JGRAM WORLD DAILY

2010-05-22T00:20:00.000+01:00

2010-03-25T15:14:00.001Z

Thursday 25 March 2010

Today I awaken unsurprisingly grumpy. What on earth was last night about? Why did I have so much slung at me in one go. Quite frankly I feel exhausted today, they say these things get sent to test us but why must they be so sapping of my energy?

On cue the day begins with my watching the US comedy repeats on Channel Four in between scouring/scanning the mainstream channels for news (there is no news). My ETA turns out to be 7.15AM which is pretty much par for the course when I don’t have to rely on the alarm clock. Outside the day is open the sun is out but it isn’t out very far and a sense of gloom has attached itself to proceedings, which is a shame because the first half of the week was suggesting (if not promising) so much. This is not how I had envisaged things. And it is perhaps a good thing that I am not going to Wales this weekend after all.

I watch Everyone Loves Raymond, Frasier and Will And Grace before my options run out and I have to leave my bed and attempt to make something of my day. Slowly I hear my neighbours head off to work, not least looking out for the guy who had his van parked in space 15 (my neighbour) last night. Who on earth drives around in a van advertising that they are a window cleaner? Did he do exams? Am I right in thinking that he is the latest in men that my neighbour has had around to jump in the sack? It was actually probably him that pulled down the latch on the door last night and I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt by acknowledging that it wasn’t done on purpose or as a personal gesture against me. It still happened though.

With this in mind one of the first things I do today is write an email to my management agents bemoaning the incident that occurred last night. By rights surely somebody should be knocking on my door and apologising to me for the incident but life does not work that way. Even better it might be fun for somebody to knock on my door and have a go at me for nearly kicking the door down last night which would then give me more than excuse and a platform for which to kick off in. This never happens though, I’m too passive to ever put myself in such a position to air such things. I suck. So then at the end of the day all I can do is send off these stupid, snotty emails to the management agents hoping that they will issue some kind of formal complaint that will carry more weight and authority than my childish acts. I don’t have the balls or the time.

Today is my second anniversary of beginning work at the restaurant. The place is completely different now. I still remember the morning I started there and how it all felt intimidating and more officious that it eventually turned out to be. The Financial Controller was certainly an intimidating factor and the woman I was working with opposite was just old and useless.

It has to be reiterated: today is fucking horrible. The environment chokes me and the climate kills my enthusiasm. I still feel depressed and fearful after being locked out last night. Will there be any comeback? What fucking tricks will my neighbour be up to next?

This afternoon the Dad’s Army stage show is having a matinee performance at the Mercury Theatre and earlier this week I half suggested to the old man that we go along. That said I don’t really think it is his scene though and being a weekday matinee I can’t help but suspect the demographic will be demeaning to both of us. As a result I shy away from pushing the idea forward.

With no real heart for writing I find myself instead watching a Straight Edge documentary. It is fucking nonsense, so horribly removed from the Minor Threat origins that now it would appear that being straight edge is considered to be akin to being a gang member like a Crip or a Blood. Are they fucking serious in America? I thought it was bad enough the way all new hardcore bands just sounded like thrash bands with short songs and how the whole emo thing occurred but to see these kids will all humour and fun squeezed out of their existence is just disheartening and so wide of the original point. To hear Thurston Moore provide the voiceover feels like shilling of the worst kind and when the credits later display that Brendan Canty did the score suddenly DIY ethics are not only ignored/neglected by the piece, they feel thoroughly trampled over.

By now the day reaches lunchtime and with it comes an attempt/effort to eat healthy and be good. Easier said than done.

From here I resume attempting to write and I experience only limited returns. At 3PM as usual I break to listen to the Danny Baker BBC London show which provides a calming element to the afternoon. This is radio to relax and fall asleep to.

When the show ends the time has now reached 5PM and with tonight’s RICHARD HERRING show at the Colchester Arts Centre looming I only really have a couple of hours left to get some writing done.

Eventually I get to the Arts Centre just after 8PM where it is already pretty packed. Soon after I arrive Lee arrives and it all begins to look good for the evening.

As I head to the bar to get drinks I find myself confronted by an old face from better times in the Colchester scene, I haven’t seen him for years and it’s really great when he recognises/remembers me. We do the briefest of catch ups as it transpires he has ditched teaching (he even used to teach at my old school in Frinton at one stage). Briefly vague plans get hatched to meet up and hang out in the future. Some people transcend.

Tonight is fun. RICHARD HERRING emerges onto the stage wearing his currently trademark toothbrush Hitler moustache and proceeds to dissect and super analyse the ridiculous concept/conceit of evil and racism being attached to his piece of facial hair and then onto the ridiculousness of racism in general, of how the field can get so muddied that ultimately it actually takes more effort to be racist than not. In addition he brings about the question as to whether people become more right wing, even racist, with age.

RICHARD HERRING is a master comedian. He has very thick skin; otherwise he wouldn’t have persisted with this premise in the first place. Additionally he is happy to send himself up when frailties and imperfections of his being emerge. He also appears to be fond of the double standard, its all right for him to be absurd but don’t dare anyone anywhere else misbehave or toy with hypocrisy. Those people would be sick and wrong.

After a strong hour of set we reach an interval at which point he leaves the audience on a cliff hanger as to whether he did grow back his moustache, the one that currently sits/hangs above his top lip.

When he returns it is with jubilation that he points out how he was not discouraged from keeping the moustache. As the show continues he moves onto his now infamous story of when he had his iPhone stolen in Shepherd’s Bush by a black man and how when the police were trying to retrieve the stolen phone for him as they drove past bystanders out of context what would be seen would be Adolf Hitler sat in the back of a police car, as if they had finally got him.

From here a poser occurs when in the middle of his Hitler Moustache run HERRING has to attend an important family function. With this he has to weigh up the pros and cons of jeopardising his show against potentially ruining all the future family photo albums but looking like an eccentric weird nasty piece of work. In reality this proves a real quandary for him, posing a difficult decision he would rather have to deal with. Bloody families.

Later at another point he actually mentions the name of Day 68 of my Facebook Cull. Now that is truly strange coincidence.

As one ridiculous conceit gets considered by another the whole situation and basis of his show continues to get confused as the absurdities of live override any opportunity of a rational argument other than to shut the fuck up and just get on with things. The reality is that it just takes too much time and effort to be racist and an incredibly lazy mind to get annoyed by a style of moustache. Eventually HERRING ties it all up with a bow and offers everyone out to collect and wear a free toothbrush moustache being handed out at the exit to anyone that wishes to sport and that we should fight to win the moustache back to represent Charlie Chaplin, to represent comedy.

After the show HERRING proves very accommodating as he sits at his merch desk signing copies of DVDs and books and having his picture taken with the people of Colchester. When it comes to Lee and my opportunities to meet the man a guy behind us in a wheelchair offers to take our photo while I get HERRING to write “cumpkin” in my copy of Bye Bye Balham while I show him my cracked iPhone in search of sympathy from another iPhone obsessive.

With this ends another great night at the Colchester Arts Centre. As I head home I worry slightly about the door to our building being locked again (as per last night/this morning) but thankfully when I pull up and in all is well, the sign magically strategically placed on the wall has done its job. Celebration!

Once inside I check Question Time where tonight Baroness Warsi is once more on the panel. I find her strangely attractive; she looks like a mucky mucky lady.

2010-03-24T22:07:00.003Z

Wednesday 24 March 2010 – BUDGET DAY

Today I feel more tired than I was expecting to. It’s technically Friday for me, the final day of a short week. Originally I was supposed to be going to Wales (Portmeirion) this weekend but it never got arranged. In a way though this is a good thing looking at the weather today.

The drive to the station is an excruciating one, not least for getting stuck behind a car with a fucking yellow smiley face sticker on it. Does this explain why the car is driving so slowly: the driver is fucked up on drugs at this time and all the time. What kind of backwards mentality sees a person sticking a fucking yellow smiley face onto their car. Surely beyond anything else it devalues the book value of it immediately to the value point of scrap.

It’s a dull, dull day.

Again the train journey is OK as nobody bothers to sit next to or crush me. Over my shoulder I can hear somebody snoring over the top of my iPhone but that’s his problem. Around Maryland and Forest Gate frustratingly the train slows down to a crawl. I guess that is because these are tough neighbourhoods.

Eventually we get into town and on the tube I find myself sat opposite a boring (and bored) Zoey Deschanel lookalike. She just can’t pull the look off.

At the moment I am on a genuine self improvement kick, last Friday night has truly triggered something in me. I need to get better, I need to improve, I am not getting any younger and soon I fear it will be too late for me.

Today is a busy day filled with trepidation regarding the consultant’s impending visit. Not that this sense of urgency transforms itself into work, I have better things to do.

The consultant is due/supposed to be in at 11AM but eventually he makes it in just after 1PM while we are eating. His lateness suits me as it lends me the opportunity to get a lot of stuff done before his arrival but unfortunately when he steps through the door there are still tasks and chores that require my attention. As a result lunch gets cut short.

He seems in a good mood today though and with this I get a sense that he is going to be easy on me. Its not that he is necessarily awful all the time it is just that he sometimes makes qualified observations about aspects and areas of our accounts he really does not the full understanding that I do but due to his seniority my input gets railroaded. Also being a busy man he is not necessarily always 100% concentrating on our accounts which can occasionally lead him to contradict himself which obviously makes me life/job difficult as a result. It then turns out to be a real break when he stays only an hour. Result.

From here the remainder of my day comes with a full workload but at the same time it is manageable.

Around 5.15PM our boss announces that we can pack up early. Unfortunately I still have a bit of work to do and it holds proceedings up slightly before eventually the others just leave that little bit early.

When I leave at 5.35PM it is in full expectation of knowing the boss may want a drink and indeed as I attempt to race out of the building he is sat downstairs. He calls me over to join him. Despite being in a rush I indulge him. The guy looks shattered, there appears to be so much going on in all elements of his life right now and he just wants a chat.

At 6PM I make a move feeling bad about ditching him. Once out of the restaurant I head straight for Shepherd’s Bush for the TINDERSTICKS show where we are all meeting at the Defectors Weld beforehand. When I eventually arrive there cocktails are already on the go, promising much.

We have some dinner in the form of another expensive pub burger while I express my angst about reaching forty soon (in six and a half years time). I also try to coerce people into coming along to the Toots And The Maytals show at the Barbican in June as well as wowing everyone with the story of the dying person at the Australian Film Festival last night. I feel on form tonight with these tales and the “What Up With That” song from SNL in my head (now also hopefully in their heads too).

Eventually we head over to the Shepherd’s Bush Empire. As we step through the door we quickly peak at the merchandise store to see the Andy Nice CD in amongst the TINDERSTICKS stuff. That should make Justin happy.

As we take our seats VILLAGERS are already onstage doing their support slot. Apparently they have just been signed to Domino but I can’t help but think that this is a lie as I witness the simpering musings of some soft sod performing songs in a style that is prematurely ageing and demeaning to us all. It is a farce. When did society become so dull that professional nobodies such as these can get signed to decent labels? The best that I can say for him (them) is that I am reminded of Alasdair Roberts (who I dislike too).

The set soon concludes and it is at this point it occurs to me that the seats upstairs at the Shepherds Bush Empire are no longer large enough for human comfort. They were designed in better times, when people were physically slighter and in theory healthier. This dawning also comes coupled with the reality that the guy sat to my left is soon winding the shit out of me as he finds it impossible to sit still, taking up the armrest and regularly scratching his huge hair probably pulling out nits in the process. It is without doubt that this winner gets laid more than me. Such is life.

Without too much waiting TINDERSTICKS soon take to the stage and promptly launch into the title track from Falling Down A Mountain. It’s a majestic piece, great and encapsulating a pulsing tension and urgency that befits such a luxurious band. Tonight they all look dressed down, more relaxed and less regal than usual. You sense from the new record that this is now the way in this camp.

Ultimately it is a frustrating set, a true mixed bag naturally focused on the new record but painfully neglecting too many gems that sit obvious. Unpredictably they include “Peanuts”, an excruciating song from the new album that I just cannot tell whether they are conscious of how awful the song is.

A rare beacon glows in the form of “Black Smoke” as the velvet luxury of the band begins to become hinting at once more but frustratingly little else serves to storm the show.

