaut’s Wife, anybody?).

I stay at my parents for dinner but then I promptly fly home shortly afterwards. Tonight Bend It Like Beckham is on TV and I watch some of it (inbetween discovering the disc of work I did around my parents hasn’t burned). I seem to remember this movie being good last summer but now it just comes over as tainted, clichéd and cheesy. A real sack of……

Mark should have got back from Tokyo yesterday and with (I hope) enough sleep in him to clear the jet lag I phone him up. Its great to hear him again and he sounds really relieved to back in the country and a bit down to have missed in Christmas (they don’t do Christmas in Japan you know, ho ho). He sounds like he is really beating himself up over his job and feels a slight failure. Man, what does that make me then? He still sounds chocka with the aftermath of the job though, still with work (a report/presentation) to do so I’m not sure when will be hanging out and indulging in unemployment.

While I am on the phone to Mark, Sara comes online and wants to talk. I explain to her that I am on the phone after she whinges that I am ignoring her. I do however keep telling her I am still on the phone, long after I get done with Mark, enjoying keeping her hanging on the teleMSNphone (or something).

By nine I am done for the day and the Unseen Eric Morecombe comes on TV. I watch some of it but it doesn’t really register with me. When I was at school, the beards would tell you how Morecombe and Wise were geniuses just because really Vic Reeves had said so once (this is back in 1992 remember). Racton comes on MSN, so I end up speaking to him instead.

Today is officially the last day of the holidays and boy have the TV stations put up a great late night line-up for tonight: Spinal Tap, Barb Wire and Twelve Angry Man, with perhaps a taste of Carry On Convenience. Late nights then late mornings, possibly the only real benefit/bonus of unemployment.

I wind up watching bits of all the films and begin to wonder the worth of rewatching movies I have already seen before. I probably fall asleep watching Barb Wire to reawaken for most of Twelve Angry Men, which tonight I really am not in the mood for but I check out (and manage to enjoy) regardless. Beyond that though, it is hell as I find myself unable to sleep, lying awake into the early hours worrying about my financial future and what gives for 2005.

np: Juliana Hatfield – What A Life

2005-01-17T01:13:00.000-08:00

January 2 (Sunday): The Hourglass Syndrome. I wake up and the headaches have returned. I also awaken to find that I have slept the night on top of my glasses and now as I put them on this morning, they are all on the piss and very annoying at that.

Today is typically Sunday, a bright sunny back I really cannot be arsed to do anything. I find an old John Peel video interview on the BBC from 2002 and I watch that and it is fascinating.

I finally get up with view to making moves (I’m supposed to go over to the olds again today) and I look out of my flat window in the car park to see one of my nutty neighbours washing his car for the second day running (I believe). Now that is boredom. Or maybe just the feeling of necessity to be clean for some reason (remove blood and/or semen stains or something). Or maybe he just has a really blatant OCD.

After yesterday I feel SO ill, this must be some kind of food baby, the dietary version of a hangover in grocery currency.

Eventually I manage to pull myself together enough to make the drive home and when I arrive in Holland, there is a motorcycle parked out front. Inside I find a very morose atmosphere in the kitchen where I find my cousin Adrian (who I used to think was my uncle) telling my parents how he and his wife decided to split up on New Years Eve. It’s hard all over it seems. And I don’t clock that this is this story immediately, instead I stand around them moaning about feeling ill through food poisoning (or rather lack there of food poisoning). As soon as I clock what has happened, I stand awkwardly listening in really wanting to leave and move into the other room and watch telly or desiring to get myself a sandwich/lunch. All these activities seem rude and a faux pas to me as I feel obliged to hear things out, appearing supportative. It is a really sad day though, this should not be, these are some of my favourite relatives. I guess the big Graham reunification is experiencing more obstacles than expected.

In the end I get my lunch/dinner (“happy now?”) and almost immediately I feel much better for it. I proceed to begin clearing out five boxes mum has got down from the loft which I have to clear out. This is personal paper work dating back ten years, everything since I left school almost in addition to a few items from my final wilderness (retake) year at school. I find my examination result slips, so now if anyone ever wants to check if my CV is honest, I guess I’d best adjust it before showing the people these (joking!). The clearing the box is hard/heavy work, exhausting because it genuinely takes a mental toll as, once more, many ‘Nam-esqe flashbacks shoot back from various periods/occurrences over the past ten years. Once more I come across box after box of old Gringo Records items/documents and all that holds within that are the most exciting times of my life, from its inception in late 1996, to brushes with fame in 1998, the grand days of 2000 and then things sadly begin to peter out after that. I come across an old newspaper (the Halstead Gazette) with a picture line-up of Lando with Tom and Joe (posing as Chris) and they both look so young. And then comes the newspaper article featuring me, Matt and Chris (Chris got in there in the end!). Ouch, was it really seven years ago already. I weep.

I also come across many accounting documents, both from study and former employers. Part of me thinks I just stopped short at taking stationery with the photocopier (again, joking!). It all hits home though when I find I was studying the audit exam in 1999 and, because of various circumstances, I only just passed that exam last year (first time though). Oh dear, my career really went off the rails somewhere, I really should be qualified by now. With that thought in mind, I put all that rubbish to one side and return to reading about myself in the local press (ha ha).

In the evening I find myself on my parents’ computer, on MSN. Sara comes online on MSN and I brace myself. She hits me on MSN, with me under the Messenger name of my Dad. She wishes a random “Happy New Year” and it is obvious she isn’t sure whether it is me or the old man on MSN. I play along a little bit, pretending to be the old man but the basic speed of my typing gives me away. Once the veil is lifted, we get into some conversation which leads to argument which she tells me she “isn’t in the mood for”. Like I am. I ask her where my money is and she plays dumb (or at least I think its playing). She carries as if nothing ever happened, water off a ducks back. She retorts “I said I’m sorry”, which obviously makes it all better. Is she thick-skinned or just thick? I rag on her a bit and then she goes “I’m seeing somebody”, throwing it at me like a rock. By this point, I am no interested in that, I just want my money back; it’s the principle in representation. She pisses me off, so I stop replying/responding to her (just like Dec 11th). She keeps asking “you not talking to me?”, “are you pissed off” as she offers to make things better when I’m not feeling in a very good frame of mind, especially when she tells me how her year end ended so well eventually (what happened to all the relatives that were dying of cancer just two weeks prior? Did they get better? Hope so). She tells me her new year’s resolution is to give up smoking. How about give up breathing (ha ha). I give up on responding to her and when she goes “not talking?” for the last time, I just log off and go watch the telly. And tonight’s entertainment is……

Night three of the Peter Kay weekend on E4! The Sky has been playing up slightly all day but tonight it’s good as E4 repeats the entire series of Max And Paddy. And while I really didn’t expect the series to be any good, it is fantastic, full of great pastiches and cultural references that really relate to my generation, right and wrongly (references such as Mr T, the A-Team, Miami Vice, Ghostbusters anything eighties and American basically).

As midnight hits (and the witching hour with it) I am absolutely spoilt for choice on digital TV as the Max And Paddy marathon ends and turns into a Peter Kay live show while elsewhere the BBC channels are showing the Smoking Room Christmas episode, Armando Iannucci’s Alternative 2004 and the TV version of Dennis Potter’s Brimstone And Treacle (with Denholm Elliott and importantly without Sting). Why must good TV be shown so late? I have a lust for life in the aftermath.

np: Art Brut – Formed A Band

2005-01-17T01:10:00.000-08:00

the New Year's sun rising over Colchester

2005-01-17T01:04:00.000-08:00

January 1 (New Years Day Saturday): Have Fun, Stay Single. Dream: I am on some TV show exactly like the Surreal Life. One of the participants on there is Dean Cain and he begins to bully me on the show, so I wind up breaking his back and chopping him up. Needless to say, I get evicted from the show.

I awake around 8AM and this is the new year. The world is silent. It is never this silent. Right now, I am probably the only person on Layer Road up and making any noise, my window is open and I can’t even hear any sound of car engines in the distance. Is this 28 Days Later? I’ll tell you what it is, it is bliss. Or it would be if I shut my hole and was just able to enjoy the peace and quiet for once. By right, one (or all) of my neighbours right now should be banging on my door/window in order to restore the tranquillity.

I hit the streets in search of my Saturday fix of the weekend newspapers, primarily for the excellent Guardian Guide, the first of 2005. I hit the streets and nothing is open. My local store, within a stones throw, is shut. And then on a larger scale, the corporates are shut as I attempt to hit/go to Asda and the barriers are down. Asda is never shut! Eventually I find a cornershop open but the staff and owners of these independent shops are always so rude, I have long decided not to give them my money. And as per before, the staff remain the rudest, the least customer friendly types creating resentment when I give them my hard sponged money. Do they actually want my business?

With things quiet, I drive around Colchester for a bit taking more photos on my digital camera hoping to make things look pretty. However the camera gets through yet another set of batteries, the third since I cracked the baby open on Christmas Day. No one told me that they sucked up juice at this rate. Oh no, Mr Man in his funny “Merry Christmas” baseball cap failed to warn me about that when telling me how the camera takes pictures made up of 3 million pixels or something. Oh well, such is life.

I return home, with the world still relatively quiet and hung-over, to find the Disney cartoon of Robin Hood on. This is one of my favourite Disney cartoons and actually curiously one me and Bella did not watch when we rented all (or it seemed all) the Disney cartoons from Blockbuster back in the day.#

Today I have next to zero food in the flat. I really could have done with a big shop, if only to get some milk. I scavenge around for a meal and root around the box of goodies that mum sent me home with on Boxing Day. Eventually my New Years Day lunch consists of a box of pretzels and box of six mince pies. Tubby bitch.

Now feeling quite/rather rough as a result, my afternoon pretty much consists of watching Uncle Buck on TV and checking on the football on internet radio. Today Millwall are at Watford and Millwall never beat Watford. I saw both games against Watford last season and for some reason they just don’t do it against the Hornets. Does Elton John have some kind of deal? However with recent form, you would expect Millwall to win today. No way. Things look bad when you see the changes Wise has to make through injuries, including forcing himself out of the team in addition to Scott Dobie (now finding his feet it seems) ruled out of the line-up. Things begin badly when Watford score after 15 minutes and whenever that happens, it always seems/appears miraculous whenever Millwall are able to peg anything back. Eventually the nails seal the coffin when Danny Dichio gets send off in the 53rd minute. Typical Dichio. They wind up losing 1-0. Or maybe a better term would be choking 1-0.

From there I attempt to watch Antz because it features Woody Allen but my apparent ill health on this day (bad diet) forces me lose interest. In early evening I stagger out back onto the streets in search of somewhere selling food. I drive to my usual chip shop haunts, where I usually go when I am feeling sorry for myself but no dice; they’re taking a New Years holiday also. As a last shot I attempt Tesco but the barrier is down there also. What happened to supply and demand, no wonder these supermarkets don’t make any money (exaggerating for comedic effect there). I maintain my dignity though; I refuse to go into the service station like a hop head pot head with the munchies and no clue. Instead I return home in agony.

Upon further investigation I discover an old tin of beans and I lap that baby up, mixing it with curry sauce for a kick. Ultimately though, naturally it only serves to further upset my internals/intestines. Its acid park in there.

Delirious, I potter around on the internet while I wait for the Comedians Comedian Top Fifty on Channel Four. I come across the V/VM website and discover that he has put the Rank Sinatra up online to download for free for a limited period. Back of the net. I then also receive an email from Macrocosmica and they have come up with some answers to the questions I sent. Topski.

Eventually I make it to 9PM without dying and the Comedian’s Comedian run down. It turns out to be really odd line-up, Bill Hicks only at number 13 and no sign of Lenny Bruce while some really atrocious names gained entry. The winner turns out to be Peter Cook which is a real surprise but at the same time pretty correct.

The winner of the rundown should have been predictable really by Channel Four’s scheduling of The Real Derek And Clive documentary straight after the show. They showed this originally on Christmas night two years ago and I videoed at the time and have never seen the tape since (maybe someone else in my house enjoyed too much also). This the most fantastic documentary and in the aftermath of watching Ricky Gervais uncontrollably laughing at tracks like “Parking Offence”, “World Records” and “T.V.” I find myself swearing uncontrollably all in the name of satire (apparently). Yeah, as if I need anything to fuel that.

Now bed ways is best ways.

np: The Breeders – New Year

The full list of the Comedian’s Comedian on Channel Four

1. Peter Cook
2. John Cleese
3. Woody Allen
4. Eric Morecambe
5. Groucho Marx
6. Tommy Cooper
7. Laurel and Hardy
8. Billy Connolly
9. Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer
10. Richard Pryor
11. Chris Morris
12. Tony Hancock
13. Bill Hicks
14. Peter Sellers
15. Steve Martin
16. Ronnie Barker
17. Steve Coogan
18. Charlie Chaplin
19. Eddie Izzard
20. Paul Merton
21. Eric Idle
22. Peter Kay
23. Larry David
24. Rowan Atkinson
25. Bob Hope
26. Harry Hill
27. Victoria Wood
28. Spike Milligan
29. Christopher Guest
30. Michael Palin
31. French and Saunders
32. Eddie Murphy
33. Bob Monkhouse
34. Rik Mayall
35. Steven Wright
36. Ken Dodd
37. Les Dawson
38. Chic Murray
39. Stephen Fry
40. Joan Rivers
41. Joyce Grenfell
42. Phil Silvers
43. Jackie Mason
44. Eric Sykes
45. Robin Williams
46. Paul Whitehouse
47. Bill Cosby
48. Mike Myers
49. Ricky Gervais
50. Mel Brooks

2005-01-14T03:14:00.000-08:00

Media Player 31 Dec 2004

Play count according to Windows Media Player on my PC (via Play Count). My Top 100 (since 17 Feb 02)

1) Deluxx Folk Implosion – Daddy Never Understood
2) Time Zone – World Destruction
3) Cat Stevens - I Think I See The Light
4) Bikini Kill – I Like Fucking
5) NWA – Straight Outta Compton
6) Public Enemy – Shut ‘Em Down (live on The Word)
7) Schoolly D – Saturday Night
8) Afghan Whigs – Superstition/Going To Town (live)
9) Jane’s Addiction – Just Because
10) Girls Against Boys - Basstation
11) Sugababes – Freak Like Me
12) Mudhoney – Who’ll Be Next In Line
13) Folk Implosion – Jenny’s Theme
14) Red Hot Chili Peppers – Fortune Faded
15) Shellac - Killers
16) My Bloody Valentine - Slow
17) Shellac - Agostino
18) Luscious Jackson - Here
19) Luscious Jackson – City Song
20) T-Rex – Jeepster
21) Breeders – New Year
22) Tindersticks – Travel Light
23) The Jive Five – What Time Is It?
24) Snoop Dogg – From Da Church To Da Palace
25) Rolling Stones – Thru And Thru
26) Deftones – Back To School
27) Flamingos – I Only Have Eyes For You
28) The Vines – Get Free
29) Sebadoh – Sixteen (BBC Session)
30) Gang Starr – Jazz Thing
31) Le Tigre – Phanta
32) Jennifer Lopez – Ain’t It Funny
33) Lois Maffeo & Brendan Canty – You Love Your Wounds
34) Cat Stevens – Tea For Tellerman
35) Faith No More – Edge Of The World
36) Shellac – Spoke
37) Jason Loewenstein – I’m A Shit
38) Terence Blanchard with Branford Marsalis – Beneath The Underdog
39) The Jesus Lizard – Puss
40) Curtis Mayfield – Pusherman
41) 4Hero – Escape That
42) …Trail Of Dead – Mistakes And Regrets
43) Electric Six – Gay Bar
44) Nina Simone – Ain’t Go No/I Got Life
45) Pearl Jam – Porch
46) Brainiac – Vincent Come On Down
47) Annie Ross – Twisted
48) Breeders – Freed Pig
49) Polaris – She Is Staggering
50) Snoop Dogg – Gin And Juice
51) L7 – Hanging On The Telephone
52) Broadcast – Accidentals
53) The Rapture – Out Of The Races And Onto The Tracks
54) Mazzy Starr – Fade Into You
55) Cave In – Anchor
56) Cat Stevens – Trouble
57) Teenage Fanclub – Everything Flows
58) Cinematic Orchestra – All That You Give
59) Cinematic Orchestra – Burn Out
60) Afghan Whigs – Gentleman
61) DJ Shadow – Midnight In A Perfect World
62) Minutemen – Corona
63) Electro Group – Trauma
64) Travis – Sing
65) Freda Payne – Band Of Gold
66) Vincent Gallo – Lonely Boy
67) So Clear Productions – Colchester Bronx?
68) Guru – Le Bien, Le Mal
69) Gumball – Butterfly Potion
70) Massive Attack – Unfinished Sympathy
71) Stereophonics – I Wouldn’t Believe Your Radio
72) Ladytron – Blue Jeans
73) Superchunk – Saving My Ticket
74) Eminem – Without Me
75) Dr Dre – Still Dre
76) Outkast – MS Jackson
77) Sonic Youth – 100% (live)
78) The Pharcyde – Passing Me By
79) Television – Marquee Moon
80) Slint – Ron
81) Miss Crabtree – Waking Up
82) Mckay – Take Me Over
83) The Jesus Lizard – Fly On The Wall
84) Girls Against Boys – Click Click
85) Cinematic Orchestra – Evolution
86) Afghan Whigs – Debonair
87) Korn – Freak On A Leash
88) Faith No More – Midnight Cowboy
89) Slick Rick – Children’s Story
90) Free Kitten – Harvest Spoon
91) The Prodigy – Baby’s Got A Temper
92) Ween – Push Lil Daisies
93) Tenacious D – Tribute
94) Skip James – Devil Got My Woman
95) Nirvana – Oh The Guilt
96) Free Kitten – Never Gonna Sleep
97) Free Kitten – What’s Fair
98) Black Rebel Motorcycle Club – Stop
99) At The Drive-In – Rolodex Propaganda
100) Mudhoney – The Money Will Roll Right In

go figure

2005-01-12T11:33:00.000-08:00

December 31 (New Year’s Eve Friday): Wooh Hooo Woo Hoo Hooo. I wake up feeling like shit. And my cure for this is apparently watching King Of Queens (fucking dickhead). Nope, I officially am no longer able to sleep rough.

Today I should be writing (at least I was hoping to) but instead I find myself once more watching The Wrestling Channel on Sky. Sucker.

Early doors and Dad begins to make moves to going into Clacton. I was planning on going into “town” also, so I tell him and we head out to Clacton in the same car. I drive and this is good times, we have another “adult” conversation/experience as we discuss/mull our predicaments. We talk about our futures and express our concerns as Dad renews his car RFL and I find myself having to take money out on my credit card and bank it into my bank in order to pay my mortgage, car loan and council tax amongst other things. This is reckless financing in desperate times.

We pick up a newspaper in WH Smith and Dad bumps into some guy who he used to work with and I used to get on with despite the only things I can remember about the bloke being his name is “John”, he supports Arsenal and he spent some time in prison. I used to think he looked like the footballer Neil Webb but now he is all grey haired and barely recognisable. Ouch. It appears to cheer Dad immensely to see the guy and talk bollocks. However when discussion gets onto the topic of the Tsunami in Asia, it appears the resigning philosophy is, to grab some positivity from it, “at least it would have taken out a load of paedophiles”. You can’t make this stuff up.

After stopping by at the chemist for Dad to get his medication, we return home with the morning kind of wasted to Return Of The Jedi on TV. I actually kind of like this film, I actually kind of liked the Ewoks and I seem to be the only person that actually does (above the age of 12). Are they really so hated?

Eventually I get into some writing but it is with half the day in effect wasted. I begin texting Azmei to see how things are. It occurs to me that we were supposed to meet up for lunch while she was back but I have to admit that I really could not be bothered. And when she replies, she feels likewise, expressing a real desire to get back to her new home, away from Colchester (“full of bad memories”).

My phone rings and it is Ross on the phone wishing me Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. We talk about the Peter Cook thing and he tells me how he is stranded looking around shops while his other half is getting her hair done. Ross is one of those cool long lost friends that a person does not keep in touch with enough and that Christmas gives a good reason to getting in touch. And he got the Sopranos boxsets for Christmas, so we could probably talk for hours now about that. He mentions that Jon Spencer Blues Explosion are supporting the Hives in the New Year and that they are playing his neck of the woods (Cambridge), so it gets suggested that we go to that.

In late afternoon I find myself fixated by VH-1. There is this show called the Surreal Life on and it is car crash TV of the highest order. Basically it is Big Brother crossed with MTVs Real World featuring six washed up celebrities, some not even being has beens, they are never weres. The main two figures in the show are Flavor Flav and Brigitte Nielsen. He looks totally messed up in the head (but still nice/friendly with it) and she just looks scaly and permanently drunk. And then they begin to hit it off, almost get it on. Doesn’t Flavor already have about eight kids? What’s an extra one, even if it is half hood, half Danish. The remaining participants are a New Kid On The Block looking like Donny Osmond, a character from that cheesy sick eighties comedy Full House (birthplace of the Olsen twins), a the US female equivalent of Will Young (I think) and some Hispanic singer who used to be on the Love Boat in the US but looks like a female WWF wrestler. And I can’t take my eyes away from it, only for one thing.

And the one thing turns out to be dinner, as mum cooks a full roast in celebration of my visit. Oh man am I special needs.

A conscious decision is made by me NOT to spend the New Years with my parents. This year very few people appear to have made any plans whatsoever, it is either total extravagance (going to France) or it is absolutely nothing at all. And the latter prevails. I leave my parents at 6.30, them looking at me worried as if to say “he really should be going out”.

Tonight turns out to be the ultimate Friday night comedy night on TV. I have many times expounded my theory that TV shows comedy after comedy on a Friday night in order to make the unpopular, no-lifes feel better about themselves and circumstances. And tonight, while none of the TV stations really appeared to have bothered either with their programming, Channel Four pulls out all stops and schedules the ultimate Friday night with a full night of final episodes and documentaries on Fraiser, Friends and Sex And The City. I wonder however if this morale making plan might backfire because last episodes of series are surely bittersweet downers. Lack of foresight there methinks.

Having had two really good New Years on the bounce, I decide to opt out of celebrations this year which means I am at home and on the other end of MSN. Richard pops up and begins to MSN asking me what I am doing. I try to justify my decision without sounding like a friendless loser and I think I manage to pull of convincing the pair of us until Acton (who is staying in with his housemates avoiding a hell like London) clearly gets bored and goes downstairs to “drink a bottle of Jim Beam”. In the words of Milhouse’s dad in the Simpsons: “can I borrow a feeling?” (ha ha).

I soldier on with the Friday night TV, severely distracted by the joys of the internet. I watch the two hour documentary on Friends and it’s a weird show, painting the show in a whole new light for me. This show was really the antidote to Generation X? And it was the spawn of the guy who did the infinitely better Dream On? Wow.

Naturally Friends sends me to sleep, the last ever episode was something of a semi stinker and spookily I find myself waking up just as someone on some channel is counting down the new year with about 40 seconds to spare.

It happens! New Year! And on the very dot of 12.00 midnight, B hits me on MSN with “Happy New Year!”. It is precise and crisp; exactly on the dot it is frightening. I take the gesture the wrong way, what on earth is she doing on MSN at this time and why contacting me of all people? I take a relatively nice and innocent gesture and add a ton of baggage to it, souring it in the process. I leave it, making a conscious decision not to answer to avoid being arsey and a bastard. My new year begins jagged.

On the stroke of midnight, the quality of TV is disputable but I do find myself captivated as I watch the fireworks in London, appearing to do their very best to ignite/explode the London eye. Even watching the fireworks on TV is breathtaking, so only imagine how great the would have been/looked/seen in person. And they last for about seven minutes.

The remainder of TV is freaky. Covering the midnight period, ITV shows The Wicker Man. What connotations does this movie have to New Years? I don’t know but all I remember is that in 2001, Channel Four showed in New Years night also. I watch it and it freaks me out somewhat, this is more sinister and camp than Batman (and I mean both the TV series and the gothic movie version).

I fall asleep.

np: Red Snapper – The Sleepless

2005-01-12T09:24:00.000-08:00

this how I think I must exactly look like sometimes

2005-01-12T06:17:00.000-08:00

December 30 (Thursday): Bogey! Bad daze, I wake up at 7.15 with the mother of all headaches/migraine/tumours. I look at MSN and Sara is online, I am officially avoiding her, too much hassle.

Looking at the BBC website and a blog story has finally appeared and unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) I have/do not get a mention in it. I guess my fifteen minutes are still out there waiting.

Today is about buying a new coat. For some reason mum insisted on giving me a oner (£100) for Christmas to buy a new coat and right now I can’t find one I like to save myself. As a creature of habit, I want exactly the same coat that I have now, only without the holes and with a lining (ho ho). The plan for today is to check out the Gap in Ipswich for the real size of the coat that I saw yesterday. And failing that, a trip to Chelmsford may have to occur.

I try to leave early, I really do but everything holds me and I just find myself moving really slow this morning but eventually I get out and go.

Ipswich is a funny place, it sends chills down my spine and memories can surging back of good times and bad. I used to come here with a lot of regularity, especially for the four seasons when me and Dad had a season to Ipswich Town Football Club. Then enough was enough.

Today I immediately head for the Gap, strongly avoiding Portman Road. I go into the Gap and it is pretty different to the Colchester branch. Who says corporate chains all look the same? Sadly however, this poxy shop doesn’t have any of those coats I like. Not small, not large, not XXXLLLL. Nothing.