Throughout the set sat upstairs I find myself being bludgeoned by the guy with apparent nits continuously scratching his huge head of hair throughout the set. To say it niggles and distracts me would be an understatement. Fortunately halfway through the set after checking his text messages he disappears never to return.

Onstage the TINDERSTICKS grind to the end of their set before returning to perform two encores after which I don’t wish for a third.

After the show we exit, heading outside where rain is now drizzling down. As Racton and Eleanor wait for their friends to emerge I split the joint and head home in full knowledge/realisation that it takes forever on the Hammersmith Line to get across to Liverpool Street.

In the end I wind up on the 11.48PM Colchester train and minutes before it pulls away Day 80 of Facebook Cull boards the carriage and waves at me “hi…..”

From here something of an awkward and uncomfortable journey takes place. I try to avoid eye contact, try to pretend she’s not there but it’s impossible. I try to fall to sleep but I ain’t got game for that either. At least she isn’t hurling shoes or abuse at me, perhaps she doesn’t know about it.

It’s funny to be bumping into her now, so close to the entry. It is now over two years since the last (and first) time we saw each other on a train home, a night after which Zoë had thoroughly upset me and Emma actually helped cheer me up at a bleak time.

When the train arrives back at Colchester the time is around 1AM and I make a point/gesture of speaking to her, to ensure that I don’t make more of a fool of myself. Much like last time she is really friendly once more having been out on the last with clients in a corporate sense. Maybe I shouldn’t have culled her after all.

By the time I get back to Bohemian Grove it is now after 1AM and as I stumble out of my car and put my key into the door of our building it doesn’t work, fails to turn. I check that I am using the correct key and indeed I am and as I toggle it soon it becomes apparent that the safety latch has been pulled down on the inside.

Without doubt this is the work of that idiot personal trainer next door to me in flat 15. At this point I feel truly fucked off by her latest action and I proceed to buzz all the doorbells in our block and pound on the door at an ungodly hour. I realise just how antisocial this is but quite frankly so is locking me out of my own home (fuck, she isn’t even an owner, she’s a scumbag renter which would suggest why she goes around with her “don’t give a fuck” attitude). How fucking dare they do this? Why have they fucking done this?

After no response to my initial flurry I begin kicking the door in again and making real noise. Eventually I hear the bedroom window of flat 15 open just as the lady downstairs (Michelle) emerges with bedhead and opens the door for me. I apologise profusely (three times) as she acknowledges that it is “the stupid people upstairs” in flat 15 that have done this.

As I step through my door I slam it in a final gesture of anger. If I was worth my salt I’d pound on the door of 15 Hollytree Court but by now the damage has been done so it is anything for a quiet life that now prevails.

Fucking idiots.

2010-03-23T05:28:00.001Z

Tuesday 23 March 2010

Dream: I am wandering around and spot an Asian girl wearing a pair of the brown Airwalk shoes that I have and loved but which quickly fell apart. Surely this is enough in common between us for me to approach her?

Today is a bright morning, the kind that rejuvenates the soul and adds a fresh texture to any existence. I decide to eat a couple of bananas instead of cereal for breakfast. These are the best intentions.

As I leave the flat and approach my car I am faced with the surprise of having to deal with my windscreen being slightly frosty/frozen. How against this sun has happened? This goes against form but I don’t mind.

The drive to the station turns out to be a frustrating one as I get stuck behind a slow slow red car. What is it about red cars that is just so infuriating?

Upon arrival at the station soon I find myself standing on the platform contemplating change and the prospects that come with. It is nice to be boarding the train in sunlight now especially at a time when the air feels so fresh and the climate is perfect.

During the journey today I discover that a book has been written about how childhood experiences and lifestyle influence and develop the future professions/vocations of people and their eventual careers. The book has been written by a Dennis Friedman and when writing of accountants it describes such individuals as being “in perpetual search for reassurance and balance.” I can see that. I can also see description in the manner in which I have sex.

Nearing the end of the journey the train beaches outside of Liverpool Street while it waits for a platform to pull into. How do these things happen?

Once the train pulls into the station we all stand up to get off and as I attempt chivalry and allow a girl to get off before me just as the moment of gesture arrives she says to me “after you.” Why is the world seemingly intent on undermining and demasculating (emasculating) me?

The time is 8.06AM as I find myself crossing the station towards the tube platform. Thankfully I catch a break when I reach the platform with a Watford train pulling up. At this point I spot Bellalike, she is like part of the furniture now. From here thankfully I step into work smoothly without any further drama on the trains.

Today is about pulling together the February accounts which went relatively well yesterday. For only a couple of days work this is very quick progress for what is in essence a months work.

Early on I request that I can duck out early tonight and the response from the boss is in the affirmative. Result.

From here the morning plays out smoothly as I appear to be feeling at home in my falling apart desk chair now. In a way I am fucking shocked that it hasn’t collapsed by now but also relieved it is still standing and even enjoying the swinging fairground motion of the loose seat. Also the fact that it appears to be annoying The Girl is office gold to me.

Just before 11AM the teachers from the Ndubz school have a fag break by our car park and once again I spot the grubby honey. My minor obsession for this person has now reached the stage that my work colleagues are accusing me of perving.

For lunch I go for the sausage, beans and mash option.

The afternoon turns into a hectic one as the boss begins to take interest in the prepayments at a late stage. Until this point it was all going swimmingly but now with him in court tomorrow I guess there is now urgency to his involvement/review. Slowly we get there with the review but half the time I have my eye on the clock/time as I need to be out slightly early tonight in order to get to the Barbican for the Australian Film Festival on time.

Eventually I get out just after 5.15PM with a sense of tension and panic in the air. Typically being in a rush once more this evening public transport is not my friend.

When I finally emerge at Barbican station my phone immediately begins ringing and it’s Australian Mark asking me where I am as he is already there. Profusely I make my apologies as I promptly step up a gear and stomp towards the building.

After a little lost moment we finally meet up before becoming slightly confused by the set up and various entrances of the Barbican building. Who puts a cinema in an area called The Pit?

In the end typically there was no need for all the stress as we get to our seats easily before the beginning of the movie.

The movie we are watching tonight is WE’RE LIVIN’ ON DOG FOOD which is a documentary about the late seventies/early eighties punk scene in Melbourne which laid the scene for the movie Dogs In Space several years later. Later on this evening they will be showing Dogs In Space afterwards which I have never seen but to be honest having Michael Hutchence in it doesn’t necessarily serve as a strong recommendation for me.

In the end it is a great documentary featuring lots of bands I have never heard of but now I want to investigate (Primitive Calculators being the most exciting). Of the people being interviewed Rowland S Howard is the only person I recognise and you can’t help but feel sad as he looks so frail knowing that he is no longer with us now.

Inevitably the movie reaches the drug section sharing experiences and stories from within the scene and as the descriptions become more gruesome suddenly the girl sat in front us begins shouting “help! He’s passed out!” and with this everyone gasps and a few spring into action as a bald do-gooder leaps to their aid.

With the drama the lights come on and the move gets shut down (in that order) as a medic gets summoned. Soon the guy comes around as he awakens from his disco nap and it becomes apparent he had fallen asleep. With a gang of concerned people around him he gets up, apologises to the audience and exits with his tail between his legs.

For a moment I have to sadly admit that I found the whole moment very exciting. I had never seen anybody die before and for a moment this looked like I might be about to pop my cherry.

Soon the movie resumes, playing out with the inevitable decline and passing of the scene until its eventual reinvention in the Dogs In Space movie.

Throughout the movie Nick Cave gets repeatedly ragged on while for some reason Michael Hutchence gets held in true reverence. As the footage shows him posing out for/to the camera the next moment the women he fucked are saying what a sensitive soul he was and how he was swimming in charisma. Really?

Eventually the movie ends on what feels like a downer, of old people finishing off reminiscing about better days and better times. There is a sad moment during the credits where Rowland S. Howard is featured at his most fragile.

Afterwards Mark and I grab a drink and seem to discuss all things music and literary (at our respective levels). I am conscious not to stay out too late as he has kids to go home and see but we rack up a good hour of conversation, sorting out the world in the process.

Heading home I wind up on a decent train at a decent hour after a decent night out for once.

2010-03-18T22:53:00.003Z

Thursday 18 March 2010

Dream: I’m in Ipswich with the usual suspects for a gig. It’s a nasty scene. We head in to see some electro noise band where the audience appear to be hicks and very different from the people in Essex and London I am used to. In a way it makes me pine for certain old days but equally I just don’t feel like I fit in. Nothing new there then.

Today I wake up with a headache yet again. I suspect it is my bed or the way in which I sleep, the shapes that I pull throughout the night. Perhaps it is the crappy pillows I rest and lay my head on. Basically I probably need a new bed and linen.

As I leave my flat this morning I notice that I have only tied the laces on my right shoe. What part of my brain considered the left shoe unnecessary?

I’m fucking coughing now.

The train ride to town is a surprisingly nice one again. As we stop at Ingatestone I spot a girl on the platform with bright purple hair and unsurprisingly she sits next to me. She is fine though, I barely know she is there as I attempt/endeavour to gain some train sleep.

Eventually we get into Liverpool Street at 7.55AM, which is truly great timing and representative of a service today being on the ball.

Beyond a nondescript tube ride across town when I get to the restaurant today I am first in and with alarm duties to boot. I always like being in first, often treating myself to a drink from the bar. There stillness that is represented by an empty restaurant sets up the day to be a calm and smooth one.

It is scary as ever to consider just how much this place has changed since I joined it almost two years ago now. In many ways this now is the strangest job I have ever had. As one day melds into the next I can’t help but feel I am operating by instincts on autopilot and getting away with it. Coming from my previous two London jobs this really is a polar opposite of proceedings, one that I am not necessarily sure does me much in the way of good. I genuinely worry about having to look elsewhere for employment when the inevitable happens. I fear when I return to the job market I will be too soft, too much out of my now apparent comfort zone and severely lacking in skills for a new marketplace that I royally struggled with two and half years ago (which eventually saw me at Baker Street and committing one of the biggest errors of my career).

On with the job though and today the consultant Mr Stewart is due in again which means that there is pressure from the off.

As the day gets into swing the IT Guy turns up also. With his visit frustratingly the network goes down. It is worryingly (and scarily) ironic that things are fine for weeks (maybe months) but as soon as he touches it, it all falls apart. Again I sense some sympathy when the consultant looks over at me and asks “does this happen often?” I have to say, it doesn’t.

While twiddling my thumbs and hoping that I haven’t lost too much work the downtime offers me the opportunity to look out of the window again (our TV at work) and I spot the teachers outside smoking and suddenly there is a hottie amongst them.

The morning comes to an end and suddenly I find myself pulled off the January accounts of the new company instead now being asked how quickly I can produce a set of P&Ls for the new version of the existing company. Basically from here I am given a day and a half to get a draft set of a month’s P&Ls done.

Tearing into work in the afternoon sirens begin to ring out outside as the police cars pounce on the Ndubz school. We look out of the window trying to work out what is going down but nothing is obvious or evident.

Eventually I rack up a productive afternoon putting me in a good position for tomorrow. I leave on cue at 5.30PM and head straight towards the ICA for tonight’s BILLY CHILDISH talk.

Tonight I head to the ICA via

Charing Cross Road

where I pop into Foyles and pick up the Daniel Clowes tickets on the way.

As a rare and dubious treat I pop into Forbidden Planet on

Shaftsbury Avenue

for a look around. I’m too old now to be going into this shop. While in the store I do however hear the song “Seventeen” by Sponge from the Mallrats soundtrack which is a song I haven’t heard in possibly ten years and it truly sends me spiralling in nostalgia, making me feel young and enthusiastic for our Kevin Smith era.

From here leaving the shop I manage to avoid Fopp and head straight to the ICA passing The Ivy in the process in the hope of catching glimpse of a star or two. No dice.

For dinner I get a Caffé Nero Milano hot chocolate. This is hardly the dinner of champions but in my world it suffices.

I get to the ICA in good time and head upstairs to where people are waiting to be let into the hall/room where tonight’s talk is being staged/held. As we all wait on the staircase to get into the Nash Room an Asian girl keeps staring at me. I quite fancy her but do I really want anything sexual to do with a girl that likes BILLY CHILDISH?