Discovery however, I find some bookends in WH Smiths, the ones that are sold out in Colchester. Bang bang!

Things seem to be better in Ipswich. The girls are prettier and I head to the HMV and the sales are better. Catching my eye (and into my car) go Fight Club double disc, Biggie And Tupac and the Animal Factory for £20.

Feeling guilt, I continue looking for a coat, first going in the “cool” shops and then winding up in the “desperate” shops such as Littlewoods. And that is the shop I find myself in when Chris phones me up on my cellphone asking me if I am going to Ipswich or Chelmsford today. Too late. Suggestions get made about me maybe still going to Chelmsford but by now I find myself thoroughly fed up with shopping, expressing on the phone that “I feel I’m about hit to start punching people”, prompting a fearful/weirdo look from a little old lady.

Eventually I wind up at the Buttermarket, which is Ipswich’s mall but not quite full of mallrats. Here I think I hit gold when I discover the Ipswich TK Maxx, its not all gash in there you know. Except today it just is. I leave the store giving up on finding a coat today but happen across a rather to do store called Addlers. Wow, never been in here before and its quite the store for fuddies. I go to the posh bit and come across the big coats and find some in the sales. In order to appease Mother, I buy a coat in the sale, £99 apparently reduced from £200, just the kind of coat Mother will like. Am I turning into Norman Bates coat purchaser?

I leave Ipswich coat in bag/hand and exit this time via Portman Road. I take some pictures of Ipswich with my digital camera whilst driving and head home to my parents, stopping off at the Ipswich Tesco on the way.

I get home to Clacton/Holland in the best time and upon arrival Christmas appears in full swing and everyone remains relatively relaxed and happy. When I get home, Empire Strikes Back is on TV and watching some of that turns out to be a must do. And with Sky in da house, I find myself sitting down to watch the Wrestling Channel and a Shoot Interview on it with the Road Warriors/Legion Of Doom. Very productive, very mature.

Eventually I get into some writing before having a hot dinner, my first since I was last around my parents. Afterwards I get back into writing while the old man watches Porridge the movie on TV and it turns out that it was filmed at the Chelmsford prison. Small world.

Tonight is the Christmas TV I have been most anticipating, the Peter Cook and Dudley Moore biopic “Not Only But Always”. And it turns out to be fantastic, not too sentimental and not too overblown or dramatic, it seems to capture the correct pitch with which to be effective and believable. The guy playing Peter Cook is the drippy (cheesy) Welsh bloke from Notting Hill but he puts in a fantastic performance. Before hand I had been told the film may not be so good because it portrayed Peter Cook is such a bad light but being an audience knowing what to expect and still being in his corner/on his side, a certain understanding is lent to these actions and a blind eye taken in the process. I watch it and realise that I already know this story quite well, I have seen it a number of times before in a number of documentaries (always essential viewing) and I do question whether it is required to delve any further in the story now but we’ll see, anything that gets Peter Cook back on TV has to be a good thing. Strangely (wrongly) the thing that freaks me out most about the movie is how much the guy playing Blake Edwards looks (and acts) like William Shatner. Surely not intentional.

I experience a really bad night sleeping on the sofa, after some sleep I awaken at 3.30AM mulling things over, never to really get back to sleep again, throwing in the towel when mum starts moving around the house at 6AM next morning. A bear with a sore head day looks ahead of me for the New Year.

np: America – Horse With No Name

2005-01-12T06:16:00.000-08:00

December 29 (Wednesday): Literally Ridiculous. This morning I have go. I wake up at 8.30 and once more by around 9.00, I am already out of the door, out for a second stab at the Christmas sales, facing them in the knowledge that today for many is their day of return to work, which will make town relatively quiet and sane in the process.

I jolly into town and manage to happen across the best, easiest access parking spot imaginable. Its these small victories that keep morale high in these times. I re-hit the sales, starting out in Virgin Megastore. I pick up Schindler’s List, Moonlighting and Alfie all on DVD and that Manics b-side album on CD for just over £20. It feels like a bargain at least. As I stand being served at the counter, there is some little tourettes boy employee mouthing off and the girl serving me apologises saying “he’s not talking about you”. Whoops, I had totally zoned out. I actually begin making small talk with the girl at this point. Small talk? That’s torture to me. I’m going through changes.

I stagger around town and I catch glimpse of an old workmate from my penultimate job, the one prior to the dooce. I speed up and step quicker in an effort to avoid her and avoid describing my recent embarrassments. Mission accomplished.

Next stop turns out to be WH Smith where now, with alternative paranoia in place, I sense another shop assistant checking me out with view to nice nice. I then realise what I must look like with my “beard” and consider it more likely that she is checking me out as a shoplifter. Lady I’m not that strong, I could never lift a shop (Hulk could).

HMV is hard work. I pick up the Hooligans PC game for a fiver, the game that caused such a ruckus in the media a few years ago when it was released at full price. Walking around the store, they are playing that Coldplay track from the Garden State soundtrack over the PA and it (the song and movie) really fits my current state of mind as I go around zonked (gormless). As I walk to counter I pass an old school mate (Bagley) and acknowledge him doing the eyebrow thing but really I don’t want to speak to him because last year I heard he had been telling various other school chums stuck in his village, also unemployed bums, that I was gay. I tell you, some people.

I hit paydirt with the sales when I make a random trip into MVC to find the Adam And Joe DVD in their sale. Back of the net, I’ve been after that for weeks and was praying it would make it to the sales. Back of the net.

When I get back to my car, my phone beeps and it’s a text from Chris. He’s asking me if I’m up for lunch today. I wasn’t sure if it was even happening but hungry I certainly go “yes!”, calling him immediately and heading over to his house shortly after.

Upon arriving there, he is still in his dressing gown. “Dude, half the day has nearly gone already” (I don’t say). Instead I just get my digital camera out to take embarrassing, blackmail photos of the brah.

He gets ready and we head back into town and yet again, attempting to get parked during the dinner period proves next to impossible. And I’m a bit nervous today about hitting town at lunch time on a school day because old work colleagues will probably be about (seems I have a real complex about doesn’t it). Eventually though we get parked up at the casino car park, pissing eachother off because we are late for lunch. Baldwin and I have a race down the multi storey, I take the elevator and he takes the stairs and wins, probably by running and/or cheating.

Eventually we hook up with our lunch dates (ho ho) Lucy and Sue. Unsure as where to go, I suggest we head to The Castle, I have had such a jones on for their sweet and sour chicken for the longest time and I’ve been hoping all Christmas we’d go there (just like last Christmas when I tasted it for the first time). We have lunch and it is great fun, relaxed and I don’t feel excluded (don’t take much to please me). Chris orders sausage, so couple that with the fur lining on his new Gap coat, gabba gabba we accept him back as one of us.

Half way through lunch two ladies take up at the table next to us, two attractive ladies. For the a lot of the meal, the really nice looking lady keeps looking over to our table. I wonder if/who she is macking. The new “bearded” me or the classic, now meat eating Baldwin.

Lunch is ace and then we head to Ace where Chris wants comics! Colin still works there and this is the first time that I have seen him in an eternity, since the last time I braved the comic store in the summer. He’s actually pretty happy to see us and we have an aces chat while he works, what appears, the greatest job going. While we’re there, Nina pops in also we says hello, you knows it. Utter Geeksville. I nearly buy some little book about fetish while Chris buys some Hernandez (Love And Rockets) sex comic.

We nob about town for a while longer and actually manage to find a coat in Gap that I (think I) really like. I check for sizes however and there are only M and XS. It takes me about five minutes to work out what XS means. Who on earth is extra small? A smackhead? A silly boy with an eating disorder? Equally disillusioned, I leave the store still unable to find myself a new coat for these cold cold winter eves.

After a brief stop off via Staples, we return to Bohemian Grove where I finish off burning those CD-Rs for Chris. My flat is an embarrassing horrible mess and not fit for human consumption or co-habitation. I burn the CD-Rs really quick but really feel the need/requirement to whisk Chris out the flat before he feels too disgusted with me. Just before leaving, Tom hits me on MSN to say how he is having a strange Christmas with regards to people. I go “indeed but not to worry” before taking the Chris home.

When I return home, it is to The Sound Of Music on TV and Tom on MSN. And I know which out of the two makes more sense to me. It’s all good.

Later in the evening I phone home to speak to mum to try and cheer her up by sounding upbeat. I hope it works but once more I fail to convince myself in my capabilities.

During the phonecall however, Sara comes online and begins getting in touch with me on MSN. Oh my, this is weirdness. As soon as she comes online, mum can tell by the distracted tone of my voice that there is something up. Eventually I get off the phone to deal with Haslett. This is the second half of my two Christmas wishes, for her to get in touch. I must be some kind of sadist (and some will tell you that I am). I have to admit to being shocked, surprised, awkward and embarrassed all by her communication. She is all apologies, telling me how she has missed me etc. I ask the obvious, what happened that Saturday. It turns out that she got back to England, had a great first four days of partying and then all of a sudden half her relatives suddenly caught cancer. Still, that is no excuse for NO communication. I struggle to believe her excuses. I move onto asking for my money, considering she always claims to be such money bags out there in Dubai (George Dubai Bush methinks). Apparently its coming but, her not being so smart, she doesn’t seem able to get her pretty little head around the world/concept of Paypal. While this outstanding debt hangs over our heads, I really do not want anything to do with her. When she was sacked by the company I have just been sacked from/by, she left owing a number of my co-workers money and this reality just reduces me to such a level of user’s mark (if that makes sense). Where’s my fucking money?

My night ends by watching the Arena special about the Secret Policeman’s Ball. The show is fantastic, featuring so many of my heroes. In the summer I managed to get a Secret Policeman’s Ball DVD in the sale for a fiver and I have never got around to doing it but seeing all this footage of Peter Cook and the Comic Strip, it looks like goldust.

During the show I get Chris on MSN asking me what the Neil Young song on Grand Theft Auto:San Andreas is. I know the song he means but not which one it is. I originally didn’t think it was a Neil Young song but it does sound like him (and Chris is convinced) so it may be a Buffalo Springfield song. So, as a result I spend the next hour on the internet trying to find out what song it is, downloading all sorts off Soulseek just so that I can be the person to say “I found that song”. After a tedious search, the song turns out to be A Horse With No Name by the band America. And it’s really good with it.

Tonight I experience I really bad night, a very disturbed sleep pattern, one of lying awake too long, thinking too much causing me to worry too much.

np: Coldplay – Don’t Panic

2005-01-12T06:14:00.000-08:00

December 28 (Tuesday): Yeah I Know. Up and at ‘em. I awaken this morning with my computer unbelievably fucked. I cannot believe this thing, I seem to have no end of problems/troubles with AOL Broadband. And I get so stressed out with it in the process, unfortunately I have reached the point in my life where I don’t think I could live without the internet (and would struggle without broadband for that).

I text Tom to tell him how cool it had been to hang out and then I get a text following from Ben asking “where we got to on Boxing Day night”. I make my excuses (“tiredness, needed seat”) and he tells me how he is on the coach to Luton to watch Col U play there today. I remind him about Millwall at Luton in the eighties and in return he asks who Millwall have and when it turns out to be Derby, he says “put one over on Burley the Judas”. Good times.

From there I continue to spend all morning repairing my computer, today the broadband modem isn’t even working. As good as AOL Broadband is, I never had this much trouble when it was just dial-up. Eventually I manage to get it all running again, all my fluke/accident and reinstalling the modem drivers, which sounds like a really desperate move to me. One day I won’t be able to fluke my way to repairing my computer.

My intention today was to go hit the sales again and then pop home to the parents but ultimately no dice on that idea, not least because for the day being well into the afternoon by the time my computer is up and running again.

I get into writing. Or at least I attempt to, today it just isn’t happened. Instead I begin watching some documentary about Inspector Clouseau called The Curious Case Of The Pink Panther, half way which I realise I have seen it before. Also during the show some cold caller gets me on the phone. He could talk for England I tell you despite (probably) being Asian and unable to say/pronounce my surname correctly. I giggle when I sit the phone down and wonder how long it will be before he realises I have done so. Small things.

And on that subject, film of the day is Small Soldiers, which I kind of like not least because it has David Cross in and when I was younger I would play (and worship) my Star Wars and Action Force (UK GI Joe) figures. Towards the end of the movie Action texts me saying: “I didn’t know David Cross was in Small Soldiers”. Indeed.

Today there is a full programme of games and Millwall are away at Derby. Barry Hayles scores again. And again and again as he scores a hat-trick and Millwall score three goals for only the third time this season and win 3-0. The only other times this season they had scored three goals was Boxing Day against Ipswich and the home game against Derby earlier in the season. Things look so good.

Evening and Chris texts me about hanging out and doing lunch tomorrow before getting me on MSN and asking me to burn him the files (Monkey Island etc) onto CD-R. It’s all good.

Tonight turns out to be a bit of a snorer. More feeble/weak attempts are made at writing before I trawl through the box of food mum sent me home with on Boxing Day and inside there I find a Cadburys advent calendar. Nice but a bit late maybe. Regardless I proceed however to begin eating the chocolates. It becomes very moreish (like heroin) as I replicate Bad Santa and proceed to eat all 24 chocolates but doing so in the correct numerical/date order. I am perverse sometimes.

And on that subject, B comes online and says hello on MSN. We exchange Christmas wishes (three years too late babe) and talk randoms but fortunately it sounds like we both had good Christmases (her having just returned from Derby to an empty house). We question each other’s plans for New Years and we have neither. I mention that Tom asked me up to Nottingham (where she is remember) and she takes some interest, probably more than me, I really don’t fancy it up there. Our conversation withers and dies though, she tells me she has stuff to and so do I (writing when I can be bothered. And of course job hunting prep).

Tonight is the Bear’s Christmas Tail on Channel Four and this is one of the things I have (sadly) been looking forward to all Christmas TV. It turns out to be only OK though, trying to be too much, more than it can accomplish/pull off. The Bear is a fantastic character in itself, a very generic vehicle type show would it work on its own and still be really funny. This show delivered just seems to be an example of trying too hard, attempting to cram in roles/cameos for too many of the Bo Selecta characters.

On a boring note, my day/night ends.

np: Mercury Rev – Chasing A Bee

2005-01-12T06:08:00.000-08:00

December 27 (Monday): An Inverted Pyramid Of Piffle. Back home and awaking in my own bed, it is a relief amongst man. The first thing that occurs today is for Chris to call me up and drag me out. Today, Chris and Tom are up for hitting the sales. Is there actually any money left/going around after Christmas?

I pull myself (my shit) together and when I arrive around the Baldwin’s, I find the pair of them playing Monkey Island on the PC. Old!

Today we all decide to head into town and approach/attack the post-Christmas sales properly. Tom expresses some desire to check out PC World and Chris is currently into some kind of adventure game kick, so we head there. And when we arrive, the Tollgate shopping park is unbelievably insane, so busy. It takes us forever to even get close to the car park, let alone park up ourselves. As we sit in traffic, acknowledging that it would have been quicker to actually walk to there from Chris’ house, Tom goes “Jason, it’s your mum and dad”. I think he is taking the piss but then I look over and see the olds, smiling like buggery. Dad playfully sticks his figures up at me and I stick mine up back, realising that some old guy in a car opposite sees me and probably suspects that I am gesturing at him, I fear I ruin his day in the process.

Finally we manage to get parked up, with me unfortunately having to steal a place that was earmarked by a big man in an SUV who looks rather peeved after the incident. We step into PC World and their sale is gash, nothing good in the sale or at least nothing that I would want. And my colleagues feel likewise. For some reason we head over to Currys where I bump into the parents. They give me jokey shit and I try really hard to convince them that “everything is all right”, I don’t want mum on the verge of tears again. When we are done, I move on back with Tom and Chris who comments “your Dad used to have big sideburns!” and I can only dryly reply “yeah, they fell out with the Chemo”. Gallows humour.

With the day heading towards midday we head into town, which will obviously be murder. If we waited until 2PM, we could have parked in permit areas but nope, they want to go into town now! I head straight to my favourite car park first and I must be kidding myself if I think that I am going to get parked in there. We drive around for at least thirty minutes looking for another car park but often you can tell/see by the queues leading into the car park that they are full also. Eventually he get lucky beyond lucky and grab a spot in a rough car park where I would never inhabit usually. And I almost get my space stolen from me as it turns out that I no longer can park in spaces by just driving in, so as I reverse out the place to reverse back in, a woman comes very very close to driving into me. We’re mutually annoyed at eachother by this. Car parking is SO aggressive.

Matching the car parks, the village of Colchester is rammed full of consumers on this day, all out for a bargain. We attempt some consumerism but the queues just prove daunting to us and to be honest, there really isn’t that much of high quality in the sales this year (whereas last year they were flying!). It all tests our temperaments but Chris and Tom find a good way of dealing with it: taking the piss out of me, not least for there being (apparently) an exact lookalike of me standing next to me in HMV. Ha ha.

We go visit Chris’ mum in Williams And Griffins and bored, this is the point I get the digital camera out, attempting to stun people with the flash hoping to make them stagger into mountains of crockery (no, joking). I only mention this visit because of two of the shoppers held within. First, this is the shop where I see the most elegant and beautiful female of the day and it takes my breath away. It would appear you get a higher class of customer at Willy Gees. Secondly there is the man describing clothing in the sale as being “totally chav” as Tom points out that the man is already “totally chav” without the clothing.

When we get into Virgin Megastore, the place is utter carnage, these are the queues to avoid. I have no idea why they moved their counters, it only makes things worse. And I guess I am not alone is my dissent when we witness the loudest lady in Colchester scaring her mouth off at excessive volumes. The other two actually claim to miss this as the woman brings the shop to a standstill as shoppers quake as she is led out of the store by security, the woman clutching onto a tatty receipt with vicious hopes and claims. And I, being a sticky beak, eavesdropper only find myself scuffing up the side of security dealing with the crow, who now is SO visibly Chav in her white tracksuit, it is painful. Outside, she reunites with two look-alikes and they wander off laughing and giggling. What is this world heading to?

Hungered, we head to the Playhouse for some lunch and just a sit down. After last night, the three of us sit vacant and shattered, really failing to amuse eachother/ourselves. I find myself disturbingly staring at the people around me. In order to validate this, I drag Tom into as we people watch, our main focus being on Colchester’s version of the Trench coat Mafia it seems, complete with Kelly and Jack Osbourne look-alikes with their iPods. Also a loud group of girls turn up and we play/debate “is she/isn’t she?”. Food is utterly delayed today, our wait is a declared 45 minutes but it exceeds that. And then when it arrives, it’s not the best food Wetherspoons has ever produced. I have already found myself watching as the most subtly amazing lady in the world decided the wait was too long, giving me a glance in the process which I fail to decide is of desire or disgust. We eat up but fail to become arsed to move. This turns out to be the only point during the Christmas holidays I actually have a pint and Chris digs into his latest kick: Guiness. By the time we finally we leave the place, my stomach pains me.

All day, I find myself seeing/recognising faces from work, mainly faces from Wellington House. I spend my afternoon walking around town with fear bracing myself for bumping into/seeing faces from my old employment but fortunately no such people ever appear.

With the retail day thankfully coming to an end, we finally make purchases: Chris and Tom buying language books and me buying the Viz history book and a retro games compilation for the Playstation 2. Now what does that say about me?

We drive back to Chris’ and just veg before it is time to head out to Ipswich to the UGC cinema and see Bad Santa, the only decent movie on any of the cinemas in the surrounding area it seems.

At 7PM Chris’ parents call him out, him now asleep, and tell him, then Tom and I, that dinner is ready. Dinner? Oh, wasn’t looking to blag dinner tonight (after last night, two nights running surely is some kind of faux pas). Still, with three hours between now and the poison we had for lunch, I dig into half a quiche when really I am not hungry. Now why do you think I am overweight? Its an embarrassing dinner really, us three morons are zombie-esqe with fatigue and very light on conversation (with equates to being light on gratitude). The food however tastes fantastic and it more appreciated than it’s preparers (Chris’ parents) could/would ever imagine.

We leave and tear up the A12 towards Ipswich. I don’t know why but there is something about this road that makes me drive like a maniac. And I honestly intended to make a conscious attempt not to. When we arrive in Ipswich, in demon timing, Chris tells me how I scared him on the ride. Get over.

For once I buy overpriced cinema food (Nestle ice cream) and we head into the screen early before the movie begins. We mess about and observe local herbert Chavs messing around within the screen. We probably giggle at them more than they giggle at themselves, which isn’t good because I’m probably ten years older than the Neds. Tom and Chris get off the best lines/comments with “bad Chav” and “Chav Santa”. For some reason, one of the herberts decides to sit on his own in the front row (maybe he forgot his glasses, like Chris did!) and we watch nervously as sweet after sweet (probably peanut M&Ms) bounce off the back of his seat.

We watch the crap advertisements, take the piss and wonder if “grooming” has now been renamed “fostering” judging by the ill conceived advert on the screen.

Bad Santa comes on and it turns out to be much more intelligent than I was expecting, I just expected to see/watch two hours of utterly offensive stuff which never really arrive. Rather than being called Bad Santa, maybe it should just be named Naughty Santa. Or maybe it is now because of Billy Bob Thornton’s reputation and you expect him to ask this way, that it is almost acceptable and unshocking. He shacks up with some div kid in the movie that thinks he (Thornton) actually is Santa, and the poor little fat kid just breaks your heart, he acts his part SO well (it could almost be me, ha ha). Ultimately it turned out to be a good movie but just not what I was expecting. Tom appeared to like it most out of the three of us.

With the three of us next to falling asleep, I tear back home down the A12, once more trying not to speed falling down regardless. As we reach back in Stanway and turn down Chris’ road, I over cut the junction and subtly almost hit another car prompting my nonchalant response “whoops” whereas Chris looked like he was not amused in the least. Oh well. I drop them off and this is the last time I’ll be seeing Tom now for quite some time. It has been fantastic to see him again and I am really sad that we could not have hung out for longer. Oh well.

I get home and Channel Four are repeating the Shameless Christmas Special again while BBC1 show that awful Still Crazy movie. I pray for some sleep.

np: The Beat – Mirror In The Bathroom

2005-01-12T05:46:00.000-08:00

a gift that keeps on giving. a nod to the fact that Christmas wishes just can come true

2005-01-12T05:35:00.000-08:00

December 26 (Boxing Day Sunday): The Half Eaten Sausage Will See You In His Office. Today I awaken from the strangest dream. In my dream, I return to BS to visit for a meeting. The office has change, it now semi resembles the house in the Young Ones, which actually would be a fair comparison to what Chernobyl was like. I go into the reception and the big boss is on the phone (a pay phone in the hall). In the reception area, Dr Who is working at the main secretary’s desk. He is visibly pissed off at me but he speaks to me regardless. Leslie is there and, acting like a Hollyoaks character, has decided to move to Manchester to experience life (huh?). The big boss gets off the phone and comes into the reception to see us. He is scruffy, unshaven and wearing jeans, he looks like he has spent the night on the town (on the piss). He tells me he has news and I fear my blog has gone and gotten me into more trouble but he tells me how XXXX (Dad’s “employers”) have been struck off and are going into administration and will go under. This is good news for Dad and the big boss then tells me “now he won’t be able to speak him”. I go “who? Burt And Ernie?” and big boss replies “no, the chancellor of the exchequer”. What? An external camera (camera?) then moves upstairs on the building and sees Rik (from the Young Ones) bouncing and prancing about with poetic claims, he has had something published and is flying.

I awaken from this dream, the opposite of screaming.

All in all, the fantastic dream means I start the day in/on high spirits. I go into the kitchen where my parents are already up for the morning and I look out of the window and outside it is a beautiful, sunny day. Dad cooks us breakfast, bacon sandwiches cooked on a George Foreman grill, let’s call this a George Foreman moment.

I re-enter the frontroom and TV and on this morning is Citizen Kane. This is rightfully regarded as one of the greatest movies of all time, it’s all so current too with regards to a tycoon running the media, talk about foresight. Sadly however, I don’t get/manage to see all of the film as Dad comes in and wants to watch the football on Sky.

With it being such a beautiful day, I don’t have any second thoughts on going out into Clacton to get a newspaper and get a heads up start on the post-Christmas sales. And it turns out I am not alone in this/my mentality, there aren’t many shops open but the ones that are (Woolworths, WH Smith, Dixons) are filled to the rafters with families bored of eachother already. I don’t buy anything however, the queues just prove far too long.

I wind up eventually finding a News Of The World in a run down 7 to 11 (WH Smith didn’t have any). When I step in the shop, I get the usual evils from unhappy, resentful Clacton shop assistants obviously wanting to be home on the holidays. I also see however a client of the old accountants I used to work for. My god, won’t that place stop haunting me, having remembers for me everywhere I look! This particular individual reminds me double trouble, he was some wheezing sod who used to smell (stink) of fags and used to try to flirt with Sara with suggestions of jetting over to Paris whilst repulsing us in the process. He was the chatty type, a client the partners didn’t even like (wanted to get rid of) and whenever he would come into our room, I would attempt to find excuses to leave and making eye contact was an infinite no no. Today however he seems less chatty, as in nothing at all. I’m actually really surprised to see he is still in this business/property. As soon as I enter the shop, I want out.

The drive home is taken slowly and casually as I break the new camera out and take snaps on a sunny day of Clacton from behind the wheel of my car (reckless guerrilla photography).