Eventually we get let into the Nash Room and we take our seats in what is a truly decadent room. As I look out of the window on my left and spot the traffic on The Mall this feels a pretty great place to be at this time.

Tonight the talk is being chaired by Matthew Higgs who has curated the exhibition and events and who BILLY CHILDISH plainly has a rapport with. On his head CHILDISH is wearing a beret which is taking the retro look yet another step into the past.

The talk is a fun one, relaxed and reluctantly spiteful. CHILDISH is on good form seeming to be a person generally content; knowing of what is nonsense in the world around us. The discussion covers the career of CHILDISH from who his influences are onto what he has learned in the creation of his own art. There is a strange modesty to him, one that is not necessarily entirely convincing. Regardless of this doubt of mine, basically the guy is very funny, a rare breed of being able to take his work deadly serious while also possessing a sense of the absurd.

At various points during the talk he does a series of acapella songs and I have to admit to getting quite excited about the delivery of “John The Revelator”, a song that has quite a personal meaning for me. He also serves up “The Bitter Cup” and “You Make Me Die”, which I truly struggle to recognise in this form (in contrast to the CHILDISH fronted Mudhoney cover version).

Over the course of the evening it turns out that CHILDISH is a prolific but difficult person with plenty of casual disdain for many of his peers. I sense he is quite confused by people’s tastes, full aware that any scene sadly seems to be more about selling oneself rather than their own art.

CHILDISH is renowned as being a true independent spirit and I guess if you stick with something for as long as he has eventually you will find your audience and cease being the traditional starving artist. This is not to say that he is without talent, it is just these things are always going to move slowly if you refuse to take shortcuts and stick to your own morals and terms, which he impressively has.

Eventually he calls it a night without it actually being too late. This suits me, an hour of his chat is as entertaining as three of most people. From here I head back up The Mall to Charing Cross station where I get snag a tube up to Tottenham Court Road and across to Liverpool Street.

I wind up on the weird orange 9PM train. Tonight it has no spare seats so annoyingly I end up having to stand all the way back to Colchester.

When I get home it is around 10PM and on TV is The Bubble. Despite the fact that tonight it has Tim Key and Josie Long on as guests they can’t even salvage the show despite even making reference to Ghostwatch. I can’t stand David Mitchell these days. Firstly he reminds me of John who I used to work with and now having had him used against me in a quote by Kerry-Jo in the most pathetic of manner it/he just represents bad times to me now.

From here I head to bed in the hope of watching Hung. Unfortunately I fall asleep and fail in this endeavour.

2010-03-16T09:13:00.001Z

Tuesday 16 March 2010

Today I wake up with a headache. This probably comes from having slept upside down last night.

With the sun out in full force I actually find myself writing before heading off this morning.

The drive to the station is a real test this morning as when I decide to pass previously dawdling cars they suddenly decide to put their foot down and turn this thing into a race. Is it good to be heading towards the national speed limit along Balkerne Hill?

For some reason once we reach the station car park cars suddenly return to driving at a snail’s pace, a ghastly crawl of cruel.

Obviously I board the 6.59AM easily but for some reason people appear to be staring at me this morning. These people include the James Lipton lookalike sat on the seat opposite me.

Also sat opposite me is a Before And After girl as some scaly old has been applies her make up on the train in futile measure as a futile gesture. Afterwards she then pulls out a Dan Brown book. Fucking idiot.

By now thankfully my headache is already gone but there are still some signs that it could/might return.

As the journey continues elsewhere on the train there turns out to be another two Before And After girls. What is going on today?

When the train nears London I receive a text message from Tom who is starting our first game of Lookalike Poker of the year. I think today again I have the winning hand. People on my trains are such freaks.

Towards the end of my journey as we near London my iPhone begins ringing and it is The Girl. Not really feeling that I want to deal with her calling in sick at this hour I choose to ignore the call. Anything for a quiet life.

In the end the train pulls into Liverpool Street at 7.55AM. This is truly impressive, much more ahead of schedule than ever before. If only things were always this way.

From here I board my usual tube across to West London and when I eventually emerge at St Johns Wood strangely it smells like fart, smells like cheese today. What the fuck is happening?

As I walk down Loudoun Road I spot a woman walking a chubby Westie which makes me think more of Snowy than it does Bobby. Dare I suggest a preference for one dog over the other?

I step into work into an empty restaurant and office. Its times like these that I like the restaurant the most. Slowly people filter in and soon I have two cups of coffee in me and I am wired for sound.

Today turns out to be another distracted day, one where I have a dozen elements in my head all screaming for attention. I genuinely find it impossible to focus these days; things are just so hectic internally and externally at the moment. And sadly I cannot see things ever calming down either.

I manage to get some work done but frustratingly I fail to reach my target for today of getting the bank reconciliations done and out of the way. I guess there is always tomorrow.

Once out of work I head to St Johns Wood tube station where tonight appears to be HBO lookalike night with a doppelganger of Larry David followed by one of Phil Leotardo. From here I ride down to Bond Street and cut across to Tottenham Court Road where I endeavour to kill time before the JOHN LANDIS talk at the BFI this evening. This sounds like a really exciting event to be attending.

At Bond Street tonight is the beggar who has his face and features grafted off, it is truly an unpleasant sight, which is stating the obvious. I’ve been seeing the guy for years now and you can’t help but wonder just what his story is.

A couple of stops later I emerge at Tottenham Court Road and head towards Fopp to kill some time. Why does killing time always cost me so much money? Tonight I spend £21 on 4 CDs and 3 DVDs that I probably won’t even look at for at least six months.

Eventually Racton texts me to say that he is on his way to Waterloo so I make moves myself towards the South Bank. These days I avoid Charing Cross Road and instead go down West Street and past The Ivy in the vain hope of spotting/seeing a celebrity. No dice tonight though.

A few seconds later however I spot the dude from Pineapple Dance Studios. He is really really short in real life. Surprisingly though he is not dancing. I guess he needs a Sky camera crew following him around and Harry Hill egging him on to do that.

This walk through town is a genuinely pleasant one as soon I find myself passing our theatre land restaurant on St Martins Lane before crossing the Strand before heading down Craven Street to get to the Thames.

As ever crossing the Golden Jubilee Bridge takes my breath away this evening. The vision of Big Ben next to the Houses Of Parliament is a magnificent one; nothing in the modern world can ever look so majestic. The budgets must have gone out of the window on this project; more was the necessity to stamp a presence on existence.

Once across the bridge I head to Waterloo to meet up with Racton. After a few minutes of waiting I receive a text message and it turns out that everyone is already at the BFI. When I finally meet up with the others some people are in a shit mood having had to endure a late meeting for meetings sake. I know that feeling from my days at Baker Street. As a result this is going to be a fun evening then.

With less than an hour to JOHN LANDIS we grab some quick food at the Riverfront where the service is as cool and aloof as you would fear to expect. The food is OK though, basic if expensive. Tonight however speed is of the essence.

Eventually we step into Cinema 1, collect a set of BFI notes and take our seats for JOHN LANDIS and being on the right hand side of the room we pray that when he takes the stage that he will be sitting facing us. Thankfully when he emerges indeed he does sit looking in our direction.

The event turns out to be a joy to behold. The talk turns out to be a good one as LANDIS’ enthusiasm is infectious and genuine.

Going through his history in the movies he explains how The 7th Voyage Of Sinbad was the first movie that he saw when he was eight years old which gave him the passion for film before beginning work as a mail boy for Fox at the age of sixteen. His first big job was then on Kelly’s Heroes which he recalls fondly before describing how it was a long time before he was making Kentucky Fried Movie, Animal House and The Blues Brothers.

Proceeding tonight’s event was a rare screening of his documentary Slasher from a few years ago and when a large portion of the early part of the talk we begin to worry about our decision not to attend the viewing. When LANDIS jokingly calls the people who didn’t watch the movie “bastards” we are certainly paying for it.

Thankfully the talk soon moves onto subjects we are all familiar with as some kind of retrospective of his career takes over. He genuinely shocks when describing the obstacles faced with The Blues Brothers before stepping into great tales of lunching with Alfred Hitchcock.

Over the course of the event we get treated with clips from many of his movies which begins with a clip from The Blues Brothers and the scene where the return to their orphanage and receive their mission. I’ve never seen John Belushi on a big screen before and he looks amazing.

Excitingly LANDIS is very opinionated and definitely not afraid to say if a film is bad or not so when Avatar inevitably gets brought up he declares that it is a fun movie but highlights how cliché ridden it all is. Wisely he states that just because you have such advanced CGI and 3D capabilities it doesn’t mean that you have to overdose on it. As he says these things all the while a black guy sat at the end of our row is vocal in agreement (not that LANDIS hears). For the longest time I stare at this guy half thinking that it is Antonio Fargas.

We get the famous An American Werewolf In London clip and the final transformation. Its funny to watch it now on a big screen as an adult because this scene truly terrified me when I was a youngster and meant for years that I was unable to watch the movie past this point. It is crazy to think of the age of it compared to the quality of the effects, which are through the roof even now.

After this we get a clip of Trading Places when Eddie Murphy is being busted by the police early on leading him to run into the rich men’s club and eventually cross paths with the old guys working him as their puppet. With the clip out of the way the evening brushes up against dirt about Eddie Murphy but LANDIS is too savvy to sink to that level.

It comes with some joy that he even discusses The Stupids which starred Jessica Lundy (who I had a minor obsession for in the nineties, she had the most amazing eyes). Apparently when the movie was dubbed into foreign languages it was perceived to be a funnier and completely different movie/story, much to the pleasant surprise of LANDIS who accepts that it is perhaps not his finest piece of work.

Eventually things move onto the Q&A session during which he is very accommodating. As ever the questions range in quality but luckily his enthusiasm powers through.

Amongst the subjects being raised include the Michael Jackson video for Thriller which LANDIS directed and has been at odds with the powers that be ever since. He says that he was on the verge of lodging a lawsuit against the man before he died. This dispute does explain why in this day and age of slick music videos that every time you see the video it is such shitty quality.

Invariably there is often a crazy person asking a question and tonight this guy goes off on a tangent with a question relating to a scene in The Conversation to a scene from a LANDIS movie. At the beginning of the question LANDIS indicates/states that he doesn’t know the scene that they guy is going on about and it’s a wasted question. Soon the guy is put out of his misery as there doesn’t appear to actually be a question being asked. Later it turns out that Eleanor is unfortunately sat next to the guy.

After a strong hour and a half LANDIS calls it a night, a true gentleman to the end. With this I exit feeling I know more about film than when I entered.

Emerging from the BFI onto the South Bank of The Thames all is very well this evening as our attendance tonight feels more than justified and worthy value/use of our time.

Walking across to Waterloo station we eventually head off on our separate directions with me going up to Tottenham Court Road and then across to Liverpool Street. In the end the ride home is non-eventful, a late night snooze train. This is nice.

When I get home there is a package at my door and when I open it I unearth the On The Buses box set which is a blag from Sharpy. It is a beautiful thing, a gift of the highest order. With this I proceed counting the eleven (ELEVEN) discs of the box set. I wonder what the poor people are doing.

Everyone else – suffer!

2010-03-13T17:26:00.000Z

Saturday 13 March 2010

Dream: I find myself discussing libel law with Robin Ince for some reason. Suddenly the date 19 April bares some relevance to proceedings. Later after some kind of social event I discover myself returning home with The Girl from work who I send upstairs to bed before I turn in on the sofa. Unsurprisingly as ever she gripes at being told what to do. I don’t actually recognise the crib. At first it feels like the place is mine but looking around I do not recognise it.

When I awaken this morning it is a beautifully sunny day that resembles the height of the day. It is a fresh beginning but also one that fears me with a dread of having overslept. As I look at my watch it tells me that the time is just 6.45AM. I do not believe it. Things are definitely trending upwards.

I still have a sense of euphoria resulting from last night. For years to come now I will remember it fondly as one of the greatest Friday nights I ever spent in London.

Once awake I am unable to get back to sleep so briefly I doze weighing up my options and exactly I should do.

With time to kill I scan my avi files and check out the second episode of How To Make It In America. It is now beginning to resemble some kind of Midnight Cowboy crossed with Only Fools And Horses via Entourage type programme. I keep watching though, if for nothing else it is set in the more colourful parts of New York. When Griffin Dunne pops up suddenly it begins to look more of a serious consideration.