When I get home (my parents home), my parents report to me how today’s Colchester United game has been called off. The plan was intended for about half a dozen of us to head out to it (the game) today and then go straight into town for an aftermath. And I chose this over going up to see Millwall v Ipswich. Stevo was also going to come along.

I phone Ben to confirm the facts (doubting Thomas me, doubting the parents). He says he went past the ground really early this morning and he had seen much activity outside the ground, thinking to himself “that doesn’t look hopeful”. I look on the BBC and about three games have been postponed and sod’s law one of them just had to be the one we were going to. I ask him about his Christmas Day and he says “so so” and goes to me “didn’t get your iPod then”. Whoops, I was only joking when I whinged about not getting one.

Almost immediately after getting off the phone from Ben, my phone rings and it is Stevo. He sounds rough and when I inform him the game is off (he didn’t know) he proceeds to sound even rougher. He tells me how he has had food poisoning (or at least thinks so). The devil in me suddenly hops to the hope that it was gained from the works do the day before Christmas Eve and I suddenly put together a mental (very mental!) picture of all my ex-employees on the toilet for Christmas. Stevo sounds really down though in addition to unhealthy. I ask him about Christmas and it sounds like a description from a bad sitcom. He tells me how he bought his Dad (a trainspotter) a Thomas The Tank Engine book and the man promptly returned it to him, saying he “didn’t want it” and to “give it to your god son”. And it sounds like Stevo got bupkus in return. I feel really bad for him and ask/tell him about tonight’s going out regardless but he turns down the invitation with the excuse “I wouldn’t be able to drink”. Stevo is missed by me.

Millwall v Ipswich kicks off at 1PM today, which sucks because were it kicking off at 3PM (as normal people kick off), I could still have hitched my way up to Bermondsey (by hook or by crook) and gone along. There are two things I want from this Christmas and one of them is for Millwall to beat Ipswich. I don’t care how or by what margin, I just want one over the “Tractor Boys” (grief, even their nickname conjures up images of stupidity). Getting a commentary on the internet proves next to impossible but Radio Five is in full flow, so updates are regular. Early reports are good when it is told that early on Millwall go close but from there, reports suggest a complete seachange in the other direction as Millwall go under siege from Ipswich’s notorious free flowing (and free scoring) play. And things only appear/sound to get worse when Paul Ifill gets stretcher off after 12 minutes (again!). I have to admit, with my recent suck luck I spend a lot of the time staring at the text commentary on the BBC internet bracing myself for an Ipswich goal. However right on half time, Barry Hayles bashed home a goal, much against the run of play per the commentator. It’s a gift (for me) from Santa. And the shortly after half time, once more apparently against the run of play, Dichio adds a second and I hear jingle bells.

Around this time, Chris phones me up and asks me what I am doing. I tell him how plans with Ben for football went tits up and now I am lounging slightly longer around my parents’ crib in Holland. Chris then promptly invites me to dinner around his house before going out this evening. Good call, I know I just had turkey and chips but fantastic food is guaranteed at Chris’ house. While I am on the phone, Dad comes up to me and gestures that the Millwall score is now 2-1 and I later discover that the granite Fin (ahem!) Kuqi scored a goal (an Ipswich player I have to admit to rating). Suddenly I begin to get/feel nervous as Ipswich are notorious for being free scoring generally and a comeback today would not be beyond them. However, joy beyond joy, Dobie adds a third late in the game (once more against the run of play I would imagine, as Ipswich would make themselves vulnerable pushing for an equaliser). And then that is it: Millwall 3 Ipswich 1 and my Christmas just gets better and better as the treats don’t appear to end with Christmas Day. It is only the second time all season Millwall have scored more than 2 goals and it is all excessive, with all three strikers scoring.

I leave my parents around 3.30 in order to return to Colchester to check out the PC World sale (and get some CD-Rs). As I drive home to Bohemian Grove, I continue to take photos and I (by accident) get the greatest photo of the Boxing Day dusk.

The PC World sales appears a bit of a no goer. I get my disks (at a reduced price) but the Playstation game bargains of last Boxing Day do not appear to apply.

I get home and proceed to burn CDs for Chris, a really half arsed Christmas gesture (so cheap it couldn’t even loosely qualify as a present). While I’m doing this, Chris comes online (MSN) and asks me if I could burn some stuff onto CD for him, if he emailed it to me (Monkey Island etc). I say "yay". The files however never turn up but that’s doesn’t matter because as 7PM nears, I find myself still burning his “gifts”.

6.50PM and I’m still burning and I get a stern MSN from Chris going “shouldn’t you be leaving now?”. I get there about five minutes late (blush) but I beat Tom, so he kind of covers for me inadvertently. Again the food is amazing, I have no idea what it specifically is (I’m later reminded it was “layered sliced potatoes with spinach in a ricotta cheese sauce also stuffed mushroom)” but I eat it out of good manners but find myself enjoying it in the process. Especially surprising as they do not seem/appear to have/use salt in this house. Tom turns up and it is the first time we see him this Christmas. He is Tom, with plenty to report from his Christmas.

Eventually we head to town, to hook up with Ben. Our original destination intended to be the Hogshead but when we arrive there, chairs are being put on tables and there are puddles (ponds) on the floor. Something must be leaking. We revert to plan b and when Chris accidentally calls up the wrong Ben on his mobile, I get the right Ben, Ben Wright (geddit?) we hook up with him in the Playhouse.

Again Ben is out with his “crew”, none of which are really like us ex-Gringo types. We stand surrounded by what seems to be a Suede convention. They make nice nice with us but it’s all too dumb and positive for us. We look around the Playhouse and it has seen better days. And I don’t mean the days (the era) in which the posters on display come from. Indeed we find a poster describing an old Playhouse performer as “everyone’s favourite chocolate covered coon” and suddenly it feels slightly like a scene from Ghost World. We all titter but really it is unbelievable that this establishment hasn’t been forced to remove it from a complaint. It could be said that the majority of patrons at this place can barely read but that would be unfair. Ron Atkinson might enjoy it here.

Eventually we split from the group when we find a table tucked away, where we can hear ourselves actually think and talk in the process, prime spot. The latest news from Nottingham sounds as per usual, only with names being replaced with new ones. I suspect it is only a matter of time before Chris gets fully sucked up their into that lifestyle. Tom is Tom, always concerned with the world and it’s good to talk. He comes up with a great suggestion of us going to Prague in the new year for a long weekend; I think travelling would do me good. And especially now I have my digital camera. We manage maintain healthy conversation for the duration, even with the knowledge that pubs are open until 1AM today/tonight.

When we leave we fail to see Ben to say “goodbye”. When we go through the town Tom sees for the first time the new sign posts in Colchester town. He points out that they appear like the stone in 2001: A Space Odyssey by making ape noises.

Plans are set afoot to hook up with Robin at a pub near the castle with the promise of a lock in, providing we get there before regular closing time. Unfortunately however the place is the other side of town and we get a bit too comfortable in our spot and only manage to make moves around 11.30. We eventually get to the pub, in one of the best parts of town (an area that gives me a warm tingly feeling) and we cannot get in, despite hearing the voices of our acquaintances inside.

We resume our search in town for a late night drinkery. The Castle proves fruitless and as Chris and Tom buy late night pudding in Spar, rescuing the poor shop assistant from a div Chav chatting her up (“he’s been talking to me for half an hour already”), I suggest we “throw the towel” in on the night. The others undaunted though still want to go for it (admittedly they have been on the juice, while I have been on the cokes).

Walking up High Street in the witching hour at the end of Boxing Day never used to be this intimidating, I must really be getting old or sensitive to my surroundings. Even when Chris takes a whiz down an alley, I get paranoid. It is decided that we check out the Hole In The Wall in the vague hope we might/may recognise faces there. As we walk there we pass the enlightened Jumbo looking like, as Tom points out, something from Blade Runner. It really does look great. And the foot of the building has been really cleared and tidied up also. We arrive at the Hole In The Hall and the lights are off (thankfully). With it getting frosty, I once more press for a return home but the others decide to swing into/onto O’Neills, which is always open late.

We step in and inside it is warm and quiet. We see some of the Suede convention from earlier, obviously having broken from the group. Tom points out that we are being served by a Steve Albini lookalike while we settle down in/at a proper bar. Despite it being late and us all visibly shattered, we maintain a good times morale. For being so tired so late, the sheer occasion of things helps me maintain in good spirits and it is around this point Tom invites me up to Nottingham for New Years. I reply gratefully “maybe” knowing there is no way.

Eventually our night comes to an end as the Irish bar closes and Chris polishes off another Guiness (you can take the boy out of Ireland but you can’t……). When we get back to my car, the windows are caked in frost while on the radio some weird sounding reggae bounces about. I attempt to clear the windscreen while, like little bastard kids, Chris and Tom amusingly lock me out. Fortunately I have this invention called the “key” and I get back inside, ready to pull off but the windscreen is still clear as fog/mud. My passengers no longer see humour and begin to express concern as I start up my engine to pull away. Like a trooper, Tom jumps out and clears the windscreen with his gloves (he had gloves all the time????).

We drive back to Stanway, to drop the pair of them off, doing impressions of Little Britain and generally acting like dickheads. Its all good, good times.

np: Roy Green – Let ‘Em Come

2005-01-04T13:31:00.000-08:00

the best gift of 2004

2005-01-04T13:18:00.000-08:00

December 25 (Christmas Day Saturday): Your Mother’s Got A Penis. Merry Christmas. I wake up around 9.30 in the highest of spirits. I’m tired but feeling good, feeling like Scrooge after his three pronged epiphany.

Off the back of a limited amount of sleep, I set about getting myself together on this morning marking the birth of Santa. For the fourth year running, I wake on my own and spend the morning slowing pulling together all my Christmas booty for the day ahead. There is something wonderfully peaceful about Christmas morning on your own, it shouldn’t be/feel right but it just does, one of those rare moments where all feels/seems still away from the craziness of the rest of the world. Outside the window, there are no dissenting sounds or heavy industrial pounding voices, not even any cars.

I pull out the wrapping paper and my presents and bless my senses for staying sober (thus without hangover) for facing this. And it is really, a genuinely enjoyable chore, I think I have done well with Christmas presents in the end this year. I come across the Bob Dylan CD I bought myself when unable to find a CD for mum and I listen to that, the first time in months I have actually had the time and desire just to put a CD on to listen to.

Dad comes on MSN and wishes me a Merry Christmas. It’s all good and non-stopping today. He calls on me just as I am almost done and about to head out.

I put on my Blogger hoody for the very first time and I feel I look good in it; it makes me look relatively young and goes pretty well with the “beard”. My view is however coming through/via the most flattering of mirrors I own.

I head out for home just past 11.30 and the weather is astonishingly beautiful. Some had said it might snow but they were talking bollocks. I tear out of the blocks, drive past the Layer Road football ground and down past the offices of my ex-employers (boo hiss piss). For such a supposedly “dead” day, the roads are shockingly busy, full of flocks of families heading towards various homesteads, generally their parents I would imagine. Seems I am not alone. I find myself running slightly late, feeling that turning up at home past midday on Christmas Day to be ultimately a poor shout. As I near home, I hit the Weeley crematorium roundabout where it appears the car in front of me is giving me the finger. Merry Christmas to you too.

As soon as I arrive home (only a little past midday), the front door opens and the dog comes flying out, wearing tinsel around his neck (poor little bastard). I arrive home feeling jaded, like one of those characters in Beautiful Girls or Garden State returning home. Immediately my parents comment on my hoody and my “beard”. My parents like the hoody (bang goes the street cred on that then) but do not appear to be found of an unshaven me.

Arriving at a good time, with lunch almost prepared, I find myself having a weird experience as I stand in the kitchen with mum and as we attempt some small talk, she looks as if she is about to burst out crying prompting me to be/feel likewise. On a rare occasion in my life, I find myself able to talk my way out of this and soon I remedy the situation but I have to admit, it freaked me out.

Dinner is fantastic, when mum can be arsed she is a fantastic cook. And its actually a pretty fun lunch this year, we take the piss out of most things and look forward to the new year whilst also wondering why on earth the dog isn’t pestering us for scraps (instead he lies in his basket half asleep in between giving us a look every now and then). This will be the last Christmas in this house and it is a shame because on the whole they have been pretty fun ones.

Today I finally get around to getting my digital camera out and actually taking it out of the box. Fortunately it is idiot proof and within minutes I am able to work it (although I do take a while to learn you have to actually press the button down hard in order to take pictures). And the video it takes is fantastic; I finally now have some audio/visuals of the dog for our future memories.

The annual Christmas message happens at three and the old boot Queen goes on about one thing or another and I have to admit I leave the room for this arse. Instead, I sit at the kitchen TV watching Marge Simpson give her Christmas message on Channel Four. It’s ok, not as amusing as I was expecting but she does say one of the funniest things I hear all year when she thanks the UK for it’s efforts in taking over the world with the USA, considering the UK to be Mini Me to the USA’s Dr Evil. Genius.

We finally begin opening our presents shortly after, how obscene is it to wait so far into the day to actually open our presents while when I was younger I would be opening gifts at 3AM, twelve hours earlier than 3PM. Rather than being the result of a very strict homestead though, it’s more a product of a can’t be arsed homestead. Thank God for mum having some enthusiasm.

We have the annual fun of watching the dog go mental opening his gift (as usual ANOTHER squeaky toy) before he turns his attentions to opening and eating our gifts (hey he’s welcome to mine). Dad also does his annual trick of guessing and dismissing all his gifts before he even opens the wrapping. And mum sits in the middle of proceedings, organising and dictating the opening of presents without getting much in the way of gifts in return (each gift she gets is next to miraculous because of how crap at present shopping Dad and I are).

Uninterested in my gifts (whoops, forgot to ask for anything this year) I begin texting people, wishing them a “Merry Christmas” as I really begin to enjoy myself exceptionally. And happily/joyfully most people reply with likewise wishes.

When the dust settles on the gift giving, this year turns out to be a success. Happily this year (perhaps for the first year) I gave better than I got and really scored points with my gifts and amusingly bought Dad the same CD than mum bought him (the crappy Dire Straits Best Of). And of course, he didn’t want one copy, let alone two of it. My haul turns out to be mainly clothes (socks, underwear, long johns, pyjamas!). Amusingly the sizes of the garments, as usual, vary from medium to extra large and annoyingly I get more socks than pants when, quite frankly, pants tend to get a messier/dirtier/filthier than socks don’t they lads. Mum also gets me the usual set of Simpsons’ trinkets and baubles which she can never go wrong with and to cap things (on the silly gift front) here she buys me a copy of the Little Book Of Hard Bastard Jokes. Is she finally getting to know what I am like?

The afternoon TV turns out to be a fucking joke post Top Of The Pops (complete with mum’s usual comments about which female popstars are fit and dad perving in agreement). We sail out the afternoon watching Christmas themed songs on VH-1 (after my request to watch Seinfeld on Paramount gets immediately pooped on). Band Aid comes on and Dad makes the classic comment “instead of sending them food, they should send them condoms to stop them breeding”. Fucking hell, I go red in embarrassment. Then however, perversely food of thought, I wonder: in those dire circumstances in Africa, who on earth would be up for a shag? Time to leave planet Alf Garnett I think.

People sleep the afternoon away while I, bored with the TV, potter about on the computer before returning to the TV in an attempt to watch the first Harry Potter movie. I approach it with enthusiasm, surely so many people can’t be so wrong (well, I suppose they are with the Lord Of The Rings movies) but the film just grinds me down, it’s overlong and as a result fucking terrible. Maybe if it were shorter it would be digestible but this length, no way! And then at this point I give some thought to all those people that have texted me today to say how they have got the Lord Of The Rings boxset. Ouch. Ross however beats everyone by getting all The Sopranos boxsets on DVD. He’s a rich man today.

Christmas TV turns into The Vicar Of Dibley and this is a sure sign of desperation. The old man and I watch as her and the drippy bird talk about getting off with lesbians and me and Dad can only comment: “look at the fucking size of her!”. Before the “special” ends (yeah, special needs), I’m allowed to switch over to BBC3 where they are showing Little Britain all night. This turns out to be a rather embarrassing act as having such old school parents, they just don’t find it funny (I guess Ma and Pa are the people the show sets out to offend). Mum laughs heartily at it though, she’s always up for a joke where a crazy woman pisses out of her cunt into a pond. No laughs for them however at the Mr T joke. Nevermind.

At a loss, flipping through the Sky channels (the olds have digital baby!) I end up on Fight Club being shown on the Sci Fi channel. Why on earth is this movie on Sci Fi? What fucking element of Sci Fi is in this film? Nonsense. But as per usual, the film is a great watch….for five minutes. Wow, I remember the last time I watched this movie in the Christmas season, it was a Sunday night and on the Monday the twat audit manager Drew (a descendent of the Kranky clan I believe) accused me of physically assaulting him, to the point of taking me to the police station. As TV (and particularly this movie) appears to be such a bad influence on me, I promptly change channels.

Dad goes to bad around this point, his Christmas Day ends with everybody happy. Mum and I settle down and find the Absolutely Fabulous Christmas Special. It has a couple of interesting guest appearances from Nathan Lane and Laurie Metcalf but then mum asks the mind-blowing questions: “what is this?”. And for the next half hour mum claims to have never watched, or even heard of, Absolutely Fabulous. This is twilight zone-esqe stuff, especially coming from one such a fan of the Vicar Of Dibley.

The night begins to draw a close as I start to settle in/on my bed for the evening: the front room sofa. More exploration of Sky finds Ricky Gervais’ Animals on E4. Mum and I sit watching that and thankfully mum at least knows who Ricky Gervais. However now she takes turns in freaking me out by laughing heartily at Ricky Gervais joking about giving panda bears Viagra and coming for twenty minutes.

Eventually she gives in and goes to bed, leaving me to my own devices. I attempt to watch the remainder of Animals but fall for the land of nod myself. The best film of all Christmas Day actually turns out to be on at 2.20AM (technically Boxing Day) as Channel Five show the very festive Richard Linklater movie SubUrbia. I attempt to stay awake/up for it but after my bouts of sleep lately (or rather lack there of), I’m out for the count within minutes of the lights going off.

Christmas 2004 is over.

np: Dynamic Syncopation – 2 Tha Left

2005-01-03T17:25:00.000-08:00

the Christmas card from the Good Doctor

2005-01-03T16:07:00.000-08:00

December 24 (Christmas Eve Friday): Where’s Pete? This morning I wake up at 9.30. Ugh! I hate waking up later than I should and especially in a state of exhaustion.

I get up and check my post and there is a small Christmas card with a credit card bill wrapped around it. I expect it to be from Azmei but when I open it is from the Good Doctor saying “I hope this card finds you well”. The sentiment hits me like a punch and I almost cry. And this is a really nice gesture, one that should make me feel happy, so why do I react in such a way? I had considered sending her a card but I never got around to it, considering it perhaps improper (who buys their ex-shrink a Christmas card? Stalkers!). This is my first (and probably only) non-family Christmas card I receive in 2004 and its volumes compared to any other I might get.

The morning is pretty much a no no until around 11.45 when Chris calls and our plan for the day kicks into action. Unfortunately however this coincides with the Karate Kid beginning on TV, which is probably the greatest, most inspiring movie to kids in/of my generation. Wax on, wax off.

I get to his around 1PM and I bounce about his house, really chipper in the best mood for ages as I am so happy that people are back for Christmas and there will no be some fucking socialising going on. He cooks up some really nice food, some kind of pasta in top sauce. We head to town and with God smiling on us; once more I/we get the BEST parking space in town. We stagger into and in the very first shop we go in (MVC) I am able to find the CD present I have been searching for for mum in the sale (some cacky Pet Shop Boys compilation). And with that, my Christmas shopping is complete.

As we pace towards, me looking sheepish trying avoid faces I don’t want to see (ex-work colleagues mainly) we bump into Ben waiting at the bus stop. He tells me he likes my “beard” and asks us if we’re going to be out tonight. Deffo. Chris and I proceed do the thing in town, he needs to buy a few more gifts, not least flowers for his mum but when he goes to her work to drop them off, she has already left for home. In the shops it is only Christmas Eve and already the sales have started. And initial impressions are that they are not good. We finish off by heading to Wilkinson’s (cheapo shop of cheap shops) where I need to get sellotape and by fluke, in the sales for £1.50, I find the best gift for mum (some kind of bear holding/hugging bath salts). So cheap (me and the gift).

We head back to Chris’ house where I have been invited for dinner which is this fantastic tasting pizza. The hospitality I feel at the dinner feels foreign/alien to me and it is really really appreciated at these times of things kind of going tits up. This is a more functional family than my own.

Beyond dinner, Chris and I mess about on his computer before going out for the evening. At this point Tom texts to say that tonight he will be stuck in Yeldham, leaving it down to just me and Chris to face the evening. I also text Stevo, wishing him a Merry Christmas and he gets back to me, asking me if I want to go see Col U on Boxing Day. Sure thing.

On the way to going out to town, we stop by at my flat for a few pre-drinks drinks. Well, Chris does, I decide that I don’t want a hangover on Christmas Morning and neither can I be arsed to walk home at the end of tonight. I don’t even bother to have a couple in my flat. Instead, I whip out Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas and we marvel in that for about an hour before heading out.

And when we head out, I speed drive over to Lucy’s new place just off North Station Road where she has a Christmas present waiting for Chris. As I tear along the roads, we both begin to get/feel itchy as my speed takes up a GTA edge to it and it is only by shear luck that the roads are clear at this time, otherwise I might/could be found driving into other cars, dragging them out of their cars and smashing in their skulls prior to speeding off in their cars. And Chris notices this twitch/urge also.

We arrive at Lucy’s new crib which she shares with Steve, a self proclaimed Gimme Gimme Gimme and it is a really fantastic house. We get there and some kind of Christmas Eve party seems in progress and Kim and Kathy are in the house also. The house is totally festive and it actually turns out to be the warmest feeling to actually go somewhere like this, where people are happy and excited (positive it seems). It all comes as a revelation when I mention I got the sack (Lucy works in the Job Centre of course) and I feel a bit more included than usual (of late) whereas I generally feel blanked by these peeps. Steve is Steve; he doesn’t change and still cracks me up as much as he offends me. A fluorescent beverage is passed around and it looks (to me) like the most potent drink ever known to man, like it was brewed in a laboratory. Chris decides to have two. Steve tells us all a Festive/Christmas joke “what is pink and smells of Holly? Ian Huntley’s cock”. Well, I guess it is the season of goodwill to ALL men.

We leave around 10PM and immediately to the Hogshead where Ben is apparently to be found. Upon arriving there I see Greeney outside, so it’s a sure-fire bet that Ben is around. When he appears, he is so pissed and when Ben is pissed, he’s a lover. And he tells me (once more) he loves my “beard”. And then his mate Thompson (with the world’s scariest mouth) goes “he looks like Olaf Mjellberg”. Who??? Apparently its some dude who plays for Aston Villa. I’ll never turn down a comparison to a Premiership footballer but I always thought the player in question was always Mark Viduka.

We chip straight towards to Arts Centre (where until now I was unlikely to go to, being off the sauce and all) and the queue is in control (ie short and not yet like Hillsborough). Mercs (Hurdle) is back in town and he looks as rock chic (trendy) as ever (the trend currently being Razorlight). He however feels offended when someone earlier in the evening points out that he looks like Ricardo from Channel Four’s The Salon. Ha ha, this should persuade him into a crew-cut now then. Ben however even manages to top this when he begins saying “Nadia off Big Brother, if you’d didn’t know she used to a bloke, you would”. As I said, Ben pissed is a loverman.

I repeat Steve’s joke to everybody and then I am the one that gets called out of order! I then point out to Ben how Col U fans earlier this year were singing “we love you Kilroy, we do” and it then also gets pointed out how Millwall fans were singing “there’s only one Boris Johnson” and we all look down holding our heads in shame, a moments silence if you will.

It’s a touch this evening when it is free to get into the Arts Centre club but first we have to get through the really heavy handed security that now appear to be enforcing even newer measures to create more bruises I believe. I guess it’s necessary.

Inside the Arts Centre it is pretty much death on a stick for a sober man. The turn out is light and not many faces are very recognisable. There is no real order to the music selection, just stuff the pissheads can recognise and sing along to. I am fucking knackered upon arrival, so a wallflower am I. I see the usual suspects in Nina and Staff with Emma and Sue working, more people to wave to. Whatever though, for some reason, against all odds/the elements, I have a really fantastic time. After weeks now of cabin fever and little in the way of socialising, it is great to be around peeps again. Chris on the other hand, pissed as, seems to be having a less than great time. The neon drink now appears to be taking hold of his internals as he buys drink after drink, even getting me Pepsis when I am fine. His bad mood prevents him from dancing whilst Ben’s gang (a crew much different to our own ex-Gringo crowd) whoop the night away whilst attempting conversation with ugly girls.

With only around ten minutes to spare (and the night now well into Christmas morning) Chris begins staggering and almost falls over, I just about manage to save him in the process. Time to leave. Goodbyes get said and we head.