After the episode ends I hop into routine and head over to Asda. I barely look in the mirror as I leave the flat, this is level of contempt and disrespect I now harbour for this weekly visit.

Once at the store I perform my grocery shopping to an iPhone soundtrack of the Brian Jonestown Massacre and an apt level of confusion accompanies my act of consumerism. This journey feels heavy today, not fun and not feeling necessary. By the time I arrive at the self-service checkout it feels dulled by expectation.

When I return home I do the routine thing of listening to Danny Baker on Radio Five which today is the culmination of the Shirt Of Hurt thing for Sport Relief which means his guest is Ray Winstone he turns out to be usual body of fun. Gruff as ever he sounds drunk, slowly grinding his way through the interview. When the producer comments on how nice he smells he concedes to having a late one last night and opting for a slosh rather than full cleanse this morning. Eventually the time comes to swap shirts and watching on the stream he and Baker exchange Millwall and West Ham shirts and unsurprisingly the ‘Wall shirt on Winstone looks good but the West Ham shirt on Baker looks disgusting. No surprises there then. Too many moobs though.

Afterwards I remain in bed pottering around on the internet and scouring through DVDs and finding nothing. Unsurprisingly I eventually fall asleep just after 1.30PM.

When I awaken with a sad portion of the day now wasted I proceed to set about wasting the rest of it. In the process I watch the Dave Markey Cut Shorts compilation that features a whole of great short films from the guy that did 1991: The Year Punk Broke. These films range from early SST era efforts through to full-blown Sonic Youth appearances including Thurston Moore doing a star turn in search of the “Hip Hop Rabbit”. Elsewhere Sofia Coppola pops up and the “Grunge Pedal” clip that has been on Youtube forever and a day is always dumb fun stuff. The disc ends with various promo videos for bands such as The Posies, Eyes Adrift and Sonic Youth that have unlikely ever seen the day on any of the MTV networks. The films represent a golden era for music that now feels/seems long gone. All in all it gives the collection a strangely modern nostalgic feel.

Today finally redeems itself and becomes a good day as Millwall thumps Charlton 4-0 at The Den. Four fucking nil, I don’t think anybody expected that. Had I gone along however I would have done my The Cooler act and they would probably have lost. This is a truly immense result sending a real message to the other teams in the division. Steve Morison snags a couple more goals today proving him to be a real great signing for the season, not least considering it took him a couple of months to get over a hump at the start of the campaign. Also Christian Daily scores an own goal repeating his feat from our legendary thumping of West Ham a few years ago. Loser.

This afternoon I was actually supposed to check out something at that Slackspace place but after a heavy week that was just not happening for me. Unfortunately though when I check Facebook Lee who was staging the event has put on a comment bemoaning a lack of attendance. With him holding another event tonight I feel obliged to attend.

From here I finally rediscover some life and energy and begin writing. As I flick through the Freeview channels for some background I come across The Hudsucker Proxy which proves the perfect thing to put on.

After the move ends around 7PM I head out to Slackspace to check out tonight’s music including the ZA GINIPIGGU set.

Slackspace is situated next to Argos which means/requires entering into the town centre at night and walking along/through all the suffocating closed and empty shops/stores harbouring an eerily quiet feeling like in The Omega Man. Walking through here at this time has trouble written all over it.

I do this listening to Joy Division and many of their darker selections. Placed against the stillness of proceedings and the dead orange lights it fits/suits perfectly. I pass another person and she looks equally as frightened as me of this landscape.

It is the first time I have been to Slackspace and it’s a weird scene, almost art for art’s sack with a have a go ethos/spirit. Its great that the town has such a place but I just don’t know any of these people so unsurprisingly naturally don’t feel that I fit in. Dare I suggest by being all encompassing something such as this is always going to be spreading itself too thinly?

The evening of performance eventually begins with an old guy of around 80 reading his poems of shagging and Tesco. He is a sweet old man that exudes confusion and runs the risk of being more Pam Ayres than Allen Ginsberg. He may be a local legend but he comes over as too nice to capitalise on it. For sure he is a trier.

Following this act are a couple of people (a black dude in a Funkadelic/Parliament shirt and a girl with piercings) doing cover versions of pop songs. It’s their hobby and its their dream why should I be a wanker and belittle this? As the songs get delivered in a workmanlike manner what should be belittled is the bearded cunt scenester to my left that spends the entire duration of the set talking bollocks to some ugly girl sat next to him that he is plainly trying to impress. Where is the collective spirit in this guy at this time?

Next up comes a few more poems this time for a younger guy (the compere) which are the kid of ooze and wet sentiment. Again why should I be a wanker and belittle this by saying what I (negatively) think of them.

The ZA GINIPIGGU set is a test as expected. Looking like a strange version of Neo from The Matrix from here some kind of technological sonic assault heaps shit onto various unexpecting senses. Much against of the theme of the evening the dark pulse of the rhythms carve a strange kind of groove into proceedings that do not necessarily sit comfortable with the aged bodies in attendance. Behind me smart comments begin arriving, some of which are funny but most of which suggest they come from a person molested as a child. Its an awkward moment.

As with these things the set is a long one, seeming to outstay its welcome in the minds of some as they pick themselves up and sought a break from the noise. Towards the end the sounds (selected by the audience beforehand) take a stinging change of direction that prompts further reaction of unease meaning that by the conclusion of the set only the brave and strong remain. These are people that perhaps are no longer able to hear but we remain all the same. Drugs would probably have helped.

After the set I immediately begin to look for escape as the threat of a Steve Harley type acts looms in the near distance (hovers on the horizon). From here I say my goodbyes to ZA GINIPIGGU and head back along Colchester High Street on a Saturday night which is always an eye opening sight. Thankfully it is still early and I see little in the way of carnage (although the threat is persistently there).

On the way home I pop into my parents to see the dog who goes five minutes crazy for me before quickly losing interest in my existence. This is the story of my life.

Not long after this I head home proper weaving through the glorified car park this is Balkerne Heights these days. When I get back it is just past 10PM and realistically I am not long for the evening.

Tonight on BBC2 is Detroit night with a couple of great but heartbreaking documentaries on the city and its music. Eventually I fall asleep during the music documentary just as the MC5 are going out and The Stooges coming in.

2010-03-12T11:00:00.005Z

Friday 12 March 2010

Tired this morning.

The drizzle is back.

As I drive to the station an ambulance goes whizzing past. Somebody somewhere got a head start on the day.

Once I shake off all this ill feeling omens for the day suddenly begin to look good as I manage to snag a premium parking spot close to the entrance of the station and under cover. It’s the small things.

Today while standing on the platform I spot the damaged Jonathan Ross lookalike, the goofy beanpole that just looks like life has beaten him to a pulp. I’m beginning to see him regularly now, he is my latest extra.

The train journey up to town turns out to be a breeze thankfully, no plate crowders just goodness.

Eventually I get into work in good time with a spring in my step. Quite frankly I should be exhausted but by now I have picked up and with arrival into London I just am not flagging.

On Radio One we get the weekly Golden Hour section on Chris Moyles and today “Smells Like Teen Spirit” gets a run out. For the win!

It seems weird hearing such a big and important song on such a moronic and simple radio show. In many ways I can’t help but feel that Chris Moyles is exactly what Kurt Cobain railed against throughout his career. Then I realise that next year this song will now be officially 20 years old. The defining song of our generation is scarily old now.

Operating in a very good mood this morning today turns out to be the day that I finally fork out for a BFI membership. Hopefully I will get some kind of priority booking privilege on the HBO weekend next month.

Beyond this the day is a disrupted one, a Friday where I find myself unable to focus even though today I am beginning work on the new company’s January accounts and I really have something substantial to sink my teeth into, work that does not necessarily occupy my entire attention, concentration or knowledge. Still even despite this I am worryingly and pathetically stunted.

For our department all the action occurs in the first hour of the morning beyond which our boss heads off to Sussex and the angry boss heads off to do his rounds (definition of rounds is open to debate here). Once they all go I am in effect left in charge. That never works out.

Soon the day reaches lunchtime with the others in the room moaning claiming that the day is dragging. On the contrary for me it appears to be flying by (much like my life). This is most definitely a blur day.

For lunch I plump for burger and chips, the first chips that I have had at the restaurant this year. I just feel the desire and need for something heavy today, especially in the light of being out yet again tonight and the likelihood of having any dinner seems low.

Just after lunch the Filipino gets a call from her daughter’s school to say that she is feeling poorly and with this she shoots off to collect her and take her home leaving just me and The Girl to run out the remainder of the afternoon and get on each other’s nerves. The sad truth is that we actually get on really well when we have to, who knows what all our constant ribbing is all about. Perhaps it is done in the name of entertainment for others or just the natural tedium and boredom of accountancy.

The afternoon turns out to be another dead zone of distraction and impatience. After wasting the majority of the day around 3PM I finally bed in and find some concentration to tear into work. For some reason there is something about Friday afternoons that makes me work hard, lends me the opportunity to be at my most productive. This is wrong.

When 5PM arrives The Girl leaves running out of the door while in comparison I remain, lingering in no rush or hurry as I don’t want to get to the AVANT! NOIR event too early.

As a result of having the office to myself I potter around for 45 minutes, trying to do some writing and stuff of my own. In the background Scott Mills plays his Wonder Years and all feels right with the world.

Eventually I head off just before 6PM and all goes well until I reach Baker Street only to discover that the tubes are fucked and come with a ten minute wait/delay.

Just as I stomp to check out my options at a better platform with a better line I see The Korean. With a striding panic I acknowledge her as I sense we mutually do so reluctantly but as we both make clumsy gestures to speak eventually we stop for a chat.

It actually turns out to be very nice to speak to her. She is a lot more friendlier than I recall and to be honest I always wanted to get on with her much better than we actually did. When I point out that next Friday is my second anniversary of leaving Baker Street she responds in shock.

We leave on good terms with saying how I thought of her when I began watching Entourage last summer (she was a fan).

From here I endeavour to get across to Liverpool Street but tonight the tube lines just aren’t making this trip easy. After waiting at Baker Street for far too long a time I end up getting back on the Jubilee Line and heading across on the Central Line. This move actually works out as I eventually arrive at Liverpool Street with a little bit of time to kill so I snag another Starbucks for dinner (such is my thing these days).

With coffee in hand I proceed to get lost in East London as I attempt to find the Toynbee Theatre on Commercial Street. Why didn’t I just take the obvious route? I wind up passing Whitechapel Gallery (and Aldgate East station) before finding Commercial Street by accident and then soon thankfully Toynbee Theatre. Really though this is making quite the meal of things.

There is a noticeably older and smarter audience attached to tonight’s event (as opposed to Wednesday) which is AVANT! NOIR. All the long this has been the event to really stand out for me as part of this year’s London Word Festival and with each addition over the weeks the bill has only improved.

After an awkward wait in a pack bar area we are handed a programme of proceedings and step inside the Toynbee Theatre which is an amazing old school building smelling of must and reeking of history. There is a distinct air of literature attached to the venue as impressively two sets of instruments sit either side of the stage. The vibe feels set for a night akin to those classic radio nights Woody Allen featured in Radio Days. Truly this magnificent venue feels like something of a best kept secret.

AVANT! NOIR opens with GET THE BLESSING taking to the stage and launching into a solid set of modern jazz. With an electric bass player on board he perfectly frames the sonic activities of the other three players in the quartet as it gives proceedings a distinct shape for the wail.

There is a true ferocity to their playing, one that l am in a way unaccustomed to as so rarely these days do I encounter it in the playing of any music act. This is how post rock was supposed to go, to achieve such levels of proficiency and intensity all at the same moment in time.

The first reading of the night comes via CATHI UNSWORTH. With her splotch of black hair in her blonde hive she is confusingly alluring, definitely a trier. She deals in an interesting style of sixties noir, the kind of Soho fantasy and nostalgia that now feels long gone and a real loss to the value of London. Things were seedy in a much better way in the days she endeavours to recount in her work.

All in all it’s a tough sell, one that’s difficult to envisage in the way that she delivers it. Perhaps this is due to it being from the female perspective, from the victim perspective. Maybe even it is just down to the writing being bad, too trite and too laboured (but who am I to talk). It’s a very sexualised delivery detailing the kind of uncomfortable encounter I can’t help but think/feel people secretly fantasise about and desire.

With her contribution out of the way the screen behind the stage lights up into action with the HUZZAH NOIR video comic strip. It is a truly exciting piece of work as the story plays out on its own giant stage with magnificent penmanship being displayed in the most unique of methods. As GET THE BLESSING continues to expertly accompany the tale this is a truly revolutionary way of portraying an enormous piece of work, one most complimentary and fitting, everything is great about the arrangement, truly breathtaking.

The following reading is performed by COURTTIA NEWLAND who in the process proves something of a revelation. As GET THE BLESSING continue playing they proceed to back his prose where there is a true authority to his description of a modern day criminal encounter set in the heady days of the rave scene and organised guerrilla parties being held in fields. The words his uses and the manner in which he delivers them lends a very tangible degree of authenticity in a scene of disingenuous wannabes. His tale of selling drugs at the outdoor rave which gets messy after a raid and ends in murder is hyper realistic and very convincing. There is no glamour in this verbal assault, just a true onslaught of desperation and treachery. This is not the literature equivalent of Mephedrone.

At the close of his reading GET THE BLESSING wave off and an interval assumes. As the lights get raised on the room the exquisiteness of the theatre truly rings homes as the words remaining hanging in the air creating an exciting atmosphere pointing to this being greatest place in London right now.

The night resumes with LED BIB taking to the stage where they fire out a looser brand of jazz but remains just as driven. Within their ranks they possess an organ player which positively overdrives proceedings reminding me of Sun Ra and Tortoise playing at their height of their powers.

The first writer to take the stage is RAY BANKS who turns out to be a nasty looking writer from Scotland. I have to admit I had not heard of him prior to this event but I have now and that is the main thing. The short story he delivers addresses modern times, the credit crunch and running a failing business while everything falls apart at the seams. As times begin to become desperate he wicked describes a plot being hatched to do an insurance job, to benefit from wicked means and cash in using illegal measures. In other words burning his fucking place down.

Soon from his description it becomes apparent that the star of the story (the owner of the business) is not an expert at such things and as the hatched idea reaches fruition something goes wrong, things get worse and it all ends in a very sticky manner fitting of a noir conclusion and a wasteful fatality.

From here comes part 2 of HUZZAH NOIR as the story progresses amidst the smoky soundtrack of a perfect LED BIB accompaniment. The tale these guys have come up with and a weaving on screen is full of visual vitality and uncovers a time and a place so foreign to these days.

The readings end as TOBY LITT takes to the stage and reels off a story describing an individual stalking an ex one evening along the length and breadth of the Northern Line. Along the way the he mulls over what his actions are going to be as hesitation and confusion rains, hinting at homicide all the way.

LITT is a master of encapsulating a scene and a moment, taking in the small details and delivering them to create an ambience leaning towards a sinister outcome. In the end the mind prevails as more is insinuated of the event conclusion than revealed. Of the information offered though, you just know it’s not a nice ending.

As he exits the stage from here we get the final segment of HUZZAH NOIR which decamps to wartime France before concluding itself as a drunken dream.

The night concludes with GET THE BLESSING retaking the stage and endeavouring to blow LED BIB off the stage as the two bands go head to head and create one of the most powerful and majestic music moments I have seen in a very long time and the first to cause me to get goosebumps since Tortoise at The Garage back in August. The sheer intensity of the two bands hitting the max serves as some kind of sonic tornado that moves me in my seat and knocks me head. It is a truly astounding way to close proceedings.

When I emerge onto Commercial Street I am almost breathless, still reeling from the manner in which the set concluded.

Tonight this part of the world looks amazing. The lights of Commercial Street continue the trend of noir eclipsed by rare glows of neon and suspicious looking individuals passing as I head back to Liverpool Street station. There is a genuine buzz in the city air this evening.

The train ride home involves being sat next to a girl who spends the entire duration of the journey with her head in her hands between her legs. Then fifteen minutes in she begins to gurgle. It transpires that she got wrecked at a works do tonight and the guy with her is just some colleague accompanying her, making sure she gets home safely. Chivalrous.

Eventually we get back to Colchester without her being sick and it is being still a good decent hour (10.30PM). Once home I sit at my computer desk pumped and excited about proceedings, almost in the mood to write. In the background Jonathan Ross interviews a new thin Charlotte Church and all appears right with the world.

Soon I find myself heading to bed the happiest I have been in weeks.

2010-03-11T10:09:00.000Z

Thursday 11 March 2010

After the late one last night I am only able to muster up four hours sleep for today. Expect mania.

Things begin badly as on autopilot I brush my teeth instead of putting my contact lenses in meaning that I forget to have breakfast and now with a minty taste I am unable to do so.

In addition to this I find myself late leaving the flat this morning and as a result I wind up racing to get to the station on time for my train. Typically just to assist this all cars I encounter appear to be driving that extra bit cautiously today meaning I feel eternally stuck.

Invariably I wind up comfortably boarding the 6.59AM train on yet again the lightest/brightest morning of the year so far.

Once again National Express are mob handed at the barriers (seven strong) seemingly most interested in everyone holding/possessing a ticket today. Perhaps they should put a bit more effort into the running of their train system/service first in order to justify such measures. Bad PR peoples.

It is 7.57AM as I step across Liverpool Street station towards the tubes this morning. It only feels like mere hours since I was last here. Actually it was.

I feel deflated today, victim of an anticlimax.

From here the morning is an ache, an exercise into how far I can push myself before I just begin screaming/hurling abuse at all around me.

On cue the consultant trots in and with it a series of queries I do not have the patience or passion to answer today. He then asks me how far I am into the new company’s accounts for January. I tell him that I have not finished them because I am still awaiting his nod on the December accounts. Does he really not see just what a nuisance he is?

In the end that sad truth is that I fear the highlight of the afternoon is when I make The Girl laugh to the point that she accidentally spits out biscuit over her desk with a nasty splodge attaching itself to the spare printer. Disgusting. At the moment she is beginning to say that my laugh is infectious. I wish my work ethic was.

This afternoon turns out to be the day that the winding up of one of our companies gets made public and appears in the London Gazette meaning that we now get bombarded and inundated with calls from various vulture companies looking to offer their financial services. You just know they have no idea who they are contacting when they call asking to speak to a silent director. The penny always drops.

Eventually 5.30PM arrives and with it comes a dash to Foyles on Charing Cross Road in order to see the HANIF KUREISHI Q&A and talk.

In the end I get there easily even with enough time to try and buy some tickets to see the Daniel Clowes and Chris Ware event in May. It would appear that I am early for tickets as they don’t seem to have even been printed up yet. Thankfully the guy behind the counter is more helpful than I would ever be and with it I manage to snag a receipt for a couple of tickets. Score.

From here I head upstairs to The Gallery to where the HANIF KUREISHI event is taking place. When I arrive the room is already filling up. Nobody here is cool.

KUREISHI is a class act. The conversation delves into the origins of his latest book, a collection of short stories. In the process of the grilling he covers both where the stories come from a publishing standing and at an inspiration/idea level.

Early into proceedings he reads the story that “got him banned at the BBC” which focuses on the story of a Muslim cameramen who records hostage executions. With the story KUREISHI puts himself into the mindset of a peripheral character in the piece, of a person who is witnessing such horrors and taking it all in his stride. What is he thinking as this all takes place? Ultimately it is just a job for him, one that may compromise his ethics but at the same time puts food on his family’s table. It would seem this would be a concept to horrid for certain powers that be to conceive but as KUREISHI says he like to tread unexplored ideas with his work. If nothing else it keeps it all fresh and interesting.

On the whole he is very depreciating and comedically grounded while at the same time carrying himself like a person that has it all worked out, like the cat that got the cream. In a good way.

Almost immediately he clocks that he is in a room of wannabe writers, of people yearning to accomplish even a whiff of what he has.

A lot of the focus is about family and how you spend your entire life in one variation of it or other. He is extremely honest and frank, verging on revealing to the point expressed intrusion, which I guess is the key to his appeal for me, what makes him so witty and humorous. Elsewhere he expresses a fondness for Morton Feldman and how it is much to the chagrin of his family.

KUREISHI describes writing as being madness coupled with control and talent, with the highest importance being placed on the control aspect. He offers that is always remains a version of insanity but once it begins paying the bills it is at this point it becomes acceptable. Similarly when talking about the process of writing these days he feels his approach has now changed to the point that he now wants to get his writing down to two words a page as opposed to the overblown, hyperbolic expression every writer engages in at the beginning. He is pretty correct these days in wanting efficiency from his writing and getting to the point as fast as possible. Also in admission he states that he knows a book is almost finished at the point he gets bored of the concept and how he rushes to get it finished before it runs the risk of boring the reader also. This is truly informed knowledge he is sharing tonight (much like when I saw him at Latitude).

From here a Q&A occurs in which the quality in line of questioning varies but always KUREISHI remains accommodating and open, refreshingly modest. Throughout the Q&A I spot a gorgeous lady staring at him in wonder and afterwards I see her approaching him and I am sure she is some kind of literary groupie.

I don’t hang around for the book signing, instead I am tired and really want to get home tonight. Eventually I find myself on a train heading home where I am sat opposite a handsome couple curled up together both reading books, terrible books at that. I think this is all that I want from life though.

When I get home thankfully it is not too late although soon I am falling asleep not long afterwards.

2010-03-10T10:00:00.000Z

Wednesday 10 March 2010

It would appear that I feel asleep during the trailers on my DVD last night. Now that’s tiredness in action.

Today is Day 100 of the One Hundred Days To Make Me A Better Person project for the London Word Festival. With it comes a sense of excitement and accomplishment coupled with relief that it is now all over. There is a party in Dalston tonight and we indeed shall celebrate.

When I get to the station this morning ticket checks are heavy for some reason. If only National Express East Anglia put as much effort into the actual running of their service as they are squeezing pennies out of their customers today. We can all dream.

The ride up to town is OK today until inevitably somebody decides to sit next to me at Ingatestone. Have I really reached the point/stage now whereby I get offended when people choose to sit next to me? I’m a touchy motherfucker these days.

Eventually the train pulls into Liverpool Street slightly late. This is typical considering I wanted to get into work early today and catch Josie from 100 Days on 6music.

Through some kind of victory though I manage to get over town speedily and wind up being first into the restaurant to deal with the alarms (and an Eastern European gentleman waiting with an alcohol delivery). Happily this is all in time to catch Josie on 6music plugging tonight’s event in Dalston. Unfortunately when she does so it would appear that she doesn’t even appear to know the name of the venue and a person begins to wonder what it is all about.

From here people slowly filter in to begin the day and soon The Girl is complaining about the radio being tuned to 6music. With Josie now gone there seems little point in putting up with her complaints and leaving the station on. It is always strange with this one, she kicks up about what station the radio is tuned to and complains how boring and repetitive Radio One is (fair comment) but whenever I take a day off I always return the following day to find Radio One in place on the radio. Truly I believe she just complains about these things in order to annoy me.

Today the morning turns out to be another aimless one. Around lunchtime the consultant turns up out of the blue and with him proceedings take an explicit turn for the worse. I had been told he wouldn’t be in until tomorrow (Thursday). What is going on with this guy?

In the end thankfully it is not too painful. When it transpires that I have not been alerted to an off balance sheet transaction of half a million he actually appears to sympathise with my cause.

As my boss heads off to watch his daughter play netball not long afterwards the consultant leaves also prompting a huge sigh of relief and a sense of joy to proceedings. In the end the day closes without drama and as a result is a breeze.

Once 5.30PM comes around I find myself slow making moves, I’m paranoid about getting to the place in Dalston early and finding myself a no mates where lots of other 100 Day project types will all know each other.

In the end I head off around 5.50PM aiming for Highbury & Islington with view to getting an overground train to Dalston Kingsland. First however I make a detour to the St Johns Wood Starbucks which unfortunately appears to be going through something of an overnight makeover when I arrive at it. Denied. From here I briefly walk up and down St Johns Wood High Street frantically looking for coffee before throwing in the towel and hitting the tube.

As ever it’s something of an ache going through Kings Cross during the rush. Just when I begin to think that nothing beats the Central Line for travel agony I find myself being reminded of just how rotten Kings Cross can be.