As we leave through the entrance (which doubles as an exit!) outside the club is Robin and Chris overjoyed to see the guy. Nathan is there also, a guy who previously appears to have quite the disliking for me but he then goes “it’s James the internet guy”. Fuck off, that’s not my name. He apologies and then adds how he has read my blog and said it really entertained him. And my Christmas is made. Everyone appears drunk and jolly but Robin is the greatest, the happiest and most animated I have ever seen him. He speaks about nothing other than his new born daughter and it all sounds like the greatest, most exciting thing that can ever happen to a person. Generally I struggle with Robin but tonight I have never liked him more. Even if I am freezing my arse off standing outside whilst the drunkards talk bollocks. He asks if he can blag a lift and in this season of good cheer, I comply. Eventually we begin heading towards the motor only to be accosted by another person (some guy called Jimmy) who talks another twenty minutes of drunken bollocks and psychobabble about parenthood while we stand freezing. And the absolute worst thing about all this is that I can see in his hand he has food that is getting cold (going to waste) and I am absolutely starving!

We finally get moving and I drop Robin and Chris off at their homes, exchanging the best wishes and I get in at 3AM in the happiest of moods, feeling the best I have done for weeks. Forget the job shit, the exam shit and the Sara shit, its all miniscule in comparison to the vibes from these times.

I find myself struggling to sleep back home. On TV is Gone With The Wind but my interested for that movie pretty much goes with the wind within minutes. I see Phoebe Toronto online and I wish her Merry Christmas at 3.48AM (and it her birthday also). Tonight my heart beats faster as the old cliché about Christmas kicks in and I experience some kind of Scrooge-esqe epiphany (ho ho).

np: Bomb The Bass – Bug Powder Dust

2005-01-03T16:06:00.000-08:00

December 23 (Thursday): You Knows It. I wake up this morning and outside the sun is blazing and all together it is a better day. This is the weather of perfection, the brightest blues skies. Today is about determination and to make it a better day than yesterday. And I realise that I have to hit the day running, so by 9AM I find myself up and out the door heading to town.

I get parked up in a primo spot on Creffield Road (probably my favourite road in Colchester). I tear into town with intent, Christmas shopping on my mind and the word closure with it.

As I wander towards HMV I pass a man leaving Mark’s And Spencer who has Travis Bickle punk (gone mad/psycho) hair in addition to the same sunglasses as our favourite taxi driver. I smile as I think to myself “it’ll be a fun Christmas somewhere”.

Back to the “one for you, one for me” Christmas present concept, to cheer me up today, I buy the Bo Selecta 3 double DVD set when I am unable to find the new weekly Prisoner DVD set in WH Smith. It’s all about the money!

Done with town, having avoided awkwardly bumping into a faces (of recognition) and in a much better frame of mind than yesterday, I find myself heading over to Asda to continue my shopping experience. The radio is fantastic, festive in so far as playing party tunes and Jo Whiley plays On A Ragga Tip by SL2. I haven’t heard this tune in years and it has never sounded better. Now on a winning streak, when I get into the store, I almost immediately discover the Prisoner DVD I had been searching for. Good times. I also look for some CDs to buy for my parents as gifts but no dice. I do however buy wrapping paper, even if I haven’t got any fucking thing to put in it. A wise lady once called this season Stressmas.

In search of CD gifts, I head over the Tesco Highwoods where the traffic is insane and people are actually waiting for parking spots. Grief. I go straight to the CDs with view to getting the best gifts for my parents. I immediately snap up the Dire Straits CD I should have got dad for his birthday back in July but I’ll be fucked if I can find a CD to buy for mum. In the end, I just buy myself a Bob Dylan compilation (spoilt only child to the end of days baby). From there I buy my Crimbo groceries: more cereal but this time with cookie and crème Pop Tarts to crumble into a bowl of Corn Flakes. Very healthy. And for the icing on the cake my favourite: Bombay mix. One day I will have the biggest heartattack but until that day, I’ll just have wind, indigestion and subtle poisoning (to go with the internal bleeding).

Finally I drive/head over to Sainsburys in search of cheap gift CDs but when I get to the store (around midday) the car park is the most insane of the bunch and here I really cannot get parked, so I just head home for some dinner.

I get home happy, lots of shopping bags equating to more gifts and a step closer to happiness and completion of Christmas. Today (I think) was/is the works Christmas do and this is one event I am gutting to be missing out on this year. I have found myself asking everyone I see how their own events go/went and I feel personally denied (not least because last year I ended up in Club Forin and the year before I ended up at my boss’s house until 5 in the morning for fear of a work colleague getting roasted). My mind is subtly is elsewhere today and I feel the pinch of being out of work during the Christmas period, feeling a bit sorry for myself and determined not to go into town for fear of accidentally crossing paths with the carnival/circus.

Checking the TV listings and I find myself saved as Gremlins is on! Good times. I call up Chris because I believe he is now back from Denmark and we talk for about an hour, causing me to miss most of Gizmo. It’s so fucking great that he and Tom will be back for Christmas, its good times guaranteed (ho ho). I have to admit though, on the phone I do most of the talking, seems I just have a bit too much to say these days (ha ha). He asks me what I am doing right now and wants to hook up immediately. Unforts I had made plans to write and sort out the crib today (in addition to hide/barricade from the world this evening) but we make plans to definitely hook up tomorrow.

I get off the phone from him and the TV afternoon turns into Father Of The Bride, which is ok as a distraction and good background noise for writing (a movie that fails to captivate you).

Bad news today though, I check the Millwall website and discover that Neil Harris has left the club permanently, going to Nottingham Forest surprisingly and not Cardiff. I really think he and Dennis Wise (and/or maybe Ray Wilkins) had a real falling out at some point because I really rate him as a player still even if the poor sod can’t play up front on his own (example being the FA Cup final). He makes comment that “I have become part of the furniture” which is harsh especially when he is still young (actually younger than me!).

As night falls, I get bored with a dose of cabin fever so I head back out to Sainsburys to see if I can get in this time (parked) and if they have any CDs I can give for gift. No dice, there is nothing. I manage to waste half an hour of my time (when really I should be having a bath) but as I drive around Zane Lowe is having his Christmas party show and playing some awesome tracks (he genuinely appears to have some good taste and passion) as on comes Welcome To The Jungle sounding better than ever but the BEST tune he drops (while I’m listening) is Bug Powder Dust by Bomb The Bass which is the utter daddy, not sounding the least bit dated, only more revolutionary than ever. As I leave the car park it is near closing time and some poor trolley boy is collecting up all trolleys (surprisingly). As he uses the crossing, he makes me have to break quickly to avoid hitting him, to let him go. And the little four eyed fucker takes his time talking to his mate about going to McDonalds when he gets off work at 9PM, so I rev my car subtly for yuks and get mouthing the words “fuck off cunt” to me, which tickles my spine more than anything. I love acting like an arsehole sometimes.

Tonight is the Shameless Christmas Special and its also good for off colour yuks. Were they really giving steaks to three legged dogs in one scene? And this is a pretty clever episode/story about people getting food poisoning from off the back of lorry turkeys sold in a pub and the army thinking everyone is going down with anthrax. And then Colchester (as a barracks town) gets a mention in it (I think). Shameless is a really clever show really, I so recognise this people as members of my own extended family and the estate (the state) they live on/in could easily be Greenstead in Colchester and doubtless a number of other estates in the country. Oh well, missed the boat with that one.

Phoebe Toronto later pops up on MSN for some more chat and tonight we discuss more at length, I find myself talking more about my woes than her as I guess I am just a bit more dramatic. Later B also pops up on MSN to wish me Merry Christmas and all the shit that goes with it. She turns out to be harder work than ever and I can’t be bothered with it, so its really really fortunate when her housemate turns up and boots her off her (or his) computer. This little conversation occurs while the second part of The Last Chancers on TV, which is kind of how I imagine all in Nottingham to be like these days.

Tonight is another rough, I think I fall asleep around midnight only to awaken once more in the early hours and disrupt all patterns. I put on Pulp Fiction to send me to sleep but three hours later, there I am still awake having seen The Wolf (my hero) do his deeds and The Gimp (Johnny from the Karate Kid movies) do his little hanging about bit. I don’t manage to get/fall asleep until around 6AM, which will equate to me being wired and insane on Christmas Eve.

np: Pinback - Fortress

2005-01-03T16:05:00.000-08:00

December 22 (Wednesday): Who’s Got The Crack? I wake up feeling like death, of the back of only a couple of hours sleep. My intestines still churn up and almost make it hard/difficult to breath. Eating breakfast is beyond the question, it would just get shredded in my insides along with the life that is being destroyed within me internally right now. This is the aftermath of a Rocket Fuel coffee binge.

I recuperate by pretty much doing nothing. Today turns out to be a write off and a real wasted day. In the morning I watch the downloaded Harold And Kumar which takes me into the afternoon where Channel Four appears to be showing the Last Starfighter, a real relic from my youth.

I wake up annoyed this morning, that neither Acme nor the accountancy firm in Hadleigh ever bothered to get back to me on the outcome of the interview I had there two Thursdays ago. By now it is obvious my interview/application was unsuccessful but for some reason this morning this niggles me and I feel out for blood. I sent the accountancy firm a snide email, directly to the geek stiff that interviewed me. Eventually, around midday, he sends back an insincere apology email. I feel like going to him “your loss” but I don’t, I’m a good guy.

Acton hits me on MSN and tells me how, when he got in last night after a second night’s binge drinking, he set about composing a soundtrack on his keyboard to Witness, which happened to be on TV at the time. It sure makes a fine barn.

Wasn’t I supposed to be doing things today? I forget as once more my stomach creaks and I ache from the inside out.

The afternoon comes around and time for the excruciating shopping trip with my parents ahead. For some reason mum really wants to buy me a new coat (which granted is needed). However, I think I just about capable of buying one myself, I bought my last coat myself and I think between then and now I have managed to maintain the tools to purchase another one. However, I give in because if she’s there when I buy it (my Christmas present) she’ll be the once paying (I’m such a slag). She insists that Burtons has the coats but when I went there on Sunday they were without. Last night I told her this on the phone, and that I really didn’t want to be fucking about with it today, but none of this registered.

I tie myself up in the middle (like a sack of shit) and head into town in the foulest of moods. I only wind myself up further when I find myself unable to get parked and once I do, I find myself with a lengthy skulk into town ahead of me, all on a bad head. In the end however, I don’t actually turn up too late, just enough to receive a “where the fuck are you?” phonecall (always a winner that). When I hook up with the olds (at Next), I have a face like thunder. Immediately the old man makes jibes about my pout and I reciprocate in comments and he storms off in a fucking mood. Mum just stands there looking distressed and immediately I feel like a shit. I point out, as I said on the phone last night, I checked out this shop for coats Sunday and there were none but again she ain’t listening, instead she emotionally blackmails me into looking at a coat that was supposedly in the stock room (so the manager said). We go up (still without dad in sight) and she gets the assistance to get the coat from out back and surprise surprise it is just like all the other coats on the racks. What a fucking waste of time. She asks me what is up and I point out that I am a bit busy right now to just be wasting time like this, if she hadn’t forgotten, I am still unemployed and without any fucking money to pay my bills with. We return downstairs to the entrance of the store and by now the old has returned. After all this drama I now feel obliged to appease them but they now don’t want anything to do with me (and likewise). I get let go and permission to return home but I just feel devastated over how shitty and guilty I am made to feel just when I can’t do everything they want in order to keep them happy. The older I get, the more like Kevin The Teenager I appear to come.

Upon getting home, Tom immediately hits me on MSN commenting about the Chloe Sveginy/Vincent Gallo blowjob in that movie that has still to be released (Brown Bunny). I can’t say I’m overly fussed either way but I do download it for a peak. And its crap. Tom argues, “surely it’s porn” and looking at it, it is explicit and disgusting. I argue that it isn’t porn because of the intended audience (and use) but I don’t convince myself with that argument. And boy does Chloe look a bit useless at giving head. Amateur.

Deflated over the afternoon (my parents have the worst effect/hold over me), I stagger into the evening almost by accident. I wind up watching Property Ladder on Channel Four, just to make sure I still can’t afford a nice home. And I’m right, looks like another five years in this crappy little flat for me (that is unless of course I can finally grab me a rich girlfriend/wife).

In the distance I hear my landline ring and I can’t be arsed to go answer it because it can only be a cold caller or trouble, so I continue watching my makeover problem (what am I turning into?). Then however my mobile rings and it is mother (as expected) asking me what is up. In these times where I feel like shit I just need to be left alone, not fucking pestered by people who bring down with their own problems adding to my plate. And I realise it is all with good intention but it doesn’t work, in times like these, I’m not a good person for caring and sharing. I try not to say it but I fail and I snap the truth “you just bring me down”. Ouch. We plough on and now I find myself having to cheer her up as I attempt to convince her that I don’t need her to cheer me up. As the old regime goes, I don’t know who worries more about who, them about me or me about them. And this I guess is the dynamic with families, its all well intentioned but ultimately destructive as the unit cannot always serve the individual as the best method/option of reconciliation. The call ends with me finding myself once more suffocating and withdrawing (intentionally) at the hands of my relatives.

The night plods on and I jack in for the evening, watching more bad TV, this time the Max And Paddy, which I actually have a lot of time for. Then there is also a comedy drama called The Last Chancers starring one of Adam And Joe (Adam) about an indie band trying to make it in an unimpressed world. Rings bells.

np: 2 Banks Of 4 – One Day

2005-01-03T16:02:00.000-08:00

December 21 (Tuesday): Dream: having gone to sleep last night watching Death Of A Salesman, in my dream today Dad replaces Willy Loman. Its sad and depressing.

I wake up around 8.30 having had the best night’s sleep in days (but do not let this mislead you as being sufficient/acceptable). Today though, I awaken with a mission and within in minutes I have pulled my shit and myself together and I am flying into town to face the inevitability of the remainder of Christmas shopping. Mum has finally put in her request for a present and it is for a set of scales. She is the thinnest person in our family by a long straw, why the fuck does she need yet another(!) set of scales? I guess it’s a women thing (sexism ahoy).

Luckily town doesn’t turn out to be too much hard work, I buy myself a newspaper and face up to my fears: purchasing Christmas gifts in Argos (generally the busiest store in this season). No fears though, it all works out fine until the box for the scales arrive of course and it is as big as a house (well, a dolls house). I heave it back to my car, next to hyperventilating on the way; Christmas shopping eventually gets one over on me for the day.

I head over the Tesco Hythe to buy groceries and survival goods. It’s a good run around the supermarket, brief and successful until I get home and open my shopping bags to reveal I have just bought only cereal and drinks. God, I am just like that guy who used to be on the Fast Show who would go out for groceries and go “better than that” to reveal having purchased a wheelbarrow tyre or something. When I paid for my goods the woman at the checkout asks “do you have a club card?”. I refrained from the natural answer of “do I fucking look like I have a club card?” by instead shacking my head and she goes “yeah, you don’t want them to know what you are eating” to which I respond heartily: “unhealthily”. We both laugh and suddenly it smacks me; I am now making small talk with shop assistants; I’m changing.

When I return home I have an email from the BBC awaiting me and a woman there interested in my story about being sacked from my job for my blog. Crikey.

I write all afternoon with brief interludes of MSN with Richard and Tom. By late afternoon however I find myself listening to old Ricky Gervais XFM radio show MP3s and I am laughing out loud at them weeping. I cannot recommend these enough, they are so funny, they work for me every time.

Tea time arrives and I have the munches on. I look at my groceries and quite frankly, what I bought was fucking pathetic, the sort of stuff a small child (or chimp) with a credit card would buy for dinner. Instead I head out to the Shrub End chip shop. As I drive through the hood (as rough as it apparently is) I see not one but two Griswold-esqe houses caked in Christmas lights putting the rest of the area to shame. Fancy pants. And in such a part of Colchester where you really wouldn’t expect such a gesture. Purchasing chips in this chip shop proves painful, god these people unhappy in their work (almost as unhappy as I was). I take forever to just get a bag of fucking chips cooked! I suspect this may be a village chip shop for village people.

The evening is spent watching Bottle Rocket which I have just downloaded off Soulseek. It is a horrible disappointment, possessing funny moments and ideas but no real story or cohesion, ultimately looking like a really bad attempt at a Coen Brothers movie (mainly Raising Arizona without the kids).

Tonight also turns out to be the evening that I discover Neil Hamburger. Whether this is a good thing or a bad thing is yet to be decided (by I do immediately jump in with the Tony Clifton comparison).

Mum phones again, suggesting that we meet up in town tomorrow so that I can get a new coat for my Christmas gift. Thing is, I’ve looked in town (Sunday) and there are none but she is insistent and if she is there when I find one (if) she’ll be paying, so very reluctantly I agree to meet up, to appease her (as she is the cash cow after all).

I spend the remainder of the evening putting together my English class notes and organising my file while the Teachers Christmas Special is on in the background and the truly repulsive Bob (my destiny?) finally gets around to marrying the intriguing (ew!) Ping.

Late evening and Phoebe Luk Canada pops up for the first time in ages. We catch and all seems well, her once more talking way too much sense for someone her age. She rules the world.

For the remainder of the night, I am awake without a nervous disposition after drinking a double (hell) shot of Rocket Fuel coffee all with the intention of staying awake to see some indie film in early hours on Channel Four. The film is called You Can Count On Me and features Mark Ruffalo (for indie cred it seems) but it hardly proves worthwhile. Sucker.

It is a return to sleep depravation tonight as I lie awake worrying about my future (career and financial), failing to sleep until 6AM again. I’ll be a bear with a sore head again tomorrow.

np: Faith No More – Edge Of The World

2005-01-03T16:01:00.000-08:00

December 20 (Monday): Dream: this dream is a heartbreaker. After driving around the posh parts of Ipswich I wind up getting in touch/contact with Sara and she tells me that my actions have caused us to both lose. Sadly I think in the long term, this will be proved true.

I get up after limit/little sleep and outside it is freezing, the coldest day of the year and this is represented by beautiful bright blue skies that come with these temperatures.

I check my post and there is a letter from the Job Centre telling me that my case/circumstances of dismissal are being investigated and that I might have my benefits ceased/stopped as a result. I got shit canned in the worst way, summary dismissal off the back of a Gross Misconduct accusation. What the fuck circumstances do they require? Do I now need to go and torch my old office as a gesture of intent in order to gain a sufficient/satisfactory dismissal? Sleep tight.

Today I guess is the first day of the kids’ Christmas holidays, which pretty much will mean going to town will be less than pleasurable now (if not even a subtle no go zone). As a result, I don’t leave the flat today, partly due to that and partly due to sleep depravation (still) and a general air of can’t be arsed about it.

Instead I find myself, on actually a pretty sunny and pleasant looking day, watching a terrible kid’s movie called The Brainiacs.com hoping to learn about stocks, shares and e-commerce. Fucking unemployed loser. And then Muppets Take Manhattan comes on Channel Four. Yup, Muppet, that’s a pretty good description for me today. Damn you disruptive kids Christmas TV! I’m 28!

In the afternoon Acton gets me on MSN and tells me how he is going to a huge pillow fight in Trafalgar Square this evening. Sounds cool, much better than my impending pot noodle and wank (metaphorical). This all comes over as I find myself watching yet more bad movies, this time in the form of Bigfoot And The Hendersons. Richard then however tells me that they used to have a Fight Club at his old university and suddenly I am all ears to what is possibly the coolest thing I have ever in my life. And also the funniest, great someone is making me lol today.

My evening finds me in the weird position/situation of exchanging emails with Henry Rollins as he answers a Q&A for me, being a complete smart and wise arse in the process. I bet he has shitty Christmases too.

Tonight my flat is the coldest it has been all year (or at the very least this winter). Sadly my flat is equipped with the worst heater imaginable, output and input sit on the same dial and I don’t actually know which either is other than being exact opposites (probably). I turn in pretty early, like an old biddy/person/pensioner unable to afford heating in the winter. I read on in my creative writing book, it all being very earthy and suggesting some rather peculiar practises and exercises, stuff I will struggle to get with. Still, it does say some encouraging things in the process. I am quickly drifting away from the accountant midset in the name of pursuing these wild pipedreams and notions. Show me the money!

TV tonight doesn’t make up to the daytime, the only real winner being the Smoking Room (and that is only assisted by my fancying the black bird in it). I eventually turn in for some much needed and overdue sleep putting on the Death Of A Salesman DVD for a watch (for the first time in ages). It works on the sending to sleep front.

np: Bruce McCulloch - Eraserhead

2005-01-03T15:59:00.000-08:00

December 19 (Sunday): This morning I wake up late and cold (9.30). Other than that though, TODAY FEELS LIKE CHRISTMAS!

Mum doesn’t bother to phone me about meeting up to go Christmas shopping in the end, which is half a blessing in disguise because shopping with her is a fucking embarrassment sometimes.

Almost immediately though, I pull myself together and head out for a bit of Christmas shopping myself, my first bout of Christmas shopping this year (until now it has all been a bridge too far). I fly straight into town and set about looking for the Band Of Brothers DVD boxset for dad. This looks likely to cost big bucks but at least it is something I might want to watch myself (ho ho). After a couple of false hopes, I hit paydirt as I find it already in the HMV for £34.99 reduced for £60. Ha ha, that gift will look extravagant when I remove the sale sticker. From there, now high and getting weary from too many moronic fellow shoppers, I look for a new coat for me but they all really suck and then I bump into Dan from Dead Rat Orchestra/Mutebox who says “hi” when generally he doesn’t. It cheers me up, especially when I had been skulking around town with my head down hoping not to see anybody I knew/know.

From there I head over to Asda to get some bad health food to cheer me up and give me a bit of go (I appear to be comfort eating in these times of apparent turmoil). I drive over to Asda thinking just what a cool name for a band Dead Rat Orchestra is and ironically I bump into Jo from Dead Rat Orchestra (and also Calaco) in Asda. He makes comment that I look the happiest and least stressed that I have done in months. I guess my “break” is agreeing with me.

With further smiles on the brew, I head over to PC World. It appears when I do Christmas shopping I work on the “one for you, one for me” concept and I go to PC World with the intention of perhaps buying the most basic of digital cameras. And indeed I get one as some poor late middle aged man in a silly baseball cap charms me into buying an HP camera for £100 (straight onto the credit card baby!). For £100 though, it looks pretty good. Retail therapy gets well and truly accomplished and works wonders with my psyche.

The Stanway Tollgate (where PC World is) also lays home to a McDonalds and I find myself really tempted to get myself a Happy Meal or something as some kind of perverse treat but I make the best/wise decision of opting out, more for monetary reasons rather than health. McDonalds grub isn’t that unhealthy really anyway.

I return to the flat pretty much popping but unfortunately someone (some arsehole) has parked in my (allocated) parking spot. My buzz gets hampered briefly but I shy away from taking my golf club and smashing in their lights, which is what I usually do to cars parked in my space (joking).

I get inside and flip on the TV and Jingle All The Way is on TV. I actually really like (enjoy) this film but this is the first time I realise that the kid in it is Anakin Skywalker from the first Phantom Menace. Duh! Also the late great Phil Hartman (Lionel Hutz, Troy McClure) is in it, so it’s a goer.

I make a phonecall home to see what’s what and I get dad on the line. Seems he has finally come out of his room and that mum went out shopping somewhere this morning. Me and him talk/chat at length and we don’t skirt around the shit. He sounds genuinely down as opposed to pissed off and angry. Crazy situation.

Today Millwall play away at Leeds. I was really hoping this game would be on Sky but no dice, its just on a Sunday to prevent crimes. By the sounds of it however it fails to do so as trouble occurs late, after the game when Jody Morris steps up and scores a late penalty (another late goal!) to equalise and make the final score 1-1. Morris being an ex-Leeds player really doesn’t help goodwill to say the least. And he isn’t Millwall’s usual penalty taker (Harris is but he can currently be found in Cardiff, where he scored yesterday). Really could have done with a win though.

TV only improves as it reaches car crash proportions with the surprisingly, incredibly watchable Scrooge/Christmas Carol TV remakeover starring Ross Kemp as Scrooge. And Scrooge is now a debt collector/loan shark. Its pretty hilarious for all the wrong reasons. And Warren Mitchell (Alf Garnett) pops up in it as his Dad and the apple of his eye is the fit blonde bird from The Commitments (back in the day) now looking pretty ordinary. This is Christmas TV par excellence, making the most out of very little at its disposal (ha ha).

I phone home once more and this time get mother. Seems she went to Ipswich, thinking I was too fucked off to join her in Christmas shopping (to be honest though, I think I did better off on my own, I got a digital camera!). The latest news from home is now that there boiler has packed up and their heating with it. At least however it sounds like some kind of truce there has occurred.

TV continues to score this evening when LA Confidential is on BBC2. It seems really short in comparison to previous times and I find myself not wholly interested/captivated by the movie despite understanding it and its politics and corruptions more than ever before.

Instead, I spend a lot of the evening running searches on Google to see where and how my Blogs appear in search engines. And it is very low. Now I begin to wonder and become suspicious about the ins and outs of my dismissal apparently due to the discovery of one of our client’s names typed into a search engine revealing my website. Performing this little exercise however makes that sound kind of unlikely and once more I begin to suspect that someone actually blew the whistle on me at the firm, especially in the light of my ex-employers failing to actually produce a report for the hearing and/or reveal their sources. I begin to feel even more victimised than ever over the whole incident, especially in the light of the Christmas season and Scrooge concept (ho ho).

Tonight, I can’t sleep. I worry about things and find myself still awake at 6AM after a few restless attempts at sleep. I attempt to watch Garden State again and do so and yet again it fails to float my boat, coming over like a good idea that did/does not reach fruition or even completion.

np: The Go! Team - Ladyflash

2005-01-03T15:56:00.000-08:00

December 18 (Saturday): Oh man, this morning I wake up fucked! I think I’ve finally reached the age/state whereby I am now too old to sleep on sofas. I look however down at the dog and the little bugger is sound asleep, cute as a button.