When I eventually get to Highbury & Islington typically I find myself met with an overground service that is not in operation. This is fucking bad.

Confused I head straight to Starbucks with view of getting a comfort drink. That makes sense right?

Eventually after staggering around dizzy for a number of minutes I finish off my venti Caramel Machiatto and board a bus heading towards Hackney Wick. That’s the correct direction right?

On the bus I head upstairs and sit next to some tightly wound girl. As the names of places flash up on the information board it all just serves to confound me. During the brief journey next to me the pikey looking girl begins rolling a cigarette which I guess means I’ll be having to get up for her soon. If you ever want to see a Monk-esqe OCD reaction from me, do this.

Finally I wind up on what I believe is Dalston Junction and Kingsland Street. This is an area nicer than I recall it being. The people walking past me on the streets however appear to be crazy so yes I think I am in the right place. I see a blonde Chinese lady in those shiny leggings (girls are still wearing those?) having an argument with who appears to be her husband and who she promptly takes a child (her child) from. I am ashamed to admit this but when I first spotted her I thought she was on the game. Yes, I fancied her.

Soon I find myself passing the closed Dalston Kingsland train station where the lights appear to pale in comparison to those coming from the KFC and McDonalds in the vicinity.

I find Work Dalston almost by accident. As I pass The Vortex I think I recognise people sat at a table outside and as I slowly approach them soon it becomes evident my vision is failing me. From this I gain the realisation that everyone looks the same in this circle. Luckily I then spot a queue.

Once inside the building the 100 DAYS TO MAKE ME A BETTER PERSON event appears to be kicking off into a crazy scene. The queue indeed did reflect a huge interest and word is that tonight is a sell out.

Immediately I spot JOSIE LONG and head over to say “hi” to her for the first time since last summer’s Answer Me This event. Straight away I drop a bollock by asking, “is there a bar?” just as she suggests that I check out the 100 Days Museum.

From here I indeed step into the museum and it all looks fantastic. Many of the projects I have been following over the past three months are present including my favourites the Laurie Blog and Edward Ross’s 100 Tiny Moments.

On almost an entire wall is spread a wide selection of the various entries over the course of the project. Like the true egotist that I am I go off in search of my own entry and indeed soon find it. As I smile to myself I spot an attractive lady reading it also. There is great temptation to say to her “that Facebook Cull is my contribution/idea” but tactfully I remain modest and silent.

Thankfully Ryan who has been on a self-improvement/press up kick for the project soon joins me and in our way we celebrate our miniscule accomplishments.

Soon the show begins as JOSIE LONG takes to the stage. Early into her introduction she finds herself being heckled by a nine year old who can exhibit some slight middle class display of intelligence. Its funny the first few times she cuts into the JOSIE delivery but soon our apparent leader begins to subtly lose her rag with the kid. Unfortunately it would seem its parents are the owners of the builder or tenants or something.

From here JOSIE does a brief set of her pretend div spiel mentioning her own 100 days vows, pledges and efforts relaying her weird experiences of general niceness and doing things such as approaching strangers in something of an on paper legitimate attempt to better herself. It offers yuks.

After the introduction to proceedings ISY SUTTIE follows with a bright-eyed description of her previous 100 days that come via some doodles on a large canvas containing a small drawing per day. Often her tales suggest she is something of a happy drunkard but its fun all the same which occasionally leads to her performing a song in conjunction.

It has now been literally years since in last saw her perform and now with her Dobby from Peep Show persona it would appear that it is heavily spilling into her act. Which came first? She’s the chicken and the egg.

A couple of times she touches upon events via Facebook (including a song about it) which only serves to make me more feel validated in my choice of pursuit over the past three and a half months.

Shortly after her bit/set some kind of interval gets called as we head back to the bar to freshen up, invariably finding ourselves back at the museum.

After a piss where I fear I may have accidentally flashed some female punters (munters) with my ailing fella, we reconvene around the cool stuff. Slowly Ryan and I begin introducing ourselves to people and thus begins the mini ego ride I had been hoping for from this evening. In the process I meet Eddie Ross who has been producing the amazingly daily comic blog 100 Tiny Moments From My Past, Present And Future. For the event he has brought down with him a number of the pieces of original artwork lovingly and impressively framed in a very stylish manner. His incredibly talent is matched with his friendly personality.

Elsewhere I meet Gemma Seltzer who did the Speak To Strangers blog where she wrote daily 100 word stories about conversations with strangers. We all get are own samples and they are wonderful gifts. When I introduce myself as the guy that did the Facebook Cull she begins asking me various questions about, as if it featured a heavier degree of depth. It’s a gas.

It is at this point I return to collect my certificate for completing my 100 Days project and when I tell the girl which one was mine she tells me that it was one their favourites. All this stuff is cream to my fevered ego.

From here the second half of proceedings begins with a film by ALEX HORNE which features a seamless collection of daily five-second videos of his baby which serves to put everything into perspective. As the baby expresses fresh wonder towards the world around him in his gestures it is a piece of work to make the coldest person broody. Needless to say the baby is gorgeous, all babies are gorgeous, but with this piece of work ALEX HORNE really taps into something beautiful and special.

After the video the night takes a strange turn when SARA PASCOE picks up the baton and proceeds to run through a description of her 100 days of writing letters. Tonight we get treated to the long version of her project as she acts determined to include every letter she sent with lengthy descriptions of who and why. The piece really lacks pace and by the end even JOSIE LONG is making gestures to wrap it up. Being a piece comparable to my own project naturally I see areas of fault where I believe mine succeeded in comparison. Halfway through she breaks down as she explains how her gran passed away and she hadn’t sent her a letter as part of the project and it brings a real humanity to her work but ultimately lacking much of a bite or purpose her read through often feels like an extended meander.

The event closes with a ceremonial cake and a set from THE PICTISH TRAIL who far from being the lame folk singer as advertised/described turns out to be an energised Scottish songwriter who pumps out a stonking selection of thirty second songs in short sharp shots of fun. If Guided By Voices, Wire and the Minuteman have taught us nothing else, it is that half-minute songs can often represent a symphony. Perhaps this is the key to curing music.

As the barrage of tracks continue ADEM joins him for some percussion on anything at his disposal. The song subjects vary greatly but more times than not they are expertly executed, the quality of which allows a person to forgive him not keeping up with producing a song a day for the allotted one hundred. The only gripe I would have is how he failed to make the songs available, instead just streaming them via Myspace. This sadly lets down the DIY ethos of the project.

While the set is occurring out back in the museum Ryan polishes off his final set of press-ups, doing one hundred in front of a small audience and meeting his own goal. In many ways this represents a more worthy project, one that has exhibited more dedication (as opposed to producing/writing 36 songs that haven’t even been made available as MP3s).

With a cheer from the main room suddenly the event comes to a triumphant close as the day/night creeps towards midnight. I have to concede that the event turns out to be something of an anticlimax and disappointment, desperately lacking in the high five spirit that the project had been exuded throughout its course.

After wishing Eddie Ross a safe journey back to Edinburgh I head to the nearest bus stop in the hope of getting back to Liverpool Street and home tonight. Eventually a bus turns up and I escape the clutches of Dalston through Shoreditch until I finally recognise Bishopsgate. Not used to riding buses predictably I get off a stop early, almost getting sliced in half by the closing doors in the process.

By this point Day 100 is officially over. With a wait ahead of me I buy a McDonalds meal, half from hunger, half from celebration.

The train journey home turns out to be as tiring as you would imagine and ultimately sees me getting back around the wrong side of 2AM.

Football season is over.

2010-03-05T10:03:00.002Z

Friday 5 March 2010

Dream: E4 is coming from the South Bank where the Sugababes are their guests. The group appears to have four members now. This is getting silly.

I wake up ahead of time this morning with the day still dark outside. With it I possess a pounding headache which was perhaps brought on by too much horrible tea and caffeine last night. I could feel it drying me out as I consumed it. Poor showing on my part. All in all it is a rough start to Friday, one where I am sure I am going to be sick.

As a result of these shenanigans I am late leaving home this morning but despite a rush against the subsequent traffic hold ups I still make the train relatively safely. Indeed I actually score the equivalent of what used to be “my seat.”

Taking in some (almost) fresh air thankfully my head begins to clear as I prepare myself mentally for a potentially fiery day ahead, getting my stories (and excuses) straight in my mind. I may have to deliver at some point today.

At Witham when the train stops some guy in a North Face coat sits opposite me and I begin to scowl. I really just don’t know what it is about North Face clothing that makes me so angry. Is it the combination of it looking so bad combined with the insinuation that the wearer of the garment is a regular on the ski slopes, suggesting a person of wealth. Go fuck yourselves.

Once up into town and at Liverpool Street today once more the Metropolitan Line is still out meaning that once more I find myself on a busy shitty tube where people invade my personal space and proceed to make my life briefly full of misery. Sometimes the extras resemble sheep to me as every tube on this line this week has resembled the wanker train.

Eventually I get to St Johns Wood and I head into work with reservation, on my guard and defensive. I was told the angry boss wasn’t going to be in today but as I arrive at the restaurant I spot his car and as I reach the top of the stairs I spot him at his desk, first to arrive as ever. On cue I wish him “good morning” in my least apologetic manner. Want some?

When I sit on my seat this morning it feels truly fucked and wrecked now. I fear now it’s only a matter of time before it collapses beneath, potentially creating a crippling moment underneath. When it happens hilarity will ensue and hopefully I will not land funnily on my spine and will not require a wheelchair as a result. Have I been watching too much Garden State? Done being in a wheelchair the commute would be hell.

Gradually people begin to slope in and it would appear that the past few days have just been a lot of hot air although the Filipino does correctly comment that her job has now doubled.

I check my emails for the past couple of days and there is nothing there from the consultant so slowly I set about pulling together a work plan for the day and doing my bit but not before I buy some Southbank tickets for Udderbelly shows (Andy Zaltzman and Alexei Sayle).

The day pans out as a distracted one, my list of tasks feels an endless one and I don’t really know where to start.

It turns out that the consultant phoned up yesterday to in effect check up on me. When he was told that I was not in apparently this did not sit well with as he registered some disgust in my direction. It seems he is now going to call today, I guess to further check up on me.

Eventually we reach lunchtime and in the style of a true nihilist I go for sausage, baked beans and mashed potato. Fuck it, I no longer care.

I enter into the afternoon still with a lot to do. My concentration isn’t assisted as my boss gets into some work of his own with me that holds me up and takes me away from my own duties while all the time The Girl persists in telling me all afternoon how I am selfish. What did I do? Well, I guess it’s more what I didn’t do.

Eventually away from these two I get back to my work, happily missing the consultant’s phonecall (which my boss takes instead).

Tonight I am supposed to be hitting the Roundhouse with Germaine to see MF DOOM. I have already been boasting about this today but as the working day nears a conclusion I still have not heard from her. This worries me. Eventually however she thankfully gets in touch and touches base.

With time to spare I work a little late and finish off the accounts even though my boss’s adjustments are in my opinion distorting, verging on nonsense. If needs be I guess.

Once done I step downstairs and stop back to get a little business drunk with the boss before walking from St Johns Wood towards Camden and the Roundhouse for DOOM.

The walk through these streets is a great one, a truly impressive experience. This is Disney London, the stuff that is saved for postcards and the movies and unfortunately the existence that seems out of bounds for anyone working for a living. Herein lies some of the most impressive and largest suburban looking houses anywhere in the country (maybe the world). I would genuinely like to feel I will live here one day but common sense suggests that it sadly won’t happen for me.

Originally the plan for this evening was to meet Germaine at The Pembroke for 7.30PM but just as I head towards the pub (slightly before 7PM) she changes her mind and requests if it can be meeting at Belgo for 8PM, which isn’t much use to me bowling up to the pub at this time. Not wishing to look a gift horse in the mouth however I comply.

For the best part of an hour I sit in the beer garden of The Pembroke nursing a pint and typing notes into my iPhone. By now I have a real buzz on which is possibly which helps me remain outside as the night begins to get colder and colder.

Eventually I get to Belgo for 8PM and thankfully she soon turns up. From here we step into

Belgium

’s finest and order weird beers. Strong stuff. At what point was the combination of chocolate and beer considered a delicacy? It’s the combination of a true mad man.

After catching up (she recently spent a weekend in New York) we head to the Roundhouse where we get our magic gratis in. With the comp ticket comes a green wristband which apparently equates to VIP.

With this in mind we head in search of the special zone and tonight it appears to be the entire top row of the building. This feels so wrong. As we look down beneath us is a sea of people, white people.

Tonight the event is the A Taste Of Sonar festival in which so much hip electronic music is being wheeled out for those looking move in the right circles. DOOM has a stage time of 10PM but typically hip hop that hour comes and goes as he is nowhere to be seen. With this the crowd of white types begin to get restless and boo. The natives are impatient.

As the time heads towards 11PM a ripple goes through proceedings and a man in a mask takes to the stage and starts spitting. Before the show there were rumours circling of a fake DOOM performing at these shows and the best way of telling his identity is to check for a scar on his hand. That and the fact that this guy is white. Ultimately it all serves as one big hip hop prick tease.

Then we get view of the man at side stage from our vantage as he emerges from backstage with his posse like a prize-fighter on his way to the title. When he finally takes to the stage all kicks as the set begins proper, hurling his mark onto proceedings via a huge dose of shouting.

Here is the rub. Live hip hop is not a given art form, never necessarily the most polished of performances or events. Tonight this is DOOM. With his lateness you sense that this also equates to little in the way of soundcheck or preparation as all the subtleties of his act fly out of the window and the disturbed/disrupted beats rule/dominate the show. I hate to hear myself writing (even thinking) this but ultimately live hip hop can often unfortunately offend descend into the state of just one man shouting something that resembles his songs. I truly believe that the live setting is not one that is strongest set in.

Gripes like a fart aside DOOM is a great thing to witness. Wheeling out mostly material from Born Like This he bounces around the stage like a person at a homecoming. “Cellz” devoid of the Bukowski sample turns out to be something of an abortion while “Gazzillion Ear” is true for the win.

Halfway through the set he hops behind a speaker and collapses. He’s just teasing. Or is he?

From here he picks up the set, yelling his way through the remainder. Eventually the set comes thundering to an end just as things are beginning to become a bit late and panicky.

Germaine and I leave with the throngs as the Sonar Festival continues in full flow. When we get to Chalk Farm tube we part ways because the train is a Charing Cross branch and not a Bank one.

Eventually I drunkenly change lines at Tottenham Court Road and bomb across to

Liverpool Street

on the Central Line. By running at the station to my platform I just manage to reach the 12.18AM by a minute. This represents a total victory.

A couple of times on the train home I pass out before getting back to Colchester just after 1.30AM.

When I finally step home BBC4 is repeating its Metal Britannia documentary. Even though it’s great (a great rewrite of music history) this is what I pass out to.

2010-03-01T08:59:00.001Z

Monday 1 March 2010

This morning I had some kind of dream, probably wrapped around my TV being left on as the closing (and loud) ceremony of the Winter Olympics taking place. Nobody responded to me when I asked “are Devo playing?” I guess people just do not care.

All the news today is regarding natural disasters. After Chile has been hit hard with a horrific earthquake now it is mainland Europe that is being stunned by floods and now that they have arrived at France there are warnings of its next stop being this country. I have to say it is pretty alarming to see Essex (and the rest of East Anglia) on the warning map. Should I be buying sandbags and bracing myself at this time? I always knew it was smart to buy a first floor flat. I didn’t think GMTV could get any worse but now that it is beginning to resemble an Al Gore documentary it really isn’t good.

Leaving the flat today it is into a light but very cold morning. In the grand scheme of things though I can live with the chill provided there is sun to counteract it. Once the nip and bite is out of the air it will begin to resemble my favourite weather.

The journey up to London holds little in the way of thrill today. Upon arrival at Liverpool Street as I cross the station the situation on the tube platform is rammed. What has gone wrong? Welcome to Monday.

Eventually against my wishes I board a tube where I have to stand all the way to Baker Street, which is something of an unpleasant rarity for this journey ordinarily. Bellalike boards also, standing up for one stop before getting off at Moorgate seemingly with view to getting a better train, one on which she can sit her arse.

This morning I am able to retain/maintain sanity by listening to the audiobook of A People’s History Of America by Howard Zinn. This is a guy that Robin Ince has been recommending for the longest time and with the sad event of Zinn’s recent passing even though I have left it late to check him out at least I have got there in the end.

Today the chapters I am listening to swiftly move on from the civil rights movement (and loss of faith in Martin Luther King) to American atrocities committed during the Korean War, the description of which quite literally sees my jaw drop. This was a part of American history I had never heard of before, although in a way I cannot say I am surprised by it. The hypocrisies of that nation are being to astound me more and more now every time I rub up against and learn about them. The Germans in the first past of the last century had nothing on the monster that it has become now. And I doubt China will prove any friendlier as a superpower, once they finally bother to pull their finger out. We are all doomed.

With this thought in mind my week begins surprisingly well, I feel informed and intelligent for a change. Soon after getting into work the angry boss hands me a coffee. Good morning Monday.

Today I am busy, sinking my teeth into the late January accounts (not my fault). My commitment to the cause is confirmed when the consultant phones and tells me of his intentions to come in on Wednesday, my scheduled day off this week. Promptly I move it to Thursday, never say I am not a team player (fuck you Moriarty).

I get rumbled on the Facebook Cull today as Day 86 sends me a message with the opening line “I knew you would delete me”. Out of cowardice and fear I only browse the preview and do not open the actual mail. I can’t face conflict today, I’m too busy.

My bank aches this morning as I finally get around to paying my annual accountancy membership fees. There is £189 I will never see again.

Proceedings take something of a dip as suddenly I have to pull my finger out as things become busy but once more it just doesn’t quite go. I blame it on being Monday. By the end of the day though I have almost redeemed things and posted the entire bank and done the reconciliation. This is foundation of bookkeeping, if you get this right you are well on your way to have spot on accounts.

Leaving work tonight I aim direct to Leicester Square and the Arts Theatre for tonight’s performance of the play PARTY. Once there I collect my ticket only to release that I have a hell of a lot of time to kill before the performance.

Not wishing to hang around like wallflower and social leper I go for a wander around Covent Garden where by accident I discover the whereabouts of The Ivy. So this is where all the rich and famous reside for a casual good time. I look at the man on the door in his silly hat wondering just how much of a punch he can possibly pack and if I have it in me to swoop past him for a look around. Not a chance in hell.

By this point I am now hungry but contradictorily not in the mood to eat. I also do not feel able to intake any caffeine so instead I head to the Café Nero near the tube station and snag a hot chocolate for a sugar fix. Perhaps I am diabetic.

Once purchased I stand on the streets of Covent Garden cum Leicester Square watching a busy Monday night unfold around me. It all feels like a bad MTV video as I stand in the middle of proceedings as if yearning to be noticed.

Eventually I head into the theatre where I take my seat and PARTY kicks off its opening night.

The last (and only) time I was in this venue was to watch the Bill Hicks Slight Return show. It was a fun Friday evening in September 2007 and one of the first times I ever spoke to Zoe as we left work together that evening. Before the show I bought my first ever proper iPod, an 80GB that remained in its box for two years before I look it out the box and used it for the first (and only) time last summer. That night in 2007 I also went to American Apparel and used the vouchers that the studio gave me as a leaving gift.

PARTY turns out to be great fun, full of quirk and a terrific dig at the blind idealism of being upper middle class. Through the duration of the show hypocrisies and contradictions are exposed in confused fashion as the characters almost choke themselves trying to do and say the right things while getting their own piece of the cake.

The cast is very impressive and this is the real strength of the play and ultimately I feel its saviour. In the middle of proceedings is the excellent Tim Key playing the bewildered son of a printing press owner having been invited under false pretence who really appears to have just come for cake. Elsewhere Anna Crilly (the housekeeper from Lead Balloon) puts in a solid performance (although she is funnier when she has an Eastern European accent). Elsewhere during the course of the play I find myself developing a crush on Katy Wix.

During the course of the play it nails peoples attitudes echoing both the voices of certain friends of mine as well as the way and manner in which mainstream political parties endeavour to please everybody by treading on eggshells and looking very awkward in the process. Watching the various characters slowly twist themselves up in knots and bicker is something that is tangible at all levels and on the few occasions that their masks drop there is true comedy as they then promptly act sheepish trying to take back what they say.

All that said I have to admit when the play ends it is at a point where I am not quite sure where it is going so I am slightly relieved when it comes to a finale (a funny conclusion).

From here I burst out onto the streets of Leicester Square boarding a tube and changing at Holborn with view to getting across to Liverpool Street in time to get a good train home. In the end I wind up snagging the 9.18PM train to Clacton while also grabbing a Madras Beef pasty in the process. As a result of the early night I find myself home just after 10.30PM where Newswipe and The Virtual Revolution are being repeated on BBC2. The perfect ending.

2010-02-26T10:11:00.003Z

Friday 26 February 2010

This morning I experience a rude awakening around 5AM as something on my TV screams at me. Startled but secure from here instead of turning it off however I just put it on mute.

Quickly I fall asleep again before eventually being rudely awakened again, then this time by my routine alarm clock buzz. This always sucks.

How do I feel today? OK, not great but not bad. I pray for no rain today, I had enough of that stuff last night.

Flipping on GMTV this morning there is no news just celebrities. They may as well not bother broadcasting and just show cartoons instead. I can’t help but feel they might be somewhat more informative.

Eventually I head out around 6.40AM as per routine. Leaving our building the mystery jacket is still draped over the banister. Even more intriguing though is how the safety latch is down on our entrance door. What is going on? What if it had been down when I arrived home last night and I wasn’t able to get into my own home? That would have been troublesome.

As I head towards my car the stranger is still parked in my allocated spot and its wiper is still standing up. I wonder what the guy’s reaction will be when he discovers this. Will he (or she) get the message? Will they get angry knowing that it is me? Will they look to gain revenge? Fortunately I don’t think the rest of the world is as petty as me.

Finally on the train this morning when it stops at Chelmsford a Before And After girl decides to sit next to me and spend a good portion of the journey applying her makeup. I wonder if any of it is falling onto me. I wonder if she is pretty, worth taking a glance at. Certainly it is evident she is making an effort, even if it is just on the train. She is young, younger than most of the other soulless females on this train. Should I be considering it an honour at this time? She picked me to sit next to me.

The train pulls into Liverpool Street at 8AM this morning late. I thought it was just the 7.03AM train that let me down in this way. What is wrong with this picture? Why does incompetence rule supreme through my every day?

Fortunately as I get to the tube platform there is a train already waiting for me. Small breaks. Unfortunately however when I board the carriage it reeks of cheap aftershave. People.

London feels quiet this morning; I guess things are already winding down in anticipation for the weekend.

Today possesses promise towards being a good day because I am at that lovely point of accounts prep where there is plenty of stuff to sink my teeth into, plenty of stuff that doesn’t necessarily require much thought to do.

The office is incredibly quiet today, nobody is around and for the majority of the day it is just our department sauntering around the second floor. We rule the school.

Things turn exciting when I discover that the Harlem Globetrotters are playing at Wembley Arena in June. Just a few weeks ago I spotted their dates in Ireland and I sent out a beacon to anyone that might be interested in coming along. Nobody was. Now that they’re playing in my yard (almost) I immediately snap up a ticket not even bothering to see if anyone wants to come along (I doubt they will).

From here my day at work eventually proves to be a productive one as the ball finally gets rolling and I begin to get stuff done. For some reason I always discover gusto on Friday afternoons. In the end though the day zips by.

Eventually 5PM arrives and from here I head down to Green Park and across to the Curzon Cinema on Shaftsbury Avenue where I get a ticket for the new Michael Moore movie.

As I buy the ticket from the girl in the booth she complains to her colleague about suddenly feeling sick. Is this really the effect that I have on people?

With time to kill I head to Fopp for a browse where I stagger around the shop without actually buying anything. I’ve changed.

Back at the Curzon I take my seat and await CAPITALISM: A LOVE STORY. Just before the screening they show that silly UK Film Council advert where Jaime Winstone thanks the audience for coming to the cinema rather than downloading it at home. As she says “thank you” to the audience the weirdo sat next to me responds “thank you.” At this point I would have liked to have moved seats but annoyingly at the Curzon you have to stay where they stick you. Just as concerning is how a few people laugh at the guy.