I step out (get up) and walk into the kitchen to greet mum and the general vibe in the house appears to be maintaining as there is no sign of Dad.

Quickly I get into writing in order to make use of the day and soon I have written solid as it nears midday and Dad still has not shown his face and I haven’t been out to buy a Saturday newspapers. I get out for a drive and head to the Co-op in Great Clacton (ain’t nothing great about this part of Clacton). From there I head to the Clacton Common shopping village for the first time in months and the place is horrible, looking more run down than ever. Half the shops appear to be closed and the people inside the ones that are open looking unemployed and desperate. And here I am right in the middle of the curmudgeon. I look fearful, afraid of seeing people I might know, old school acquaintances (not friends). The sad truth is that I still recognise some of the shop staff in these loser shops.

From there, I make a swift escape and head back to Holland, stopping off at the used bookstore in hope of finding some bargains and treasures. No fucking hope of finding any bargains here (high prices) but I do find a PJ O’Rourke book (hardcover for £4.50) that I come really really close to buying. However, I currently have a stack of books as high as Lord Of The Rings character to read and times are financially tight. I then also happen across an old Woody Allen book with a postcard inside it. I look at the postcard and it is an autographed photo of the man. I find my treasure. I look for a price but there is no price pencilled in on the inside of the book (like every other book in the shop). There is a sticker on the back with £25 but surely this guy can’t seriously be expecting that for it! I look around and consider putting it in my pocket but then I see the most DIY CCTV camera in the world pointed at me. I slope out of the store having the man thank me as I leave. Go figure. This is also the shop that sells first edition James Ellroy’s for big bucks and where I found a copy of Death Of A Salesman at the exact day I was getting into the story.

Back home, I resume writing well into the evening whilst listening to the football on internet. All day there is no sign of dad whatsoever as he remains in his bedroom with the door firmly shut/closed speaking volumes. It is at around this point that, after last night’s debacle with dog, I have to get home asap. However first I want to blag some dinner because there is only cereal in my flat I believe.

Dad eventually emerges around 5.30 but soon returns to his bedroom, the door slamming behind him as the dog attempts to join him, only getting a kick in the face and the response “fuck off” from the old man.

Dinner turns out not to actually be worth the wait as mum makes chips, spring rolls and quiche (sounds like someone is cleaning/clearing out the freezer). It next to makes me gag.

Suddenly my night hits me and I have to leave immediately. I don’t know if it is/was a combination of the food and/or the bad night before, but I feel tired to the point of almost passing out in the warmth of the house. I gather my shit together as mum suggests a meet up for Christmas shopping tomorrow morning in Colchester. I go “yeah” unenthusiastically due to tiredness but still happy to accompany her along.

I get home to the comfort of my flat in the utmost of relief. Upon arrival I find a parcel sitting at my door and it is my Blogger clothing that I ordered online Tuesday. I cannot believe that I have bought a hoody, how fucking old am I? Regardless, I think it looks cool (ha ha) and goes with the “beard”. Is it hot in here or is it just me?

Tonight’s TV movie (for losers without lives) is The Talented Mr Ripley, a film about pretending to be someone you are not. It appears to be the cheesiest movie in history and a fucking disaster. I do not much of it, not least because I find Jude Law offensively crap. I attempt to stay awake to see the original Invasion Of The Body Snatchers on at 1.20 on BBC2 but no dice, I’m soon wide asleep catching up on/for last night.

np: Manic Street Preachers – There By The Grace Of God

2005-01-01T01:41:00.000-08:00

the troublemaker

2004-12-30T11:00:00.000-08:00

December 17 (Friday): Dream: I am at the Arts Centre and it is summer. The place looks how it did back in the day when Gringo started out and Hirameka played their first gigs there. Today however, NIRVANA are playing there! And it is Sub Pop Nirvana, a sparse show of shitty ratty equipment but sounding fucking awesome despite this. The only person I recognise there is Emma and I wind up hugging and snogging her. What????

After the last night/early hours, I wake up late at 10AM, pretty bad for me as I never lie in usually and currently, in my state of unemployment, I do not feel I deserve to be so lazy.

I get up to check my phone and the text message inbox on my mobile is full and showing a message waiting. This is without doubt a reply from Sara to my 3AM text this morning replying to her 2.30AM text (night owls). I make space in the inbox for the text and wait with baited breath.

Today my sole intention is to get to my parents and show my face, hopefully getting a lot of writing done in the process (they have a computer desk which makes writing a lot more comfortable and fruitful than just bending my back over at the end of my bed). I pull my shit together but it takes an eternity to get myself together, I was hoping to get to Holland almost first thing but the way things are moving today, I’ll be fortunate to get there before supper.

I have my tunes on Media Player on random and mid morning up pops Grounded by Pavement. Wow; “doctor’s leaving for the holiday system”, in some ways for me (perverse way) this is the most holiday/Christmas record going. This used to be my soundtrack in 1995 when I was living in Walton, working in Clacton and driving up to Colchester for shops. Wowee Zowee was the record that was playing in my cassette deck when I smashed my first car up a week before Christmas in 1995. The track playing upon impact was Father To A Sister Of Thought, which pretty much mentally scarred/scared me away from listening to that record again for several years.

Lunchtime arrives and with it, today’s Cheers re-run. And this episode is extra freaky as it features a cameo from John Kerry (yup, the loser John Kerry) at the beginning of the show. All through the election I found myself thinking how much John Kerry looked like Ted Danson and there here he is (ten years ago) making an appearance on his show. Freaky.

I watch Ed (more daytime TV I now find myself addicted to) and I fly home for a weekend visit (just as Acton is trying to contact/get me on MSN). I was originally intending/supposed to arrive at home pretty swiftly this morning but instead I wind up arriving closer to 3PM. And when I arrive, mum blatantly in a fucking hump/mood. Great, I love a house with an atmosphere.

I go to computer and come across a rough draft of a letter dad is sending to his “employer”, some Mickey Mouse outfit. It reads really badly and only continues on the current bad feelings vibe that Dad is having towards the family members that he works with. He should have asked me to help out on the letter methinks. Maybe Dad has been watching The Sopranos too much and taking it too seriously. My bad.

Regardless, fortunately/luckily I get into writing and actually find myself being productive as I hide away in the room with the computer to avoid the feuding partners (although fortunately Dad is out at my cousin’s house helping out and Mum is getting her hairdo do done). When Dad finally comes in, he is a right miserable cunt. The pair of us sit down to dinner and it is absolutely excruciating, all eaten/done in next to silence.

My aunt calls around at the house to drop off Christmas cards etc and I finally have my second card of the season. She however does not ring the door bell to speak or anything, so I suspect there is another relative I have pissed off. When I pick up the cards there is also a video cassette of the X-Factor final, someone somewhere in my family must enjoy this shit. Sadly however the label on the video reads “X-Facture”. Ouch.

My phone beeps and finally it is the text arriving from Haslett (Sara) from this morning. It reads: “Money money. I was right. After all you so wrongly called me its a well deserved PRICK for you.” What? She was right? Right about? I dunno but unfortunately I was also right in thinking she would not turn up after everyone who I told about the show were also proved right when they said she would not turn up/go, and after all the defending of her I did in disagreeing with them. I don’t know about being a prick but definitely a chump.

Mum comes in a little later with hair job done and as per usual it looks silly and hilarious. She tells/informs me now that they do not have to pay the tax credit £7,000 immediately, something I had been really worrying about. Whatever.

The evening happens with Dad tucked/hiding away in the front room watching football. At 9.30 the new Little Britain comes on and I find myself having to watch it in the kitchen. This is the episode with the Mr T lookalike who is oblivious to the existence of Mr T in the first place. It is funny as fuck and I think my laughing at it pisses off the old man as he probably thinks that mum and I are having a laugh at him. See, paranoia runs in my family.

Tonight once more I have to sleep on the sofa, which is something (as I’ve said before) I am no longer capable of doing. And because the olds are arguing over the dog, I get the little fucker sleeping in the front room with me. It starts off well as he tucks up with me on the sofa but when I wake up around 2AM and I have accidentally left the TV on watching Monday Night Raw, the dog decides he is too hot for the sofa and jumps on the floor whining like fuck, wanting to be sleeping elsewhere. I have to mess about with him to shut him and it takes an eternity to get him settled into his basket but eventually around 4AM, I manage to do so. Can’t sleep.

np: Pavement - Grounded

2004-12-29T11:57:00.000-08:00

December 16 (Thursday): Dream: I have the woman at Acme personnel asking me about the reasons pertaining to my current unemployment. Upon telling her that it was dismissal, akin to the Acme, scenario she tells me that she will unable to represent me in my job. From there I find myself hanging out with Dad, two people with too much time on their hands. Eventually we wind up in the Cheers bar! And Dad has the Sam Malone role. Oh my, I am watching far too much daytime TV.

I wake up past 9PM. Oh dear, I’m getting lazy but at the same time outside its still bitter dark. Another day, another stinging headache, don’t let it be told/believed that being unemployed is a doss.

I call Acme with regards to last weeks interview, the one I doubt I got as I was being told at the place I was overqualified for (which I agree with). I speak to the guy and the feedback isn’t necessarily good. Apparently my CV and my test results obviously scored high but apparently in the interview I am came over as too laid back. Oh dear, that old chestnut is rearing its head once more. I suspect the comments are fair, as the interview was by no means intensive or professional and the tests I were given to do were for elements of the job I learned in my first year of accountancy, so already jaded from coming out of nightmare exams, it was a pretty difficult interview to be gung ho about, especially when being interviewed by an old college acquaintance probably younger than me who I would imagine would see my as a real threat to her own job. And apparently seeing the Christine woman went against me as my comment about her “giving me grief and winding me up”, dry as it was, was only misinterpret (in the interviewers favour?) as negative. Would someone really expect me to rationally make a comment such as to jeopardise my career chances? Sadly however, over our phonecall, I fail to find the words. I’m beat.

Today I don’t go out during the daytime, there doesn’t seem much point. I write during the day, it gets me through and is productive at the same time. Good times.

In preparation for tonight’s English class, this afternoon I actually bother to tidy/clean myself and I have a nice long bath etc. I also finally pull out the Raymond Chandler Papers book and I read that in the bath. It actually turns out to be a really good read/book, not least because I suddenly discover a whole new/different side to Chandler, almost Bukowski-eqse and the icing on the cake is when I discover that he was an accountant before he became a writer. He the man.

As I get ready for class, I realise I have forgotten to brush my teeth and when I grab my toothbrush and scrub in a hurry, I only manage to proceed and ram my toothbrush up the roof of my mouth, severely bashing my gums. It hurts like shit.

And then just as I am one foot out of the day, I get cold called by some Asian woman (they’re always Asian!) trying to selling me a phoneline (Toucan?). Right now, I’m not a very good person to be cold calling: firstly I am unemployed with no money and secondly I don’t speak to many people in the daytime, so I’ll listen to your call but won’t buy anything, instead get really sarcastic with the caller for my own amusement.

I get to class and today we look at diaries and journals. Teacher calls me “you Blogger you” and asks me if I regret what has happened. I tell her “the jury is still out”, really tripping over my words in embarrassment in the process. I say “I had an interview last week but they said I was “too laid back” which probably means they thought I was a stoner” which makes Rob (Ipswich Rob) laugh. I get my homework handed back (the asylum seeker letter) and I’ve got an A- for it. Yes! Another winning grade.

One of the diaries we look at is Tony Benn’s which makes me think back to when Hirameka played Marxism and I got dragged into that shambles of an event and how listening to Tony Benn was one of the most boring things any of us have/had ever done and how it was all tied up/surrounded in pretension and pomposity. The thing with Socialists is that they think they are the ones making history and changing things. We also move onto the diary/journal by some famous modern day American writer and suddenly it is fascinating contrasting so many different diaries/journals and I find myself comparing each and everyone of them to my Blog and only coming to the conclusion that I don’t think mine compares very favourably. We then also move on to Bridget Jones’s Diary, which I haven’t read but the extract makes it sound really good and readable. We also read an Alan Bennett Talking Heads piece which is really great also. The class ends on an absolute high. As the teacher gets us all brainstorming ideas for a story (and the guy keeps making comments/scoffs at my suggestions) the teacher gets my Sopranos reference when she asks me “what job does the man have” and I pause and say “Waste Management Consultant” and she pops “Sopranos, like it” while the guy remarks “does that mean he’s of shit?” with the reference obviously flying well over his zebra-male head whereas Rob (Ipswich Rob) goes “Sopranos, cool!”. This class rules.

I don’t bother with any post-college shopping this week, instead I just pop into the chip shop next to college and buy a portion of self pity chips, a feast for any man. I get home and begin scoffing them whilst also texting the ill Emma about this week’s class and Christmas homework and calling home to speak to mum for a state of the union address.

By now, its beginning to get late and around midnight Tom hops on MSN and begins telling me his female related woes and once more I act like an unmarried marriage counsellor, so best never (ever) listen to my advice. I do often however see many parallels in Tom’s and my own experiences but we always seem to take completely different directions in our choices, I seem to kill my efforts at birth whereas Tom carries on in his efforts and often at least gets “some” before things go tits up (something I insulate far far too much).

At past midnight I begin watching the extras on the special edition Reservoir Dogs DVD and the extras are really cool, not least the interview with the guy that played Marvin Nash. Chris Penn also comes over really too. I do however fall asleep watching it.

At 2.33AM I am awoken by my phone beeping next to my head (seems I sleep with my phone) and it is a text from Haslett (Sara!). She says “Know was twat. Not going 2 try and b a good person but i can tell you had major family drama was bad but if u knew half of it u would excuse my actions sorry x”. It pisses me off that she wakes me up but it REALLY pisses me off that she doesn’t actually give me anything to work, anything that will make me understand and sympathetic to her plight, especially considering despite my actions I really really do care about her and I thought she might be someone special and meeting up with her this Christmas was going to be THE thing that saved Christmas for me after all the recent shitty events, work and exam related. Ultimately though, I can’t have such feelings for someone who obviously does not have them back. The text smells/tastes of a bout of guilt and at this hour can only be alcohol and/or drug fuelled. I’m no longer angry over the incident, just sad and now just afraid of losing more money in another naïve bout of foolishness. And with that in mind, I make a point of texting her back at this hour, to wake up her right back and I just text “we need to settle up first”. I doubt I could be any more clinical or cold. Here’s another person I really really have true feelings for and I only know that it can only serve to burn/hit/hurt me hard.

Awake now, I go back to the Reservoir Dogs DVD but then I see Acton come online at an ungodly hour (3AM) and he is jacked, absolutely shitfaced. Turns out that he has just got back in from the Suede reunion (or at least Anderson and Butler) and he got to go to the aftershow with free hooch. Nice, have a good time all the time.

np: Jane’s Addiction – Then She Did

2004-12-29T11:54:00.000-08:00

December 15 (Wednesday): This morning I awaken around 4AM, wide awake, unable to sleep, unable to make safe, sense and secure of things. I keep think about my Job Centre appointment yesterday, the whole surrealistic drama of it.

After many minutes deliberation, I wind up putting on the Bad Lieutenant on DVD. When the movie eventually ends and Harvey Keitel gets his brains blown out outside Madison Square Garden and the Abel Ferrara song kicks in, I turn off the movie to realise the hour of 6.30 and pretty much accept morning has broken. I wake up to hear some nut cases in Greece have taken a bus hostage. I roll my eyes and attempt to go back to sleep.

I re-emerge around 9.30 with yet another sledgehammer headache/migraine, what’s that; five days running? Today the days have finally moulded into one and I find myself at points wondering what day of the week it is (I actually swear at one point it is Friday). Things are getting desperate.

I’m falling down the slippery slope now of watching and getting into daytime TV. I really should not be watching the T4 Christmas schedule (chock full of repeats of shows I have already seen), Cheers “classics” (more repeats of shows I have already seen) or the quirky US drama show called Ed, especially as it’s executive producer is David Letterman.

In order to break from this routine, I enter into proper unemployed chav mode by picking up the Playstation but when I find myself unable to beat Shawn Michaels as Bret Hart on the latest WWF game, I feel like throwing the machine out of the window as I only discover yet another area that I am a failure in.

MSN thankfully snaps me out of my lull when a few friends come online, finding desperate and in need of human contact. Acton tells me how today is his Christmas Do at the BBC and I feel gutted as I get reminded of how I am missing out on my Christmas meal this year, it always tastes SO good. Coogan (Tom) is also online but he ain’t responding. He’s been kinda curt to me lately, I suspect I may have done something to upset and piss him off. Tom later pops up and we’re cool.

I head out for lunch late afternoon, heading towards Stanway and Sainsburys. Whenever I go to Sainsburys I always seem to do/perform the work session of shopping of the least healthiest food going. And today I add to my groceries the Quentin Tarantino boxset, which only costs £16 for 6 discs compared to when I bought Reservoir Dogs without any extras years ago for £20. Ouch.

As I queue at the checkout, I get stuck behind a real gimp. This man has a fucking bumbag tied over his crotch, is dressed like a tramp and buying about six boxes of hair mouse/gel in one go. And then he argues the toss over the fact that they fail to automatically give him the 2 for 1 discount. No wonder the guy is out shopping in the daytime and isn’t at work: he’s a moron! When I finally get around to being served, I am super efficient and done within the seconds. I look at the girl on the checkout who apologises profusely for the hold up and I realise despite being the size of a house, she is actually really pretty. I make small talk and work and it, unfortunately, turns out to be the only real human contact I get today. And boy was I good, the world seems a good place once again.

The afternoon sails by and soon turns into the evening. I spend the afternoon writing with the occasional MSN interruption by Tom and/or Richard. And this is the routine that spills into and consumes the evening.

The highlight of my day turns out to be when I receive interview questions back from The Go! Team, which come really unexpected as that band is going to be fucking huge next year. Spice world!

I (probably) fall asleep watching Arrested Development only to wake up shortly past midnight with Basquiat on TV, which I really attempt to re-awaken for but it turns out a futile task. I also check my phone and there is a text. Sara? No, it turns to be from Phoebe replying to something or other that I asked earlier in the day. In her words “nite nite”.

np: Funkadelic – Nappy Dugout

2004-12-29T11:53:00.000-08:00

December 14 (Tuesday): For the fourth day/morning running I wake up with a headache. The time is 8.30ish and the will is not there. I find myself at the bottom of the wishing dwell.

I find I can’t pull myself out of bed (can’t be arsed) and the T4 Christmas TV only allows me to stay pinned in bed as I’ll happily watch shit like Futurama and The Chancers when I’m in this flip state of mind.

With those out of the way, I finish off watching Tape and it actually turns out a hell of a lot better than I had realised and it actually serves to gee me up a bit and get me going. Wahey.

Today turns out to be the first day of my unemployment in which I suffer really severe cabin fever, I wake up feeling exhausted from nothing along with the obligatory headache all pretty much rendering me useless and hopeless.

Luckily though I have an obligation to leave the house today, which is to go to the Job Centre and sign on. And it had better be good because I turned down seeing Alan Moore interviewing Brian Eno for this. I get my little unemployment diary and fill in the details and dates of my interviews blah blah blah and set off out for/to town. Once more, I get the short guy filling in forms on the computer screen. And this week he has his mate in a wheelchair with him, who rubs me up the wrong way when he picks out our “work diaries” and goes “lets see what we have here” in a pretty impersonal tone. And then amusingly as they fill in the forms with regards to myself, they talk between themselves as if I were not there. Fortunately due to Christmas, it will be a month before I get interrogated by the SS again. God I want a job.

I’m beginning to hate town in the daytime, it is full of losers wandering around town with no place to go. As I walk back to my car to get the hell out of dodge and back to the safety of my home, I see Steve Whitton (ex-Col U manager) who appears to still be knocking about town. I then also see someone I used to go to school with sucking his thumb as he passes me called Adam (I’ll conveniently forget his surname was Dowson), which pretty much sums up the desperation of the day. As I get to my car, I see another car and it has the number plate AY51LUW which I have to double take because when I first read it, it looks like “asylum” to me.

When home, I read the Sun and some smoke has done a stitch up article on going to the New Den and watching Millwall play. The man claims it all to be thoroughly racist and offensive. He appears to take offence at the fact that people aren’t coming up to him and talking and hanging out. Jesus Christ, this is a football match, people just don’t do that, hell when I go up to Millwall on my own I feel intimidated and sit on my own, its part of the parcel. And then the idiot man writer claims Millwall fans seig heil, something I have never seen. God, an idiot like this gets two pages to wax lyrical in the most read newspaper in the country. Grief.

In the evening, Dad pops up on MSN and he tells me how he has been watching The Sopranos and enjoying it. Cool, I have been trying to get him to watch it for ages, finally we have something else to talk about other than football.

np: Buscemi – The Salon Suite

2004-12-29T11:46:00.000-08:00

December 13 (Monday): I wake up with a headache. I feel somewhat better today about things and today is the first clear day I have had since I got shafted by BS to actually get some stuff done. And the intention is to have a day of writing. This however gets interrupted by a repeat of Chancers on Channel Four but aside from that, I actually manage to really get into writing and actually getting some done.

I find myself, yet again, another bear with a sore head this morning until Azmei texts me with “Merry Christmas”. My first seasons greetings of the year (perhaps) and they come from a Muslim. That’s the magic of Christmas!

I potter about on the PC all morning, attempting to write, attempting to find a job online, attempting to find a life.

For a third day I continue to hassle Haslett (Sara). I really promised myself that I wouldn’t but now my mood has swung somewhat, I’m now semi intrigued at finding out what on earth happened and fully interested in attempted to blag some money (reparation) back from her.

I attempt calling her and now suddenly her phone is finally ringing again. At 2.38PM, on a fourth attempt of the latest set of rings, she answers and snaps wearily “what?”. Stunned by the response (and the bint actually fucking answering the phone in the first place) I go “what’s up?” and she goes, whispering, “I can’t talk right now, family stuff”. I shake my head in further disbelief, speechless. She adds “I’ll call you later when I can talk” and I go “yeah do, you're making me act lairy”. And the call ends, about ten seconds in length. I think that was perhaps the first time I had spoken to her on the phone and she wasn’t fucking pissed. I immediately know/realise she ain’t phoning me back but at least it feels like some kind of minimal closure to at least touched base with her.

In late afternoon I begin watching Tape on DVD. I have had this knocking about for months and finally I am getting around to watching it, which kind of shows my enthusiasm for watching it. Its very wordy and really not the sort of thing I am into this evening. It sends me to sleep.

The rest of the day flies by relatively eventless and in the evening there is (for some reason) a really great programme about Richard Linklater on Channel Four. And it doesn’t even get ruined by a real tool presenting the show. Its interesting to see the star from Dazed And Confused has chubbed up and turned his back on the movie world. Still, he was the main guy in Waking Life having the dream. He sits being interviewed and I notice he is wearing a Blogger t-shirt. I must have one of those.

After that, I get into some MSN with Marceline as we discuss the end of year poll on Diskant for music and movies. Its all good.

Mum bravely phones again tonight and things are a bit better tonight and I feel apologetic and bad, trying everything I have to convince her that I am all right.

Richard gets me again on MSN and asks me if I want to meet him in London tomorrow because he has tickets to see Alan Moore interview Brian Eno. That actually sounds really really cool but tomorrow I have to sign on at the Job Centre. I tell him I’ll see what I can do.

Once again at the dead night, for a second night running I am wide eyed into the early hours and tonight I happen across a documentary on BBC1 where they are analysing Ron Atkinson and his comments and questioning whether he is racist. I wouldn’t have chosen to watch this programme and it turns out to be the sort of nonsense you would expect as crazy liberals make mountains out of molehills and condemn Atkinson as being a worse person than he is, which is a fucking stupid big gob bastard. Sticks and stones and all that, get over it, the man is now next to unemployable, I think he has suffered enough punishment in lost earnings without actually harming anybody in the process..

np: Donovan - Colors

2004-12-29T11:43:00.000-08:00

December 12 (Sunday): Today I wake up with the most steaming headache/migraine, the kind that feels like a tumour and generally rests itself right behind my right eye making it feel as if it is spewing out blood. Today I really want to stay in bed for the duration and basically lick my wounds as my mental pain/toll eases after the latest let down.

I find myself in a state of disbelief, how could I have been so stupid yet again, this just being the latest in/of a long line of people to take me for a ride. And I worry myself over my reaction to it but console myself that I think that is just how/what Haslett would have done were the tables reversed.

I go fishing for sympathy (sometimes I’m not proud) and I go whinging to Azmei, texting to her my moans and pointing out that “this is the exact same that happened with Lindsey”. Well, its not really the exact thing but pretty similar/close. Just texts a couple of times with a certain/limited amount sympathy but basically I’m fishing in the wrong pond her.

I lie in bed contemplative and verging on the philosophical, all that pathetic stuff that goes through a person’s mind after something bad happens to them and they’re (in their minds) totally blameless. And it easy to do, you can just lie in bed and mass debate the day away, you don’t even have to lift a finger as mentally you put the world to rights and not only that, for your experience you now find yourself a stronger person (what doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger etc) and a stronger willed, more determined person than before. And all whilst lying on your arse doing nothing. Pretty pathetic.

Watching a download of one of the Martin Scorsese Blues series helps me to snap out of things, this episode being the one where Chuck D tracks down the origins of Muddy Waters’ Electric Mud record. This is the first episode of these documentaries and I hope they’re all as good as this one, it is fantastic.

In order to prevent becoming half a stalker, I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t text or phone Haslett today but fuck it, that goes out of the window when I manage to wind myself up over things again by thinking about them too much and I set about attempting to phone her and occasionally texting her again (albeit a bit calmed down now). It appears that she still has her phone switched/turned off. I hope it has caused her to miss many important phone calls in the process of her avoiding me.

I head out and go to Tesco Hythe where I food it up. Today I really fancy some hot chocolate and I discover that they (Nestle) now make Lion’s Bar drinking chocolate. Yes! And it tastes as awesome as you would imagine.

I get home to watch some Disney kids movie called Heavyweights just because it has Ben Stiller in it and the kid from Pete And Pete (Clem, Little Pete’s mate). The film also briefly features the awesome Jerry Stiller (Ben’s dad) but ultimately it is pre-fame Ben Stiller and therefore shit. That deserves a nasty text to Sara methinks.

Due to my lack of sleep during last nights disturbed night, I get so much needed shut eye.

Sunday at 6PM occurs and it’s the Simpsons, the show that will save any mood any day. Tonight is the grifting episode, which will always make me laugh.

In the evening Richard MSNs and asks me how it went with “My Smelly Valentine”. Like a chump I tell him how the wind blows and I feel like such a loser/chump in the process, describing all that happened and its fucking aftermath.

The night ends with me listening to Hunter S. Thompson MP3s and suddenly I feel inspired and rejuvenated, my god it didn’t take me long to get over the Sara situation did it?

On TV is more Christmas stuff with the movies Bring It On followed by Bullitt but I’m too hyper to bother watching either of them, instead I actually manage to dig/fly into some writing for the first time all weekend. I get a buzz on.

Well past midnight and I eventually turn in, putting on the Fear And Loathing DVD and watching it into the early hours.

np: Decahedron – No Carrier

2004-12-28T15:09:00.000-08:00

first Christmas card of 2004

2004-12-28T09:36:00.000-08:00

December 11 (Saturday): Today personally September 11th turns into December 11th for me as I experience some kind of personal disaster (exaggeration-a-go-go). If ever it is wondered why I can be such a mean spirited, miserable, people hating bastard, then it should referred days like these.

As much as experience teaches, I remain horribly naïve and hopefully that human race is not as self serving as all facts add up to it being. It seems every time I reach out and place some faith in people, those are the moments that I get burned the most.

Cutting to the chase, today is/was supposed to be the big day that I finally get to see a West End show and that I hook up with Sara (Haslett) after a year and a half and finally see her again. However to quote Hunter S. Thompson: “you can turn your back on a person but never turn your back on a drug” and when I wake up this morning, we have still not touched base or made arrangements and things look bleak.

The day does begin/start healthily. I head out to do the Saturday newspaper run (and to post an Ebay to Austria) and as I do so, there are a number of sirens heading towards town. When I hit Southway, I can only see several flashing lights in the distance and a hold up of cars and when I finally get through and pass the wreckage, there is shredded car turned over having crashed through the wall. Its horror show and looks like a bad omen.

I return home to the post and I have received my first Christmas card of the year/season. The card turns out to be from my aunt in Brightlingsea whose husband is also my dad’s boss at the firm that is currently smoking him out with regards to employment and refusing to pay him any redundancy it seems with the hope that dad will just resign. Yes, I am most certainly my father’s son when it comes to problems with employers. I’m all right Jack, I think me and him might have actually made could union members after all. So, to have such a person send me a Christmas card really doesn’t register highly in seasonal goodwill.

Speaking of Dad, earlier on he came online on MSN to speak and I only found myself switching to appearing offline in an attempt/desire not to speak.

Around this point I attempt to phone Sara (Haslett) for the first time and I get nothing. I text and await some kind of fucking sign of life (hey, she’s fond of the powder, perhaps she OD’d and is incapable).

I pick up the WWF game on the Playstation again and set about unlocking the legends (Brutus Beefcake and Bret Hart first methinks). The game is great and takes your mind of your woes but I also realise my posture and expression begins to resemble after a while Andy off Little Britain, so I drop it as soon as I can (which is hide in the light of this current addiction).

I attempt Haslett once more and again there is nothing. We have now headed into the PM and it has become evident there is something up. All hopes of spending the day together in the city now seem a bleak wet dream, a distant memory. I text again, this time asking her to confirm whether I have had the (inevitable) “heave hoo”.

Once more today, Dad comes online and this time he catches me. We exchange a dozen lines before I shut up and eventually he disappears. Things are now officially up with her and I am concerned and growing pissed off with the day.

I begin attempting Haslett regularly now, leaving messages on her voicemail of anger and concern (but all still in a wimpy fashion), ringing regularly and sending text message after text message, none of which get answered. The day now is obviously doomed.

On TV this afternoon is A Streetcar Named Desire. I have never seen this movie before but have been often told that I’d like it, to the point that Coogan once compared to me Stanley. Really? I watch the film with one hand on my mobile phone. Occasionally, in boring moments of the movie (and there are quite a few) I dial the phone and/or send another text message to Sara. I however watch the movie intently, considering what is making Blanche tick and I find myself drawing comparisons to her and Sara in an attempt at empathy.

At my most pissed off point in the afternoon, I grab a bottle of wine out the rack and proceed to have a drink (1996 Trio chardonnay, any good?). I fuck up and cork it and by the time I get the bottle pouring, the wine has pretty much gone to shit and I don’t really feel like drinking (getting drunk) anyway. Instead, I probably Sara (or attempt) and/or send another text message.

Eventually on the phone front, when A Streetcar Named Desire ends and I once more become bored, I keep phoning and occasionally the phone does not go to her voicemail after ringing, it straight ends call. This suggests that the phone is being turn off (call rejected) at the other end. Here is the first actual sign of life I have had all day and, almost stalker-esqe, I immediately proceed to call the phone again. Eventually, the phone stops ringing at her end altogether and she has obviously switched her phone completely off. Coward.

I’m fucked off really, with notice I could have got someone else to go with and/or I could have gone up to see Millwall v Brighton and then sold the tickets to a taut. By the way (for the record), Millwall beat Brighton 2-0, Dobie scored his first goal for Millwall and Paul Ifill came on as a sub and scored not for the first time this season.

As the evening gets older, my text messages become more frequent as I begin to act with reckless abandon. By now it is absolutely obvious I am not going to be speaking to her on the phone today but I figure best keep calling, occasionally leaving a message on her voicemail even if it is just a grunt (pretty much all/what she deserves by this point). Today is one of those days when you do something (me hassling her) which/that you realise is so thoroughly wrong and out of order but you just do it anyway without care.

For dinner I pop out and go to the chip shop when tonight I had hoped to be dining in one of the finest eateries in the West End. How the mighty have fallen.

I watch some TV show about the music of Bernard Hermann and it reaches Psycho and I begin to draw comparisons. Scary scary scary. Good soundtrack though.

Tonight poor old mum makes the biggest mistake of recent weeks by calling me on the phone while I am at the eye of the storm. When she rings (me stupidly half thinking it might actually be Sara) she catches me at the worst point possible. I begin grunting down the line like a teenager and when she gets arsey with me, I let rip down the line, her being an innocent bystander in my car crash weekend. I shout down the phone at frightening proportions, I really hate getting in this state and it is the time when really I need to be left alone to just blow off steam in my own way. I feel really bad in doing this but it feels like interference. And then the lay in the boot, akin to the ring phrase of Sara telling me that I am an “arrogant self absorbed prick”, mum goes “well, we all have our problems” and she proceeds to tell me how the Inland Revenue have begun proceedings to squeeze the £7,000 tax credit out of them, by way of an £80 direct debit a week. Suddenly my parents moving house is in jeopardy and it is really not what I want to hear at this time. The phone call only serves to make me feel worse, I now worry because I know they (the parents) will be worrying about me, which is why I never tell them anything that happens to me in the first place. Sometimes happens all the time.

As soon as I get off the phone, I grab it and throw against my wardrobe pretty hard as it smashes to pieces and leaves a dent in the wardrobe. That’s a good way of letting off steam, even if it points towards a possible necessity for anger management. I continue to stomp it into the ground just to work up a brief sweat and make the heart pound faster to match the emotions in my head. Poetic.

I continue calling and texting (pretty much hassling) as the movie of the evening comes on and it is Notting Hill. This film is the fucking pits. I don’t understand Hugh Grant and why girls fantasize about him because he is the ultimate wet bastard seemingly conceived with a weak sperm. I bet girls don’t blow him out though.

The film sends me asleep but unfortunately I awaken around midnight just wanting the fucking bad day/night to end so that I can have a fresh restart to my life in the morning. As I say, this is the eye of the storm so exaggeration goes.

I spend the night in hell. I can’t sleep so I lie awake thinking too much, much more than is safe for a person. I contemplate and analyse far too far into why Sara has done what she has done to me and ultimately, resoundingly I am only able to come around to laying all the blame on myself. I beat myself up as I enter into a domino effect of falling emotions, the typical type of bullshit a person (everyone) goes through when they get dumped on, akin to: anger, denial, acceptance. And the anger remains as I continue to call and text in futile efforts like firing a gun into the air. I send nasty texts which gradually get nastier and nastier but generally all with a level of censorship to prevent absurdity. When I text the word “coward”, as I clear the text and come to the word “cow” I figure I’ll send that too. Pathetic times call for pathetic measures I guess. I fear seeing my phone bill month now, its going to be horrific.

And it al goes to show the measures I will go to for £80.

Eventually there is some late night film called The Broken Hearts Club: A Romantic Comedy on Channel Four starring your boy Zach Braf, which I actually really enjoy and get into until I fall asleep without really knowing what is going on in the story.

Luckily, I am finally able to put an end to such a shitty fucking day.

np: Neil Young – Don’t Let It Bring You Down

2004-12-28T07:09:00.000-08:00

December 10 (Friday): I wake up and outside it is a shitty day. Today I have no real zest for life, yesterday morning was a real knock back on the employment front and I have no real interest/ambition to go through that again today. Sadly, however I have an interview scheduled for 1PM.

I try to make some decent plans for this morning, to do something useful and worthwhile but all I find myself able to come up with is to watch my Bully DVD which I bought back in the height of summer, showing really just how much desire I have to see this film. I slap it on however and fall asleep in the process. Brad Renfro is in it (and he’s pretty good too) but it doesn’t offer much else, just Larry Clark attempting really hard to shock (as per usual).

During the morning I receive an email from Steve Clear, Mark’s brother who tells me about his hip hop record (Rup and DJ So Clear) and it seems it is out and there are copies in town at the metal shop It’s Electric. I want to hear this record in the baddest way, as I said before, it’s a release I really wanted to put out on Gringo Records but wasn’t to be.

Around 10.45 Sara texts telling me that “coming home was the best thing I have ever done”. That’s nice.

Before the movie ends, I pop out to Asda because my car is now empty of fuel and I really don’t want to be filling up when I am fitting the clock to get to my interview.

Today turns out to be a bit of a disaster. Come midday, I have still received no information about my impending 1AM interview from Acme Personnel and I barely know even where the venue for the interview is. When I attempt to pull it up on my PC, with not much time left before I need to leave, the computer at this point takes the opportunity to stall, foul up and crash meaning when I leave home at 12.30 for the interview, I have nothing more (information wise) that relates to the job other than the vague address.

I leave on time and as I pass the Tesco Hythe and roundabout I see my old employer in his sports car and it only serves to make my skin crawl as the prospect of re-entering such a working environment depresses me and makes me shudder.

I find myself having a minor nightmare finding the place in Alresford, its all fucking farm houses and fields in amongst it’s poxy little village (not a fan of the country myself). As I said before, when I was told the company was called Caring Home, I thought it was a construction company run by Mr Caring. Whoops. Today, I am being lined up for a test then interview. Taking tests in interviews at this point of my career I really do see as taking the piss but whatever I really want a salary right now. When I eventually find the place, it has the most cramped car park in history and as soon as I park I am asked by a car valet (Mr glorified car cleaner) to move it. He takes my keys of me and only minutes into my “interview” I find myself wondering if I will ever see my car again. Very worrying because I’ll still be paying for that fucker for the next five years I believe. My initial impressions of the place are the stuff of stunned. I was expecting the place to be smaller and really not so, for the want of better words, so feminine. Oh yeah, I can really see myself fitting in here. I sit for a few minutes awaiting my fate and when eventually my interviewer turns up I recognise her as being a face that used to be in my ACCA course in/at Chelmsford APU, not the best of days. And I would bet that she is actually, possibly younger than me. So, immediately feeling patronised and with no background knowledge on the job/position/company, I settle into an interview that baffles me, just wanting to get the “test” out of the way. Eventually me and the girl (and I repeat girl) get onto the subject of APU. Sounds like she is slightly ahead of me in her studies (but hey its not a race, is it?). The job sounds very easy, an utter doss, and not exaggerating, data processing where a week’s work by someone like me could be performed in a day (especially after fitting months onto Sage at Acme Pipeline in the matter of a few days only a couple of months ago). Unimpressed, I urge her to give me the test and when I get it, it is moronic questions about the double entry of an accrual and about eleven other similar questions. I begin to wonder now whether I am actually more qualified (through experience) than me interviewer. I do the test in about five minutes and it is bollocks and I have officially taken offence. The next step is my Excel test. Grief. As I walk over to the computer, there suddenly is someone else I used to go to APU with, some tubby bitch that I actually used to sit next to, week in, week out. I gasp a loud “HALLO!” and immediately I feel I have made a mistake. The scene in Fever Pitch when the main guy acts overfamiliar at an interview has always struck me hard and I know it’s a faux pas even if I still do it. I pick up the Excel “test” and it’s a week’s bank reconciliation. I stare at the paper blankly for a few minutes, the question is poor and in itself could do with being tested. The reconciliation brought forward on the test in next to nonsense (I realise I am sounding like a prick at this point but I can’t help it). Bemused, I tear into bank rec, doing it “their way” to keep them happy when knowing at the time it really isn’t of a very good standard. I do it and me and the girl go back for a continuation of the interview. Whereas she was previously telling me how people had been promoted within the firm over the course of six months, she now takes the tact of seeming to dissuade me even using the term “overqualified”, which was something I didn’t want to be so cocksure to even suggest (let alone say). It seems this is a job that I could do with my eyes shut but one that I would definitely eventually get bored and playful at and begin looking elsewhere. Still, I don’t feel I am afforded the upperhand/respect/recognition I deserve here and if they’re willing to pay me what they say, it will do for me know. We reach the stage where she goes “do you have any questions?” and usually if you have none you are dead but today I just respond “no, I think we have covered everything”. She tells me they will be conducting second interviews and making their decisions soon, pretty much par for the course. As I leave I pass the Christine and say “bye and take care”, pretty embarrassed by it all. My interviewer pipes up “she seems to know everyone” and I reply “yeah, I used to sit next to her and she would always give me grief”. I shake her hand and leave, pissed off at the position and interview, it all feeling/seeming somewhat of a waste of time. During my entire at the company, I only saw another man once, this is so obviously a job/position for a another female and will more than likely go to another female. I feel pissed off at the employment agency for putting me forward to what would appear a waste of time position, but they see payola ahead of common sense. I’m a professional cynic but my heart’s not in it.

I get home at a loss, annoyed but with a bit of life in me now. Eventually I head out again and into town; retail therapy beckons, a reward for my fourth interview in a month (spurious, big time). I get my copy of the Rup The Cunt twelve inch that Steve has put out and it’s the first record I have bought in ages and maybe the first twelve inch I have bought in over five years. I also come across a signed (hardback) copy of the new Douglas Coupland book Eleaner Rigby in Waterstones. Previously I had no interest book but now suddenly I feel the need to immediately snap it up. Yeah, I can really afford to be spending £16 on a book at these times.

Night falls and I return home. Since this morning, I haven’t heard from Sara. I text her again after calling the number and only get her voice mail. Strange.

I play some WWF Playstation and finally unlock Bret Hart on Smackdown vs Raw. God, the character absolutely sucks on this game, was this intentional by Vince McMahon? Disappointed, I immediately set about scoring points with view to unlocking the Legion Of Doom.

Soon that gets tiresome and I feel the need/desire to have an early night but that plan falls on it’s arse. After the interview today, I really do feel down and just want to turn it in, put a close on the day and try/start afresh again tomorrow. I try Sara some more but no dice but that’s par for the course of today so no worries (she said she was going out tonight anyway). I then proceed to watch a Mystery Science Theatre 3000 I downloaded off Soulseek. It’s not the best, verging on lame and fails to hold my attention. When it thankfully ends, I peruse the internet for trash, eventually coming across the coolest games site I have ever seen (off the back of a link from a Bad Hand from somewhere).

Friday night funny TV eventually comes around, just as Husbands by Cassavetes finishes downloading onto my PC (complete with French subtitles, doh!). Max And Paddy comes on and while I was previously dubious of the show, tonight it kills, this show is just as funny as Phoenix Nights, Peter Kay remains talent! Peep Show follows and that only improves with each show also, its all painfully observed and funny, the weird becomes more normal the weirder he gets every week. With prime time out of the way, the repeats come along with Father Ted considering moving to America and Bo Selecta swearing its way into the evening, it’s all good and serves to finally send me to sleep.

np: Blur – Country House

2004-12-28T07:08:00.000-08:00

December 9 (Thursday): Dream: I go back to work at my old employers and it is a really weird vibe but the partners are at least acting with compassion rather than condemnation.

My first day of freedom from exams, hallelujah. At 8.50 I get rudely interrupted when my mobile rings and it is Mark from Spicers phoning for some reason. By the time I actually reach my phone however, he is gone. He’s probably sitting an exam in Chelmsford right now and wondering if I am around for a last minute pep talk.

This morning, with no rest for the wicked, I have an interview scheduled for 10PM in Hadleigh. I pull myself together and head off at 9AM.

As usual I tear up/down the A12 at breakneck speed, I really despise this road for some reason between Colchester and Ipswich, in my head singing the Dead Kennedys’ version of Viva Las Vegas. I aim for Hadleigh and worry about missing it (missing the turn off to the sticks). Hadleigh is the strangest little town, when I was younger for some reason it had the largest Tesco in East Anglia and me and my parents would make Friday night trips/pilgrimages to it where it would have the largest selection of toys (Star Wars and Action Force figures) going. In my youth I probably spent half my pocket money and birthday present money in Hadleigh. Of course though, all good things come to an end and the large store is no longer a Tesco, last time I saw it was a huge Byrite, the size of which I didn’t think existed.

By the time I arrive in Hadleigh, I find myself having decided that I don’t really want to work in Hadleigh, have to drive all the way to this village every day of the week, all year. Here is another firm akin to my first mistake of my first employers in the world of accountancy.

I have to say though, when I arrive at the office in Hadleigh it is a pretty impressive building/office. As I step in the reception, the secretary is one of the friendliest I have come across of late. And her little (young) helper is a gorgeous strawberry blonde, maybe I might like this job after all. I wait many minutes for my interview and when I am finally received, the biggest of geeks (silly moustache and crap hair) leads me upstairs. Suddenly it dawns on me once more, this is the accounting profession. And the Chartered one at that (with me being a Certified scumbag). The office turns out to be old style, the only visible (probable) change décor since the war being the installation of computers. I find myself being interviewed by the moustache and his little helper, another accelerated young buck, perhaps my age or younger. I suspect my interviewer (interrogator) takes an immediate disliking to me (first impressions) as he picks up my CV and immediately rips into my school career and poor GCSE results. Ten years down the line, I hardly think those matter any more. An obvious spoon fed student (a chartered accountant remember) he quizzes me as to why I never went to university. I fuck up and tell him that “its just not done in my family”. This is not a valid excuse even if it is the truth (my cousins remember being on the whole being either in construction or single parents). I find the knock effects my posture, as half way through I can sense my body almost slumped to the right as I cling onto my crossed leg (American style) as if it is all that is holding me up. I probably act bored or laid back as I reel off my experience at my old employers before finally, completely hitting the wall when it gets queried as to why I am currently unemployed. I still find myself unable to talk myself out of this one and I am only unable to come across as coy and as if I am hiding something. And the guy really wants to know just what monkey shines I got up to. I fluff it here, fucking up. Without even half an hour past, the electricity inside the room is non-existent. I suspect the guy is really far from impressed by me but then again bear in mind that this is an accountant I am expecting sparks from, an accountant being one of the most boring species of man in existence, the arse end of the alpha man spectrum (zebra male). A lot of talk today is all about audit and that remains an area of pain to me, something I know I can do but something I have not been afforded a decent level of experience in due to the apparent incompetence of my prior firms and their ability to manage staff (ew, bitchy). At probably the 10.30 mark, along comes question time and it by now is pretty apparent that the guy wants me out of the door as I am now wasting his time. Floundering, I pop up with some surprisingly good questions but in the fall knowledge that I have already blown it. I almost throw questions at them like rocks, really trying to get some kind of reaction/passion spark out of these zebras. I leave feeling like screening, feeling that I have been discriminated against. I go into the thing jaded and half-hearted at best and only get the worst back. I would question why these people would even want to see me, I guess that is the hard work of the personnel people furiously selling me to prospective employers as I only end up letting them down. Grief. Whereas I arrived in Hadleigh buzzing to the Dead Kennedys sarcasm, I leave with my tail between my legs murmuring to myself Tender by Blur and “get through it”.

Retail therapy abounds as I head further up the A12 towards Ipswich for a treat and a post exam present (yeah, that’s deserved). I park by the Portman Road football stadium and decree that this shed has nothing on the New Den (except for maybe around 15,000 extra seats). I head into town and straight to the Ipswich comic shop, Central City Comics. This is the only place that I know that stocks the fantastic Headpress book/journal. This shop is so strange, it just reminds me of Red Dwarf for some reason. I enter and it seems only inhabited by comic geeks and mental simpletons, writing down the web address for some reason while the comic seller guy nervously looks on as the mental midget leans on one of his trade paperbacks, potentially reducing its grading from a mint to a mere fine. I get out of there as soon as possible.

I feel a love/hate relationship with Ipswich. For every good time, there seems a bad time. It’s a weird town where nothing really seems to be happening, to me it lacks character. And Ipswich people’s Suffolk accents, albeit friendlier sounding than Essex estuary accents, only serves to make them sound a bit thick. I stagger around town for the morning, banking my very first dole cheque in Natwest and then buying Hell’s Angels by Hunter S. Thompson before going into Holland & Barrett and buying what I suspect has been missing from my life of late: St John’s Wort. With Christmas coming soon, I can only recall Christmas Eve’s spent shopping in Ipswich with my parents and the Butter Market shopping complex with now houses a Starbucks, something I hadn’t realised had reached Ipswich, where it sits almost opposite Costa. Today I could really kill for a great cup of coffee but its pricing beyond me in these times of trouble.

At 12.15, while I find myself in Waterstones looking at the music books, my mobile rings and it is a reminder about this Saturday’s show and the Jerry Springer Opera I have tickets for. This reminds me of how Sara has been in the country already four days now and hasn’t bothered to get in touch. Ouch.

After that, I soon tear out of Ipswich, stopping off at the out of town Tesco and PC World, macking the digital cameras and weighing up if one would be affordable right now. I also find myself lovingly staring at the iPods but telling myself “no!”.

I get home and when I finally get around to looking at the newspaper, The Sun has the headline: “So, is this really the most OFFENSIVE image in Britain?” above a picture of the nativity scene. Ouch, what purpose does it serve running this story? What cause requires the knee-jerk reaction?

More spookily however are the pictures of Viktor Yuschenko which get scarier each time I see them. Wow, I hope the people that currently have it in for me don’t decide to poison me, I definitely would not be able to pull then (ho ho).

Just past 4PM (16.05) and my phone rings and its Dick Warner of Anglia Grain, an old client at BS and someone we played football with, on my mobile. Unfortunately I am only able to supply him with some of the information he requests. Drama.

Half an hour later (16.34) I get Stevo phoning me from Chernobyl (my old office). He has this and that to tell me but no real great shakes and nothing I am overly interested in. It is amusing however to hear his tone change when a partner obviously comes into the room and I swear I hear Dr Who in the distance. Work keeps haunting. Drama.

The afternoon rules when I receive interview questions back from Rothko. The guy has obviously spent some time of them and given a lot of consideration. Good times.

I spend the remainder of my afternoon doing my English homework, a critique and commentary on my asylum seeker letter. Over the course of two sides of A4 I tear the piece to shreds, probably going too far (as usual) in describing the techniques used in (the already overblown) fictional letter. Not fun.

I head out to English class and twice my phone beeps. First it is Emma telling me that she is too ill to make class tonight and for me to tell teacher. The second beep is a text from My Smelly Valentine at 18.36: “How you doin Jason. Its Sara x”. It comes from a number I don’t recognise but fucking finally she has got in touch. Back of the net.

English class begins and tonight we are going over our progress sheets while also listening to more speeches and analysing them (tonight more Churchill and onto JFK). Teacher takes us outside one by one and reviews our progress while we (the class) get left to our own devices to discuss the speeches. When we discuss my progress, teacher takes me out to a darkened hall tells me how it all reminds her of school discos (not surprising because the centre used to be a school) and how no one would ask her to dance except for the ugliest boy at the end of the night, to which she took offended (low self esteem I’m sure). I get excited talking about the course and English and she again tells me how I have a “gift” (music to my ears) and suggests how I should be looking to doing other courses. With one foot remaining in reality I mention that I have just had an interview and sat exams this week but I am trying to keep in writing.

Back to the class room without a teacher and no one can be arsed to actually discuss the speeches. I get asked by someone whatever happened with my work situation and I tell her how I got shit canned and I ask “do you know what a blog is?”. The woman’s response is “oh, you didn’t you plonker” and, bearing in mind this is a union worker/representative of some kind, it is a fair comment. Once more I find myself having to explain my way around the situation and as I tell story after story about the firm, I find myself sounding justified and actually interesting as I appear to hold some kind of court whilst also violently squirming. It also turns out that the lady has dealings with my old firm also, seems I sure know how to pick employers. Soon we (rightfully) get back onto the subject of the speeches and trudge on. At some point, the guy in the class rubs me up the wrong, when discussing Americans asks “has anyone here heard of Bill Hicks?”. Duh! I almost mention to him about discovering Patton Oswalt but figure that to be too obscure a reference. I wind up being the only person to go/say “yes” but really can’t find anything to add other than “have you heard of David Cross” which is obviously a nada. He does however add “listening to him gives you hope for Americans” which I find a really annoying and wankerish thing to say, so arrogant. I think there are only so many thick/stupids Americans because there are so fucking many of them! Not because its inherent. Whatever, class ends and I’m happy.

I get home and on that vibe I find that I have received the questions back from Patton Oswalt. Fucking excellent! This guy is SO funny, like grabbing some conversation (albeit brief) out of Bill Hicks in his lifetime. I have to say, listening to his CD, it made me laugh out loud more than David Cross’s CD, which was bogged down with too much political content. Patton Oswalt however appeared (briefly) in Run Ronnie Run, so they’re batting for the same team. Fucking hell, a Q&A with a guy that was in Run Ronnie Run. So good.

I exchange a few texts with Sara tonight and make sure/confirm that she is still on for Saturday. She calls me “silly” but not before acting in a strop because she thinks I am in a strop because she has not been in touch sooner. It is all too confusing and complex and very hard work at the end of the day (today).

Tonight ends on the best of vibes as on TV (Channel Four) is Ghost World. Yes!!! This feels special, like Christmas TV, something different and above standard set aside for the holiday season. And finally it feels like Christmas. Ironically the last time I actually sat down to watch Ghost World was about a year and a half ago and the summer night that I had told Sara she was a Holly Golightly and six hours later she was found out what it meant and she kept calling my mobile and (to my amusement) I kept ignoring it. Ouch, I never saw again (whoops, backfire).

So to say the least, tonight I feel pretty good and pretty excited about things even despite the shitty interview at the beginning of the day. At 11PM, I find myself looking on my mobile for people to text to watch Ghost World (yup, that happy that I am that sad). The only person to reply however is Phoebe: “Hiya that’s ur favourite film! Will definitely switch over – dont even ask about exams mine were horrible! nite nite.” All right then, I don’t.

After Ghost World (which remains fantastic for the Nth time) the really weird/strange Diane Keaton moving Looking For Mr Goodbar is on BBC. This film is so whack, Annie Hall acting like a proper slag and eventually (rightfully) getting stabbed to death for it. Girls take heed not head.

Nite nite.

np: Dead Kennedys – Viva Las Vegas

2004-12-28T07:06:00.000-08:00

December 8 (Wednesday): These are not the best of days. This morning the alarm clock awakens me, my night may have been disrupted but at least my awakening is abrupt and what I deserve. Immediately I get up and hit the lights. I keep my tax tape running, hoping some of it will seep in and I will restore enough to pass today’s exam.

Again this morning, when I awaken, outside it is still dark like night time and it doesn’t work for me, this will not aid or pamper my temper. I pull myself together and around 7.30 I am semi functional, grabbing breakfast and making myself a super strength coffee. Still, I find myself running slowly as I check my phone for any magical messages arriving through the night (nada). 7.50 hits and I am only just about getting dressed. I think about the pootang in the exam hall yesterday and look forward to seeing them again this morning. I find myself leaving later and slower and yesterday and by 8.00 I find myself still struggling to come to terms with technology.

My ride to Chelmsford this morning is a little more tempered, leaving just those ten minutes later appears to equate to hitting ten times as much traffic. Eventually I get onto the A12 and you just know what to expect from the most road worked road in England.

I arrive in Chelmsford at the Rivermead at around 9.10, later that yesterday. I pick up my books for some last minute cram but tax really is not the kind of subject you can cram, you either know it or you don’t. And I am in complete/total awe of anyone (any students) able to master this subject. The topics they test in this exam are much advanced on those that an average student will face at work and the wealth of the syllabus is terrifying. Are these words of a confident man?

I check my phone and no messages, no good luck texts, nothing. Oh how the mighty have fallen. I check my email on GPRS and there is an email from Mark. Cool. I open and read that he is jacking in his job in Tokyo and coming back to England. Yes! This is really good news and I hope the turnaround in my fortunes just before my hardest exam ahead of me in 2004.

I brave the exam hall and before entering I bump into Louise studying in the last minute for her tax exam. She appears more confident than me, probably because she is better at studying than me (for starters). Once more I shy away from asking about my old employers, part of me wants to know but part of me really does not want to know and I really should not take any interest in that place anymore.

We step into the exam hall (a tired gymnasium) and head to today’s desk, number 110, even more central than yesterday’s desk, possibly the most central desk in the entire hall. I sit down but no one is sitting down in/on the desks around me. I see the smit lady from yesterday and my heart beeps a little bit faster. She looks over but there is no way I am going to give her some smug grin in times like this. I also see someone I used to study with back at the beginning of my ACCA studies and he heads to the front room of the hall, is he still doing the foundation level?

All thoughts aside, 10AM soon comes around and the exam, as per expected, turns out to be really difficult. Today I see/recognise many faces also retaking this fucker and judging by how difficult this paper turns out, I may be seeing them again come June. It starts off ok, sensible questions about personal tax comps blah blah blah but then the inheritance tax questions kick in, kicking me in the balls. I flounder. I do write for the full three hours but it is top heavy on bullshit and guess work. Randy Pan was described the paper as a waffle paper but its far fucking from, a waffle paper I think I might be good at. And I probably end up submitting a very waffle filled exam anyway.

1PM comes around like a real relief. I storm out of the exam hall, not even bothering to acknowledge anyone I know. I jump in my car with empathy but I search around for reasons, excuses and other external elements to blame for my performance today and inevitable failure of the exam. I shouldn’t have been sacked for nothing.

On the way back, as I hit Colchester I stop by at Sainsburys to purchase the NME and comfort food. Staying in Stanway, I also stop by the chip shop and buy myself chips, the ultimate indicator that I feel sorry for myself.

By the time the Simpsons comes on in the evening, I find myself in a state of flux. The episode is the one with Michael Jackson. I bet sha’mone never had to sit such difficult exams.

To occupy my mind, in the first hours of freedom from exams for months, I play Playstation and crack open the new WWF game: Smackdown vs Raw. Its actually a really shit hit extension/upgrade of the previous titles in the series, very playable whilst also being very difficult. Like a stickler for old school, I unwisely choose to be Ric Flair in season mode and routinely get my arse kicked for being physically crap compared to the modern day monsters. I do however find (disturb) myself giggling like a nutter when I play the “bra and panties” match/bout. But then again, anything red blooded would do that.

Tonight I just about remember that it is Ben’s birthday and I text him good wishes. He responds with kindness/gratitude and suggests going out on the last Friday night. I say “yes” but really don’t fancy it, not because of him but because I currently hate going out and socialising. Pony.

By the time I get off the Playstation it is really late and I am stunned. I have to go to bed. Tomorrow we will run faster.

np: Blur - Tender

2004-12-28T07:04:00.000-08:00

December 7 (Tuesday): Today goes utterly wrong. I awaken at 4AM, unable to go back to sleep overly concerned about today’s exam. This is the first of two, which is twice as bad, double the trouble. Well ahead of time, in the early hours of the morn I opt for listening to the revision tapes with the view of some last minute, subconscious cram.

When the alarm eventually goes off at 7AM, I’m pretty still half awake and feel fully rough. I awaken (proper) with one of the worst headaches I have ever known. Oh bugger.

I leave home around 8AM, which is pretty precautious for a drive to Chelmsford for a 10AM exam. Still, I do experience the usual hell that is getting out of Colchester in rush hour and as per usual, the A12 is being worked on (when is it not?), so there are obvious hold ups there so it turns out fortunate I overcompensate.

I arrive in Chelmsford at 9AM and park up and await my fate while the going is still good. I check my phone and still no word from Sara and particularly today, no wishes of “good luck”. Phoebe does however text me with “good luck” which warms up my little black heart.

Inside my car I perform a lot of last minute cram revision, creating all sorts of great mnemonics for audit terms that are all sex centred, these I am bound to remember. I just hope that I will need to remember them.

I leave my car around 9.30 to head to the exam hall. I look around for some familiar faces but really there isn’t anyone I know about today, what does that suggest? I notice one woman who stands and immediately I find myself very smit and all my concentration on my exam suddenly transfers to my dick. Whoops.

The exam actually turns out to be ok. I sit at desk 102 which is uncomfortably fairly central in the exam hall but the questions this time round seem less vague than in the summer. I tear through it and bash out lengthy answers which I think/hope will be enough. I do notice a couple of boo boos here and there, not least the question I answer before realising I have misread the actual question but I think I manage to work enough magic for damage limitation. I write solid for three hours and for the first time I find myself requiring an additional answer booklet after filling up the standard issue twenty page booklet. It turns out to be a hard exam but certainly passable (but then again so was last summers).

By the time the exam is history, I pull away from Chelmsford and drive back down the A12 with my headache cleared and a whole air of relief sweeping over me. On the way home I stop off via Asda to get some munch.

When I arrive home, the fucking groundskeeper is around and he collars me for conversation. He asks me all about my job and reckons I was hard done by because I never received an actual written warning. Maybe, this does seem a man who would have received such warnings over the years. I’m too tired and jaded to really talk to this guy today and I’m pretty vacant in conversation, even to the point that HE actually gets bored of me! Job done. This is of course not before he gets to tell me the latest tales of the crime scene of Colchester and he gives me the latest news (gossip) on all my neighbours. I could give a fuck.

Once home, I head upstairs to hide and prepare for tomorrows tax exam. It really doesn’t look good for that one. There’s no real time/opportunity to study for it now, so I just chuck on the study tapes and pray that there will be some magic in them.

I check my landline and there is a message left on there from Acme Personnel , some woman I have never heard of before. I call them up and I am being lined up for a job interview on Friday. When the guy tells me the company is called Caring Homes, I naturally think the job is at a construction firm called Caring who build houses. Nope, it’s caring as in wiping old people’s arses and running off with their kid’s inheritances kind of caring. OK, should be interesting, at least it’s an interview paying what I want and currently, in this panic state, just what I am looking for.

At 3.50 Stevo calls me mobile, for reasons unknown. We talk shit and I think he’s just calling because he sounds bored in the office. I’m loath to ask about the office but he tells me anyway. To be honest, I think it’ll be best if I cut all ties with the firm just to ensure that I don’t turn into some kind of David Brent character (ha ha).

Back to the tapes on the computer and Acton MSNs some, causing a bit of a distraction. And then mum phones up and I really don’t want to talk, I just want some last minute revision. I pick up the phone and must sound like the most grumpy bollocks of grumpy bollocks.

10PM comes around and that’s really my study curfew so I flip to watching Teachers on Four followed by Sex Inspectors featuring this weird couple into S&M going vanilla. After that comes the Peep Show repeat whilst on BBC is The Chase with Henry Rollins and before I know it I have stayed awake/up past midnight on a school night before my exam. Whoops.

np: Rah Bras - Bababoon

2004-12-28T07:03:00.000-08:00

December 6 (Monday): Chicks Dig Jerks. This is now the home straight to the exams. And also the day that Sara (Haslett) arrives back in England. I awaken just as (I believe) she lands back in England. And it is the most vile of days with which to return to the UK, bad news weather abounds, it is ferocious outside, cold and dull and infinitely lacklustre, just like yours truly actually.

Today is Exam Eve, like Christmas Eve but without anything good going for it. Today is cram day, a day intended to be chock full of last minute panic revision/study as all things come together and I begin look for sitting the exams tomorrow. Oh yeah, that in an ideal world.

This morning, I receive my Breakfast With Hunter DVD through the post from America and the temptation is just too seducing. Although, I don’t give into that/it until the afternoon. Oh no, this morning On The Town is on TV and I find myself gawping at that for much too much of the morning (hey, I used to like reading Damon Runyon books).

Before I know it, the day has reached halfway/midday and before I can get down to any study, I have to go out and get the daily newspaper and some more groceries (my Asda trip didn’t go all that far it seems). I stagger over to Sainsburys in Stanway and satisfy my apparent craving for a bombay mix dinner. Disgusting.

I get home and still unable to study, weak willed I give in and watch my Breakfast With Hunter DVD. It’s pretty cool to watch Hunter S. Thompson shuffle about more getting in the way rather causing any trouble although the scenes of letting off fire extinguishers in the offices of Rolling Stone magazine and tearing Alex Cox a new arsehole are pretty classic things to witness.

Early evening hits and I receive the interview Qs back from the Rah Bras which is aces.

Study tonight turns to religiously listening last minutes to the revision tapes over and over. I just pray that enough stuff goes in and stays in.

Monday night shite comedy arrives and I watch the Smoking Room for the first time and it’s actually a really funny show. Topski. From there I soldier on with the revision tapes until late, staying up for Film 2004 and Jonathan Ross to see his review of Garden State. I stay awake for the show but fall asleep before he manages to review the film and I am out for the count for the exams.

np: The Killers – All These Things That I’ve Done

2004-12-28T06:41:00.000-08:00

December 5 (Sunday): The Sanctity Of Life. Sunday morning and the fun fun newspaper run. Today, I am all out of food in the flat so I chance my arm and actually go to Asda and do some food shopping.

As I wander around the aisles like a loser, I spot a face from the past and speed up in the hope that she doesn’t see me. As I stare at the cheese, making my dairy decision, I hear her call my name and I trapped in flashback hell. Here is Jackie, a really old face back from 93/95 and the loser YT college I attended back in the day. And with her is her fucking family, her husband who once did an ACCA course with me and now thinks we are friends while I think he’s divlo fucker. She shows me her kid, a lad called Jordan (probably named after the New Kid but now the name has been hijacked by the big titted Katie Price, that christening sure has backfired on her). Her kid is wearing some wacky Christmas necktie that plays a song/tune (when it works). I am so trapped in the dairy/fridge section of Asda by this lot, I am in hell. Jackie will ever be imprinted on my psyche for numerous tragic reasons and the further away I get from her, the better.

Still, I’m a good guy, I only think these things (that she is complete) pondlife and I make nice nice in response to her questioning of me as if we were still in that funk that was ten years ago. I do however ask her why an employee of Sainsburys is shopping in Asda (such a smartarse but hey Jason at least she has a job!).

Get home as soon as possible to lick my wounds. Ouch, talk about rub salt in the wound.

I attempt to get into some study and by now I have long since aborted my progress recorder. And it doesn’t really affect my effects either way.

By later afternoon I have downloaded Anchorman off Soulseek and the attraction is just too much. And the movie turns out several times funnier than the trailers made it look. Will Ferrell retains his crown.

Additionally, I also watch a worrying amount of Crocodile Dundee In Los Angeles, indicating a new low in my depths of being a sadcase loser.

My main sign/form of human life/contact today is Sara continuing to text me, giving me a commentary of her boarding her plane back to England. It starts out factual (“booking in for my flight now”) but winds up being the down right trivial (“the man opposite is eating and is SO gross”).

Tonight Iggy Pop features on the South Bank Show and it’s a weird one. As usual Iggy comes over as a true hero and survivor but also, in his late years, he comes over as next to broke (or at best financially comfortable). The Stooges coverage is amazing, both interviews, stories and coverage, the band has never had a stronger myth to it. Shit, I should have videoed the show.

np: Guided By Voices – Rhine Jive Click

2004-12-28T06:36:00.000-08:00

December 4 (Saturday): What Is Pornography? Saturday morning and that means newspaper day. I awaken and find that I have finally downloaded Garden State off Soulseek but for the life of me I cannot get the .avi file to play. I scan the internet however and eventually come across BS Player which plays not only the Garden State file but a number of other .avi files that have previously not worked.

In the post today I get my first dole cheque. Its official, I’m a sponger. And this is the weirdest cheque I’ve ever seen in my life, like a Wonka bar but in cheque form. It’s about £86, a week and a half’s payola. Can’t wait to be back in work with a salary.

I settle down to watch Garden State expecting a lot. Sadly however it doesn’t deliver. I don’t know, the film just doesn’t seem finished or even overly believable, taking some very realistic/true points and not really doing anything with them. Disappointed. Halfway through, the option to MSN with Acton proves preferable to sticking with the movie meandering nowhere.

I do the Saturday morning newspaper run and by the time I get in it has reached passed midday and already, on paper, half the day has gone to waste.

By now Coffee And Cigarettes has finished downloading so I get down to watching that and I have to admit the slow pace of it all only helps me, in this state of funk, slip into an afternoon nap. Without doubt there are some cool sequences in the movie but the Cate Blanchett one sends me into a coma, meaning I miss the White Stripes sequence. Obviously the best sequence is the Iggy Pop and Tom Waits one as the pair of them play along with the theme and dropping their cool whilst pretending not to. Also Steve Coogan acting like Alan Partridge isn’t an act and of course Bill Murray always give good head, not least for holding his own with the Wu Tang Clan. Or should that be vice versa? Otherwise though, it will be a long time before I bother with this movie again.

As the afternoon reaches 3PM and the football kicks off, I find myself watching my third download of the day in the form of Napoleon Dynamite, a camcorder in the cinema job split into two halves of small byte video files which only matches in lo fi quality, making the film just about watchable. Napoleon Dynamite initially has me laughing, the main is SO funny, so dry and pathetic and gormless as people I know but still making grand announcements in a wave of delusion. People have compared this to a Wes Anderson movie (mainly Rushmore) but the grimey vibe of a run down, small town American high school and a loser being picked on only serves to remind me of Welcome To The Dollhouse, one of the most tragic ever. I stick with the movie and the story never really matches the characters as it stays truthful to a drab, low event existence. And the internet date/singles just does not rub.

Meanwhile, it seems that I should have bothered to go to Millwall as their game at home to Sheffield United sounds as if it is proving as eventful (and fun) as last years game. All sounds like it goes mental at halftime when Kevin Muscat gets sent off along with the Sheffield United goalie and they both get sent off. Nuts. The second half happens and I don’t realise this at the time but Sheffield United don’t actually have a reserve goalie so they have to stick an on field player in goal. So, when Millwall take the lead with a Phillps goal, it sounds about right. However, the strikers (well, Hayles on his own, with a little support from Tessem and Ifill) don’t appear to be able to score in a brothel by the sounds of it. Eventually, sod’s law Sheffield United score an equaliser and then, as per all season, a late goal happens and it’s Sheffield United who go and score and they win 2-1. Grief.

An equally dire day happens on TV, as the afternoon film is Disney doing football (our football) in the movie The Big Green starring Mahoney from Police Academy. This will make you drink and drive.

Early evening gets spent with more MSN with Acton before some show about Cole Porter comes on and I realise I have spent the whole day with the TV on. Late evening and America’s Sweethearts comes on and finally I can’t stand the idea of TV. Relief.

Late and Sweet And Lowdown is on BBC and I had forgotten just how fantastic this movie is, how accurate and touching Sean Penn’s character is. Still, I fall asleep halfway through and stay asleep meaning I miss Midnight Cowboy on Channel Four which is on late late late.

I need to get out the house.

np: Neil Young – Don’t Let It Bring You Down

2004-12-28T06:32:00.000-08:00

December 3 (Friday): Summer Trip. This morning I’m up as normals, the best laid plans. Early doors, I head out to do a newspaper run and find myself unable to get parked at the Layer Road shop so instead I head into town just to get out of the house.

As I walk down Crouch Street I see who looks like Sarah. I don’t get a clear shot (view) so I suspect/consider that she might be avoiding eye contact but confirmation it is her arrives when I see her Dad drive along in her car to pick her up. It is the first time that I see her since the hell night.

Town turns into an experience but fortunately I do not bump into any people I don’t want to see. I check out WH Smith and the new issues of Uncut and Hotdog are out, so I pick them up and head home with view to reading them in comfort. Looks like this morning is going to be a lax one, not so much studying/revising accountancy but more so movies.

The morning gradually turns into afternoon with out very much getting accomplished. Friday afternoons are killers for me, I don’t enjoy. I potter around on the computer as my mobile phone rings three times between 3.30 and 4.30, with Stevo on the other end. I reluctantly answer each time and each time it is to silence. Is someone trying to fuck with my mind? He calls a fourth time at 5PM and asks me if I want to go to the Cambridge City v MK Dons FA Cup match tonight, just to swear at the MK Dons basically. I feel the weight of coinage in my pocket and allow that to dictate my decision, telling Steve that once my exams are out of the way next week we should do lunch or something.

The afternoon gradually turns into evening and find myself enduring and suffering a lacklustre Friday night rather than living it.

With one eye on actually being productive this evening, I find myself emailing the Rah Bras to see if they would be up for doing an email interview and almost immediately I get an email back saying “yay”.

Eventually the good Friday night TV comes on with the Simpsons, Little Britain (over Max And Paddy) and a very funny episode of Peep Show seeing the weird eyed guy stalking some girl all the way to her university while his divvy mate joins some shitty band. Pretty funny.

For the remainder of the night I find myself in’n out of consciousness for the Father Ted and Bo Selecta repeats.

I need to get out the house on weekend nights.

np: Dame Fate – Crisp Winter

2004-12-23T14:06:00.000-08:00

Snowy happier with the most life in him in weeks

2004-12-23T14:04:00.001-08:00

December 2 (Thursday): Beelzebozo. I wake up at around 6.50 on my parents’ sofa. This piece of furniture wasn’t designed for sleeping on and therefore I’m semi cranky. I take in too much Sky TV before beginning work (study) but at least it is the right side of 9AM.

I feel funny about getting breakfast at my parent’s house while mum is preparing to go to work and Dad is hanging around (although fortunately he is going out later on this afternoon). At least today however the dog has the most life in him that he has had for weeks.

Around 9AM, I hook up on the computer and begin studying using the BPP I-Pass CD-Roms. These questions are hard and this study is not as effective as I hope. I thought multichoice very supposed to be fairly easy?

Around 10AM Sara comes online and asks “how our meal (the Chinese) last night was?”. I wonder if she realises that it is me and not Dad online. I become monosyllabic and anonymous. She then says/asks “has Jason told you that we are going to see a show?”. It becomes obvious that she thinks it is my old man online. I drag it out for a few minutes for saying “I like Peaches” and she clocks it is me. And with that, my study for the day all but goes out of the window with this fucking distraction.

Ouch, the Sky TV is also a distraction; was daytime Sky always this good showing X-Files, Buffy and Angel. And who on earth sits at home and watches these shows, surely no one on the dole can afford Sky?

And then there is The Wrestling Channel showing a shoot interview with Marty Jannetty which actually turns out to be one of the best interviews I have seen so far.

I resume all efforts to study in the afternoon (as the day gets dark/black) but Sara only returns on MSN, telling me about the sort of man she wants to settle down and raise a family with. This ideal man turns out to be a middle aged, accomplished professional but nothing to do with him being successful and financially secure, nothing like that. That’s me out of the window/running then I guess. I however get the final blow in when I punch below the belt (the vagina?) and say “it all sounds a bit fickle to me”. She kicks off and leaves (goes offline).

At this point I switch from accountancy homework to my English homework with my revision/study progress having reached 28% on audit, 8% on tax and an overall score of 18%, this is not progress.

I pick up my English homework and the task is to write a letter to a newspaper on the subject of asylum seekers. I really don’t want to do this essay, it’s a subject for blind liberals and do-gooders in which I fear any opposition to such opinions, only sounds like some BNP/right wing statement. I actually wind up doing a pretty good job whilst being against asylum seekers but sneakily shift the tone of the letter to being negative/critical of media coverage of asylum seekers rather than the actual asylum seekers themselves. Oh well, house them in the homes of silverspoon socialists I say (those overeducated buffoons).

I stick around my parents for some (cooked) dinner before heading home. Upon getting into my Focus and turning the key, the car struggles (almost fails) to start. It is really laboured and a horrible experience as I suspect it as being a knock on effect of letting the staff of Twin Peaks garage touch its insides with view to sabotaging my engine for another pay out/invoice to them. And as my current run of luck has been, it becomes the latest addition to my stockpile of woes.

Drama aside, once going it never stops and I get home in time for a quick bath so I am not stinky for my fellow English students.

English turns out to be another beacon of hope/optimism as within minutes of arriving in the class, the teacher is handing me a creative writing reference book with viewing to me pulling together my apparent “talent” and making something of it (other than to lose my job). It’s a real boost for someone to actually display some real belief in me for once, especially as a person that craves attention (and recognition) and generally gets starved.

Tonight’s class is spent listening to speeches. First is the infamous Martin Luther King “I have a dream” statement which remains pretty moving and well delivered. We follow this with a Winston Churchill speech with isn’t as well delivered but remains heavy in/on content. We then proceed to break down and dismantle the make up of the speeches, almost revealing the individuals not to be as slick, smart and smooth as their words might/would suggest.

During the class, Sara begins texting me again. Tonight she has been/gone to see the new Bridget Jones movie with her friend in Dubai and after the movie they have stopped by a bar which turns out to be inhabited entirely by professional ladies (people on the hustle) and their marks (clients, crawlers without curbs nor cars). Sara expresses her dismay at this place over three consecutive text messages and the inevitable happens when she tells me how her and her friend were propositioned. Dour and dead pan (after this afternoon’s MSN session/revelation) I respond “if the cap fits” to which she responds with an explosive text going “fuck you then”, a reaction I cannot ever remember getting from her before (but from many other girls).

Class ends and I head straight to Tesco Hythe and buy some Rocket Fuel with view to staying up and writing all night. Wired baby.

Eventually Sara texts once more with an apology text after I tell her “I was only joking” and she tells me how “places like that make me feel so dirty”. I wonder how places like that really differ from your run of the mill night clubs though were the intentions are really exactly the same and the exchange of goods and services, that much more subtle and less advertised.

np: Love Among Freaks - Clerks

2004-12-23T05:34:00.000-08:00

the Shepherd's Bush skyline. look at those crazy fools working on that roof and Queens Park Ranger's ground on the right.

2004-12-23T05:25:00.000-08:00

December 1 (Mum’s Birthday Wednesday): Rockers Against Drugs Suck. This morning I find myself awakened at the ungodly hour of 6AM so that I can get to Shepherd’s Bush in time to get to a tax mock at BPP. I’m not happy, I don’t want to do this. Against the odds I make the 6.51 train and fly into the City.

I hope a pretty easy Central Line tube (grabbing a Metro in the process) and find myself really suffering for it. As I sit on the train and near White City (West London) I can feel my whole body just sparkling inside, acid to the core. Is this the inevitable diabetes I’m bound to catch from my dad finally kicking in? Whatever, I feel fucking rough. Or maybe it is just ADD kicking in.

When I get off at Shepherd’s Bush I head to the closest shop and buy some Refreshers, maybe all I need is some sugar. Or maybe once I get a caffeine fix, all will be well. As I stagger to the college, next to hyperventilating, I see the scary tax tutor who acknowledges me on the town. I barely recognise her, Christ she must think I’m an idiot.

I arrive and there is the Phoebe already arrived, looking composed and cool (cold) as usual. She is sweetness and as usual very friendly, very nice nice. She hands me the audit mock from yesterday (much appreciated) and when I look at the paperclip she has twisted/curled it around into a heart shape. Talk about play with my mind. We talk quite a bit prior to today’s mock, me with much gusto and enthusiasm in an effort to convince everyone (most of all myself) that my current position/situation of employment is acceptable.

We do the tax mock and despite having an obvious struggle it doesn’t turn out to be as difficult and double dutch as I was expecting it would be to me. However the guy sat next to me from Ernst & Young (I see his head paper) huffs and puffs his way through the mock, appearing to spend long periods of the three hour exam just staring into space. That is an example of NFL behaviour? And likewise, someone else struggles as this amazing looking girl sat in the front picks up her coat and leaves within fifteen minutes of the commencement of the exam. Bye eye candy.

Personally, my own exam gets somewhat disturbed when I get Haslett (Sara) beginning to text me further mentioning her decision to move back to England and asking me to ask the tutor what the tax implications her doing so would be. Minimal I would imagine, I doubt she has that much money! I don’t bother asking.

I would say, even though the exam comes as something of a surprise in its clarity, I do find myself blagging (making up) too much of the answers still.

Three hours actually sail by (there was me doubting my ability to sit still for that period of time, ADD) and lunchtime comes around at the most welcome of time. Phoebe says she is getting a KFC and I jump at the opportunity to chow on the colonel’s beak. I buy a pop corn meal and the box appears endless, my super sized meal lasting forever. Kudos.

We spend the afternoon going over the mock answers and ouch I have gone severely wrong, especially worrying when I didn’t feel I was doing/going too badly. All looks bleak and I begin to hyperventilate.

At breaktime I go to the bathroom for some basic recuperation. I look around at the Shepherd’s Bush/White City skyline and I see the Queens Park Rangers ground and the BBC studios and it all seems another world to me, one where people can actually do/pass their tax exams.

Upon arrival back into the mock marking session I finally officially throw the towel in on advanced tax. After recent developments and circumstances, it was always going to be an exam against the elements and it doesn’t look as if I have managed to come out of the other side smiling (yet). This point is a real cross roads. You can just see/tell/pin point how vital now is and how life altering further failure at this point will be and how traceable back this time will be in months and years to come. These are low times.

I switch, my arms now crossed, body language which apparently states a sign of defensiveness. I look around though and I am not alone, many others around me sit arms crossed in horror.

And just as things feel that they can’t get any worse, Andy fucking Kaufman bleeps up with yet another silly question.

The day gets put out of it misery (and most students with it) as well pull out to go home around 4PM. I say “goodbye and good luck” to Phoebe realising that this will probably be the last time ever see her. I leave for home somewhat disillusioned, reading my Hunter S. Thompson book on a very packed train. At one point the woman sat opposite knocks my book with her shopping bag and I utter the word “cunt”. Did I say that out aloud?

When I get back to Bohemian Grove I mess about at home before leaving for my parents and mum’s birthday (with REM CD and cheap card in hand). I mess about way too long and only manage to leave mine at 7PM, meaning all in all I get really bad time.

Upon arrival at home, Dad has luckily left for a birthday Chinese for us all. I was really afraid that my lateness would jeopardise it but alas as ever the olds comes through.

Another year, another birthday as mum hits a depressing 59. I return home to more woes with regards to their ill-decided house move and I only turn up with the ills of the world also making things at best a rather dour affair. I really try to be upbeat but these two are harder lift than me. Nightmare.

Tonight is the next round of the Carling Cup and the epic encounter of Man Utd v Arsenal. Or rather Man Utd reserves vs Arsenal youth team. The league cup is now so cheapened beyond belief, its no longer hardly worth holding especially when the Premier league reserve teams still prove better than the rest of the football league teams. I watch about ten minutes of the game as Man Utd score in the first minute and never let up, winning 1-0. Instead I resume conversation on MSN with Sara, who tonight tells me she likes Peaches (the musician). Never ceases to surprise.

I stay over tonight because I am finding it near impossible to study/revise at my flat because there is just no space nor study area to do so. However this means I have to sleep on the sofa, something I am no longer game for finally being an adult.

np: Peaches – Fuck The Pain Away

2004-12-23T05:24:00.000-08:00

November 30 (Tuesday): Drugs Have Done Good Things. Another dream and I find myself in a new job with more responsibility, pretty much an imagination of myself in the position I interviewed for yesterday. In this dream however, the office is indeed female dominated but the office is set out like a modern classroom and my boss appears to be Mr Disney once more. I find myself with a messy desk of work to match my new additional responsibilities (no downtime at this place, unlike BS) and also sitting on my desk is an opened copy of Henry Miller, so I guess even though I am in a new job, writing remains pretty much on my mind. My second day and I find myself catching a cheap lift/elevator, arriving late. When I turn up and settle into work a member of staff (very much like an elder tax colleague I used to work with) I had missed the previous day coughs, unsubtly gesturing to my new boss for an introduction. The introduction happens along with a very obvious air of displeasure in my new bosses tone.

This morning I woke up at around 4.30AM. Who knows what a sign of this was but it did mean getting back to sleep was a real problem and undoubtedly means the rest of my day will now be spent playing catching up, semi yawning. In an attempt to get back to sleep while doing something useful, I attempt to start of the ACCA/BPP tracks but my computer has only managed to crash itself again during the night, so in order to do the audio thing, I have to reboot and wait for things to happen, further waking me up to the world. Eventually I get the tracks going, so hopefully some of it will go in.

I awaken to my computer still completely mashed. And a very stressful experience it proves to be too. I persistently bug Allen for help as I keep re-running the Panda scan and repeatedly discover nothing. Allen emails, pretty stating “are you insane? You have broadband but no firewall!”. I panic and take up AOL’s gracious offer (yeah right) to put McAfee on my computer (in addition to on my AOL monthly bill). Bonus upon bonus though, it actually works. As I run a scan, the program picks out so much shit on harddrive I am almost embarrassed. And suddenly it is allowing me to delete/remove stuff that I previously suspected as being viruses but my PC would not allow me to zap (a pretty frightening loss of control I tell you).

Today I should be in Shepherd’s Bush on a BPP mock exam course but in these times of counting pennies, I figure the costs of a £30 train fare do not weigh/balance much against my no real requirement (I think) to take the exam. Instead, at home, I settle down and attempt the Dec 03 tax paper at home. It doesn’t go very well to say the least.

I find myself staggering back to my computer, to tempt fate, to test whether it really has finally be cured. It actually seems pretty unlike. Unlike My Smelly Valentine Sara who today suddenly is expounding a desire not only to come back to England for a visit next month but to move back here permanently. I immediately jump for joy at the proposition but then soon realise what a fucking mug I am. Today Haslett is acting thoroughly wet, asking ridiculous rhetorical questions and making sweeping statements that go entirely against previous declarations she made in/at better times (for her). However, allow it all to distract me as I actually feel I am able to offer some good advice when more likely, I am happy to allow it all to distract me away from revision/study. She goes on for hours about it, all comments that lead to places I don’t want to go.

Today my phone goes mental, to the point that by the end of the day I am not answering it. Acme in Ipswich phone my landline and mobile phone at exactly the same time, the temp lady and the permanent position lady have all sorts of goodies to give/offer me it seems. Eventually I find myself telling them “I’m just too snowed under with studies at the moment”. The phone then rings again and now it is Acme Personnel. Andy speaks to me and after a big of hard work and prodding/pushing it seems that they have got a reference out of BS and after all the flap and pomp of our initial meeting, the reference is no actual problem and that they will be putting my name across/out to perspective employers. I say “great” but also repeat my spiel about my studies.

Today is the first day/time that I have to sign on at the Job Centre. I drag out my little employment diary and fill it in with nonsense and get ready/prepared for my 3.20 appointment. I go over all my recent paperwork and notice on my car MOT invoice the name “S. Barnard”. That is someone I used to school with and while I used to get on with him, I still find myself acting suspicious that it was him who jacked the invoice up.

Early afternoon and I pull myself together and head into town for the Job Centre. I arrive in town much too early (2PM) and as I head to town I bump into Nina. I joke about being sacked and she thinks that I am referring to her and the Discovery Store. No, I explain and eat shit and I try to talk my way out of the situation, attempting to convince not only her but me also that being unemployed isn’t all that bad. I fail.

As I wander in town, the inevitable occurs that I was really dreading: seeing old work colleagues/acquaintances, some of whom may have read comments about themselves in my award winning blog. The first bod I spot is Richard. I doubt he’d recognise me anyway and even if he did, he used to spend half his time in the office calling me “Steve”. I do my best to ignore/blank/hide from him. Seconds later though and there is contestant number two: Andrex. There she is stood in a cash machine queue, looking down obviously avoiding eye contact, her way of ignoring people. She ignored me (and every other male that wasn’t management) while I was at the office anyway so in the end she does the pair of us a favour. Finally I bump into Louise/Lulu and she’s a cut above, a genuinely nice person who it was easy to have time for (even if she did steal my set/desk, which meant my transfer/sentencing to Chernobyl, causing my blog, causing my eventual/inevitable dismissal). We’re cool, we converse nice nice as I attempt to glean feedback as to what the story of my dismissal around the office is (I know I shouldn’t care about this but obviously I do). She tells me that she was on courses when it all happened (yeah, me too). I fall short of telling her “get out of there fast”, actually finding myself being really mature and not saying a cross word at all. I guess really, in an overstaffed competitive environment such as that one, a number of staff members will have benefited from my leaving. It looks like the reality of my old work place will be lingering for quite some time and the bad taste in my mouth from the whole dealings will be there longer.

Today I have set myself some more chores for around town but obviously nowhere near enough as soon (after getting an RFL for my car etc) I find myself at a loose end, staggering around town waiting for my appointment. And it is really depressing to feel so useless and without a place to be/go.

As I check my bank balance at Natwest, my fucking phone rings yet again and it is Acme once more. The lady has an appointment for me in Hadleigh that she wants to line up asap, as soon as some day this week. Did she not hear what I said earlier in the day? Basically as I have allotted all my time this week to study and other sources of yuks, I tell her I can’t do it until next Thursday (the first day after my exams) which is also code for “stop phoning me”.

Thankfully time comes around to go into the Job Centre for my appointment/interview. And I still arrive ten minutes early. Almost immediately I am seen as a man calls me over to his desk. I look around for a hidden camera; is this some kind of test? He keeps calling me “mate” and I don’t like it. I tell him I’ve had interviews and I’m looking for a job and it’s suffice. I suspect I have been handed to this man to deal with because I am an obvious soft touch and I won’t give him any grief. I just want a job.

Within minutes, my visit is all over. I buy mum a birthday card (£2) and I buy myself some Playstation games (£30). Am I selfish? That is really the way to spend your giro, I think I’m getting into this lark a bit too comfortably.

From there I head over to the train station to get a ticket for Liverpool Street for tomorrow morning and then I pop to Asda to get the new REM album on CD that mum has asked for for her birthday tomorrow. Panic, they don’t have the CD. Has it actually been released yet? Oh shit, we have a problem.

I get home disillusioned and worried, a failure once more. I text Phoebe for some kind of existence recognition, asking her how the audit mock went. I also proceed to drink copious amounts of Rocket Fuel coffee which makes me hyperactive for the remainder of the evening.

I hope back onto the MSN where I swop cyber spit with Sara and Richard. Richard gives me some hope when he acknowledges that there actually is a new REM CD and that it has been out for months. Rejuvenated I head back out on a mission to get it.

I go to Tesco Hythe and there is no sign of any such CD. And they have a Top 100 of CDs. Richard warned me that the album was bad but to be out of the Tesco Top 100 CDs chart, it must be REALLY bad. Close to throwing in the towel, I head over to Sainsburys in Stanway where I hit jackpot and manage to pick up the CD. I then reward myself by buying the latest issue of Loaded in the hope that they have printed my letter/email (yeah right).

Tonight Millwall are playing at Crewe and it doesn’t look good, their away record this season is just shockingly shit and par the course tonight, Millwall are 1-0 down after 12 seconds! There are bright lights when Planet Paul Ifill comes on as a substitute and scores an equaliser late in the second half but Crewe only proceed to score a winner five minutes later seeing Millwall lose 2-1 in a game they really could have done with winning.

After watching a really funny and fascinating documentary about bears, my night ends with watching Teachers and suddenly the series (number four) perks up as for the very time in three or so years Penny is attractive as she trots around the school like a Nazi with a complex.

np: Arab Strap – Here We Go

2004-12-23T05:22:00.000-08:00

November 29 (Monday): Great Time On Drugs. Dream: I put all my old GloboChem clients on MSN Messenger and stay in touch with half of them, continuing to work in the same field with the same people. Once more I feel employable (ho ho).

That was a good dream whereas the remainder of my day turns out to be a waking nightmare. I wake up and my computer has crashed gnarly. Not only that though, the whole thing appears to have gone to pieces and I suspect a virus has hit and wrecked the system. My morning turns into the afternoon as I find myself battering my head against the wall trying to attempt to save my PC as it only continues/proceeds to go slower and slower in its death. As a result, I manage to get next to zero revision accomplished as my computer going to pieces turns out to be one of the more distressing occurrences to happen recently. Indeed, it never rains but it pours.

I find myself fucking about with the computer well through the morning into lunchtime, heading towards the afternoon. No chance of much study today then, these exams are doomed. I do do some study, with percentages at the end of today standing at: Audit 22%, Tax 7%, Overall 15%.

Today is hard work and early on I feel I can’t make the Shellac show in Kings Cross tonight, so I find myself texting Ross, apologising for the fact.

Around 1.30, Supergirl is on TV for some reason. I can’t really imagine any biddies really being into that movie for daytime entertainment but I guess the unemployment and layabout students appreciate it (that and agoraphobes). I watch it only for the car crash performance that is the late great Peter Cook, an infamously bad decision on his part.

The only other real mentionable occurrence of today is my accomplishment of winding up Sara on MSN, which to be honest is like shooting fish in a barrel (or pulling in a brothel).

Being interview day today, I get my gear ready and hope to make myself look dapper. Unfortunately, right now, I feel far from dapper but still I head out at 4PM for my 5.30PM interview with some confidence.

I park up for my interview in the Civic car park and head into town. My destination tonight (lucky interviewer) turns out to be an office down the same road at the Ipswich KPMG. Small world. I walk towards the allotted number for the accountancy office/firm and the road appears to be running out of buildings but there it is eventually, tonight’s lucky suitor.

I step into the office and first impressions are that it is fucking rough, like an old house conversion that was never completed. And the house looks like a survivor from the blitz. I sit in a waiting room, surrounding by crap furniture and deserted old computers. Eventually I get called up into the boss’s office and it is a proper accountant’s office: untidy and fuddy. The interview really goes well but the position sounds like one, something perhaps a bit beyond me at this point of my career (although had previous employers bothered to progress and develop me, I’m sure with experience the job/position would be a doddle). That said, the position sounds like a fantastic opportunity, basically a managerial role (a bit above senior) with view to progressing the person in the role into office manager very quickly with the eventual view of taking over the practise over the next five years. As I said, perhaps a bit beyond me. I have no question about my ability, I am definitely capable to take on such a roll but I think my limited experience (eight and a half years now of the same old shit) would mean the requirement for a bit too much hand holding. I feel I get on well however with the gentleman (the boss), even when it gets discussed as to why I am currently unemployed, that whole situation is like water off a duck’s back. He draws on a piece of paper the current make up/hierarchy of the business and it is intimidating at just what a high level he intends me to work at. He describes the existing members of staff (my team) and it sounds like there are individuals already in place that could fill such a roll/slot/position and perhaps, maybe, even more accomplished than myself at this stage. The gentleman keeps asking me if it would be a position that would interest me and I go “oh yes”, asking what I feel are well slotted questions in place with regards to the roll. The interview is over thirty minutes, something of a short one methinks. On that note, I leave a little concerned that it was all too easy, all too brief. I walk back past KPMG, trying to peak a look into their windows to see what it is like in the NFL.

I get back into my car and tear back down the A12 back home. On the way back, I pop into Highwoods Tesco for some treats for dinner and it soon occurs to me that I could probably have easily made it to London to see the Shellac show (providing I mastered a quick, smooth costume change at some point).

Instead, I spend the evening doing the Monday night thing, which equates to OK comedy on BBC2 (save for the awesome/amazing/fantastic/truly warped Monkey Dust). Eventually I fall asleep watching the Nirvana DVD which came with that cursed boxset. At around midnight, I come out of my coma to discover that Memoirs Of An Invisible Man is on BBC1. Mentally, I am bang up for some Chevy Chase but physically, he immediately sends me straight back to sleep. I guess it wasn’t a night for Steve Albini after all.

np: Loxy And Keaton - Haters

2004-12-22T06:22:00.000-08:00

the dog's bad ear

2004-12-22T06:21:00.000-08:00

November 28 (Sunday): Smoking. Today I can’t bare the idea of being in my flat alone on a Sunday, so I escape to my parents and to Holland on Sea. First I stop by at Asda to go/get the Sunday newspapers thing.

It is fantastic to go home but when I arrive the dog looks fucking terrible, his bad ear really makes him look under the weather even if fortunately he doesn’t act it (under the weather).

Today is about putting on a face for the parents. As good as getting a interview immediately was, the one with Acme Personnel on Friday was soul destroying and actually very alarming/worrying.

I find that Dad has started watching my Sopranos videos which is really cool and it seems that he actually digs them. Pretty good.

Without apparent guilt though, I manage to settle into the routine of watching my parent’s Sky without remorse while they run around trying to get their house straight with view to moving in January. And like a little sod, I don’t lift a damn finger to help them.

Instead, I settle down to watching The Wrestling Channel and a shoot interview on there with Hacksaw Jim Duggan and yet again another wrestler than comes over as totally intelligent, hard working and likeable out of character (although you get the impression with Hacksaw that his persona is pretty close to his character). It is a great interview actually, one of the best I have seen, Hacksaw having come from the WWF when it was at its peak and having so much dirt (stories) from that period.

Dad comes in and sorts me out, as he forces me to turn Sky over and put Newcastle v Everton on Sky Sports. I being watching the game for my morbid fascination/interest into the progression/performance of Tim Cahill with Everton this year. I really shouldn’t have bothered as the game turns out to be thoroughly fucking boring but luckily mum saves the day when she announces that Sunday dinner (spuds, meat and puds) is ready. Tastes so good. The game ends 1-1 after Carsley’s really early goal for Newcastle. Tim Cahill winds up being most memorable for being booked.

In the afternoon my mobile rings and it’s a shock as Ross (my man from Unison) calls. Maybe he is wondering how things panned out with my dismissal. Partly. It turns out that he has a spare ticket for Shellac at the Scala tomorrow night. Nice. I’m interested but not in. Bad timing of bad timing, I have a job interview at 5.30 tomorrow night. I tell him to hold fire and tell him I can see if I can work around it. I will not unemployment stopping me from going to Shellac!

In the meantime, the landline phone rings also. And then it rings again and again until eventually mum comes in to tell us how one of my uncle’s has died from a heart attack. This however is not an uncle I can remember meeting but it is the husband of one of mum’s many sisters. The phone rings again and everyone goes morose. I attempt gallows humour, not knowing the bloke, by saying “I’m studying inheritance tax at the moment”.

Back to Sky Sports and I settle down with dad to watch the match of the day (weekend) as Liverpool play host to Arsenal. There are few things that bring me and dad together than our distaste (hate) for Arsenal Football Club. Even as a Millwall fan and the problems with Liverpool in the Carling Cup this year, I will still side with them against Arsenal. A little passion behind the game however doesn’t necessarily make it a good one. With the best of intentions I start out watching it but I soon drift and find myself leaving the room for other adventures around the house. Good times however rule supreme as Liverpool take the lead just before halftime and Arsenal’s slump truly looks set in stone as we gear up for a game of fierce defending from Liverpool. Arsenal inevitably equalise halfway through the second half to take the wind out of our sails but the story doesn’t end there when at the very death of the game, Neil Mellor (the subtle Steven Gerrard lookalike) scores a wonder goal against the ropiest, dodgiest of keepers Lehmann. As I said, good times.

I spend the remainder of my time at home making the most of Sky TV, watching The Simpsons, Malcolm In The Middle and The Wrestling Channel (the Bagpipe Report) before heading off home.

Tonight I attempt to watch the remainder of the Ultimate Film countdown on Channel Four but I have no clue what the result is as I fall asleep next to immediately. It’s not that the show is bad, I just don’t think I can possibly take any more TV in one day. The idiot box.

np: Econoline – Buddy Bradley

2004-12-22T06:19:00.000-08:00

November 27 (Saturday): A Killer Idea. Dream: I am holidaying in America/California with Matt again and we are waiting at a McDonalds for food. Matt has got his food and some oik Yank is being cheeky to me so I wind up punching the shit out of him before dragging him to a toilet where I rob him of his expensive/valuable nose (what?). I find myself back at home, preparing to camp outside in the communal garden, which has been extended onto the parking spaces. I fall asleep in my bed however and wake up in the early hours to see the tent and where I should be sleeping. I sneak downstairs before anyone can see me, so that it looks like I have been camping all night. I am then awoken when some stern (US) police men come around Hollytree Court investigating the beating in McDonalds. As I wake up, I hide in the tent from the police and I look over at the window of a groundfloor flat nearest to my tent where I see Azmei getting out of bed smiling at me.

Bad morning, what the hell happened last night? I awaken the wrong way round on my bed, with my head next to my PC with Phoebe in Toronto waking me up, beeping on MSN from Toronto. Early mornings give me a headache. I dare to look at the clock and it is 5AM and I now find myself unable to sleep but also unable to function. I muster up some energy and manage to switch/flip on my BPP/ACCA audio tapes and give them a listen. I slip in and out of consciousness for three hours before I eventually get up past nine.

When I finally do the newspaper run, I flip through the Guardian Guide to discover that somebody has already managed to get a tribute book out for John Peel. That was quick.

Today I a bit cheerier until I am some study and I don’t really manage to get much done, resulting in my return to my funk disposition, really it wouldn’t have hurt for me to head to Leytonstone today for Justin’s poker and record label night. I end the day with Audit on 20% complete, Tax on 7% and overall my study is 14% complete.

I spend the afternoon doing the Saturday afternoon football thing on internet, radio etc. Today Millwall are at Burnley and after the grief with them last season (and this season’s generally shit away record), a win there today would be fanfuckingtastic. Doesn’t happen though of course, Burnley get a dodgy penalty, slot it away and hold on for a 1-0 win. Whatever.

Tonight’s yet another slow weekend night, I really do seem to have dropped out of the social food chain/process at the moment. Tonight I watch some wanky music about 20th century composers and tonight it features/focuses on Lennon and McCartney but in the most wankiest sense possible, utterly cringe inducing, reducing some really cool music into something really academic and high brow. And the presenter, with his toffee mannerisms, comes over like a paedophile.

The other big TV event of the night is the first part of the Ultimate Film Countdown per actual UK box office takings. I really should not be as interested in this programme as I find myself, I should be out getting pissed and trying to fuck birds.

Oh well, all rest for the not so wicked.

np: L7 – One More Thing