CAPITALISM: A LOVE STORY unsurprisingly turns out to be a frustrating movie. As ever with a Michael Moore he is able to inform with revelations but then he goes and trivialises matters too much. Quite frankly these days he could do worse than to stay off the screen. In a time where Alex Gibney did such a good job with Enron: The Smartest Men In The Room and managing to keep everything serious while remaining compelling viewing and on the flipside we now have shows such as The Bugle providing satire and more cutting edge stuff, Moore seems stuck in a mediocre middle in comparison.

The movie begins with the sight of a house getting busted out by a convoy of police cars. It is home video footage that you just know Moore creamed himself over. Unfortunately it is also footage that never gets fully explained although the insinuation from the rest of the documentary lets you know exactly what it was about.

Over the course of the movie there is a strong degree of information supplied coupled with moments of pathos but when it gets cartoonised it begins to fall short of its intentions. Unfortunately though the movie ends with Moore saying tongue in cheek that he is tired of having to make these movies and as the screen goes black it all feels like a horrible attempt at some kind of rallying call to the viewer, which judging by the lack of numbers in this day and age now feels like a message that is losing its punch. The manner in which Moore addresses us at the end almost serves to offend me, leaving me feeling patronising and almost undoing all the positive aspects/elements of what came during the movie. I don’t quite feel the level of anger that I did when I saw Fahrenheit 911 but I certainly feel annoyance.

Swiftly I exit the cinema and as I do so it is with a slight hump, which partly explains why I do not bother to say “hello” to my Japanese friend/acquaintance Junko when I think I spot her. My bad.

Outside on Shaftsbury Avenue I find myself with time to spare/kill before hitting the comedy and being hungry I head to Starbucks for another coffee dinner. From here I take a quick stroll to Trafalgar Square to check out what Nelson’s Column looks like on a Friday night before heading back to Soho.

Once inside Soho Theatre I head to the studio where I take a central seat tactically chosen so as to not be drawn into proceedings with BRIAN GITTINS this evening. I sit here so that I able to hide if need be and avoid finding myself dragged on stage.

Stepping into the room I spot Marcus Brigstocke and then Tim Key follows a little later suggesting that this is something of a hot ticket this evening.

Eventually the lights go down and as the room goes black the sound of snooker commentary seeps out of the PA and rings around the room for an uncomfortably long time. During this period a late punter steps through the door letting daylight in on magic and making us all think that it is BRIAN GITTINS making his arrival.

Suddenly ELP comes booming out and so does BRIAN GITTINS gripping a mop and playing it like a guitar before switching to an ironing (irony) board for the keyboard parts. This is how to start a show spectacularly (on a budget).

Swiftly he cuts the music dead and proceeds to assault the audience with the absurd and dig in with plenty of excruciating and awkward moments with the audience.

Early on he points out a seat that has been set out by the side of the stage, which he has saved for The Queen. When it becomes apparent that she is not showing up this evening he drags a poor woman out of the audience, sits her down and makes her Queen. As a gesture of putting a cherry on top of the cake he places a stamp on her forehead for that extra touch of authenticity.

Once she “the Queen” has been established in place from here more awkward audience participation occurs as he begins grilling people as part of his “Gittins To Know You” portion of his act. Thankfully from where I am sat he cannot reach or even see me. It is terrifying stuff.

From here he drags an overzealous man onstage in order to do his Spandau Ballet “Gold (Goat)” bit. The guy is slightly excitable, to the point that GITTINS cannot get a word in. Seemingly cheesed off he then suggests that the guy read some jokes from one of his gag sheets. Typically the guy hasn’t got his glasses so instead a thirteen year old lad gets dragged from the front row onstage to read the jokes instead. Not one to be sentimental about such things GITTINS proceeds to heckle the kid from behind the stage. And rightfully so.

Once things eventually return to BRIAN he does a number of knock knock jokes with himself (“knock knock”, “who’s there?”, “Barry George”, *GRIMACE*)

Eventually it all builds to an astonishing climax where he drags four more people onstage and proceeds to pull out rubber horror masks from his suitcase for them to wear. There is an unfortunate moment when he pulls out a bald mask only to realise his stooge/mark is also bald. An expression of awkwardness gets pleasingly posted to the audience. Once the masks are on it makes for a truly horrific sight. You can’t help but imagine the display of confusion on the horror expressions is only being echoed/repeated on the faces of the people inside the masks.

With everyone ugly established and in place GITTINS calls for the “Hokey Cokey” at which point he sets about leading the dance and encouraging his creations to join. As they just stand confused exhibiting a collective shrug this only serves to infuriate GITTINS as he begins to shout at the freak show to dance.

It ends on a high as afterwards I storm out thinking that one of the people dragged onstage was a manager from one of our sites (a manager I do not really like).

I get the Friday night tube across town to Liverpool Street where I manage to snag the 11.18PM train home.

Upon getting home it comes with a sense of victory.

To get to sleep I put on Ghost Dog and soon I find myself drifting away.

2010-02-25T09:14:00.000Z

Thursday 25 February 2010

Today is the brightest morning yet so far this year, not that you would know it from the way in which I emerge into proceedings. Once again I stayed up far too late last night and now with two scheduled nights out in a row ahead of me this isn’t looking good.

Unsurprisingly I am on the drag after leaving the flat this morning, so what better time to choose than now to be sorting my Fall CDs into chronological order. Where the hell do the origins of this distraction come from? Unsurprisingly as a result of this when I jump into my car it becomes apparent to me that I have forgotten something. After a quick rummage about my being I realise that I have left my iPhone (my Tricorder) back in my flat. Without this I am lost, without this I am dead.

Eventually I find myself speeding towards the station running the risk of missing my train. Typically today is a red-light morning, as when I approach each light it turns red, just for me.

Once on the platform I manage to easily catch my train but things fail to improve as a guy cuts in front of me when boarding the train and he steals the seat I had mentally earmarked. Fiend.

From here the journey calms down although as we near London the fucking thing yet again beaches just outside of Liverpool Street. Why and how does this happen? What are we waiting for?

For a second morning as I walk across Liverpool Street station towards the tube platform I pass the lady that looks like the spitting image of a character from Avatar (albeit not blue). Is this a symptom of Pandora Depression? Have I been suckered? Hand me some blue Prozac now.

On the tube platform I miss Bellalike this morning, which is a drag considering I feel I got a smile to work on/with yesterday. Instead today I just get stuck with balloon people taking up too much space on the tube.

As I emerge from St Johns Wood it is with some kind of pained gusto and the knowledge that the wheels of work are about to begin rolling again, pending the receipt of a set of journals from the consultant. As I step into the building I am listening to the Westwood podcast. Its funny and all but how bad must his show suck if from the three hours broadcast they can only muster between 5 and 10 minutes of highlights.

Once in the office and at my desk I attempt to get some writing done before the start of play. I am currently labouring over the three toughest Facebook culls, the ones that will potentially cause most trouble. Once into the nineties those will be the vicious culls that come with a grudge but for now these marginal entries are almost too close to call.

Today the Filipino brings in more biscuits including special controversial Filipino biscuits from Spain for me.

Frustratingly the consultant has not come up with the journals. This leaves me slightly holding my dick on the work front, unable to progress. I stagger through the morning and give it until lunchtime for him to come up with the information and adjustments. Ultimately the morning turns to afternoon and the adjustments fail to arrive resulting in my not having much work to do. Why do I spend my working life having to wait on other people?

For lunch I opt back to penne with full knowledge that tonight I will be out and probably won’t be having dinner. Now is the time to fill up.

In the afternoon despite not getting the consultant’s adjustments I decide to roll the accounts and finally begin work on January, when in reality they should have been long since completed by now.

After a late surge 5.30PM arrives and with it rain pouring down outside. This evening I have a ticket to see BILLY CHILDISH at the ICA where he is doing a talk and introduction to a series of cine-8 movies he and his friends have made in Chatham. With this weather however I am in no rush to leave the dry and warmth of the office. Neither is the girl who has now apparently been burned for lateness a couple of times recently.

When I eventually decide to brave the elements and leave the restaurant I get the tube straight down to Green Park where I emerge out into even worse weather than when I went underground.

As I slowly get drenched I head across Piccadilly towards the Circus. For an extended spell I hide in Waterstones flicking through books that I will later purchase online at a cheaper price. For the brief respite from the rain however I do feel obliged to buy something so I get a beginners guide to screenwriting. Curiously I have no intention to write a script. What kind of mentality am I exercising?

Beyond overstaying my welcome I leave the shop and head back into the rain where the night only appears to have worsened as I head towards Trafalgar Square and somewhere to go in the form of the galleries around there. Typically as I arrive they have just closed. There was me thinking art and culture in this city stayed open until 8PM.

With the night still young and options feeling limited I wind up at Leicester Square where for some reason the square is completely rammed. For a moment I wonder just what is up but then I look up and clock that it is the Alice In Wonderland premiere. As things worsen and become busier before I have a panic attack I turn away from the throngs and escape seeking refuge elsewhere.

I remember that there is a Café Nero just around the corner from Leicester Square tube station so I head straight towards that. The first and last time I came here was with my American Friend on a night where she was complimenting me with sweet nothings, telling me how she wish she had a skill, talent and ability like me (to be a qualified accountant). Truly alarm bells should have been ringing back then. She was telling me I was great but obviously not that great though.

Tonight is a much more sombre affair, a more drench affair/visit. Luckily inside I manage to snag a decent seat at which point I take stock of my drenched situation. It doesn’t look good. I don’t think anything more than Gap combat trousers displays wetness to the naked eye.

While sitting typing misery into my iPhone Derek Pringle gingerly comes up the stairs and sits on the table next to me. Quite frankly I am impressed, this is quite a spot. It would appear that he immediately clocks me clocking him and he proceeds to curl up, reading tonight’s Evening Standard in the most defensive and guarded fashion. Later when I recount this moment to Ben he tells me that Pringle was a bit standoffish when he encountered him.

Eventually I step up and brave the rain once more even though my coat has already soaked up the rain like a sponge. As I gather myself together I get one last gawp at Pringle still all curled up and trying to hide from his celebrity.

Walking through Trafalgar Square the traffic remains insane as huge puddles gather on the roads and overspilled drains begin to resemble pools. These are accidents waiting to happy. By the time I get to the ICA it is with a huge dose of relief and gratitude.

Ahead of the films and poetry I check out the current BILLY CHILDISH exhibition and it is grand stuff. His paintings are astounding, vast and peaceful. He has really taken on the hat motif now as it is now a distinctive part of identity with many of the painting featuring himself emotionally displayed in his favourite headwear.

Moving upstairs on the exhibition the rooms concentrate more on his recorded and written output with a wall of record sleeves and a couple of cases dedicated to his various publications including the Penguin title from the book burning last month. With another glimpse of the book I again curse my manners for not picking up a copy when I had the opportunity.

After something of a wait in the entrance we take our seats in Cinema 1. The queue certainly brings out the ratty in the older members of the audience tonight, a couple of which have even adopted the CHILDISH look in a big way.

We take our seats doing so with the old chap himself holding court in front of the cinema screen and once everyone is in he kicks off with his reading. As with the book burning he does a wide selection poems interspersed with background information and anecdotes pertaining to the compositions which lend a lot to their delivery proving the real gold and entertainment, all of which suggests that he is actually a really pussycat of a person. His funnies that come attached to the reading seem to serve almost as some kind of disclaimer in order to display/confirm his sanity and wicked sense of humour.

CHILDISH looks and carries himself as if from another age. He sure is keeping with the hat and wartime look, which is by all accounts a brave one to be taking out into public.

During part of his reading two women towards the back of the cinema appear more concerned/interested in their own little conversation. Why have they brought it along to this event? At one point CHILDISH even has to pause his reading but in addressing the ladies he just responds too apologetically. Despite this tonight he seems on good form, appearing genuinely grateful to the audience and happy to accommodate and provide.

The 55 minutes of Super-8 movies from the Chatham Super-8 Club turn out to be varied and entertaining. The movies are filmed using old fashioned cameras that I have no idea about but do use stock film that is incredibly expensive to buy and use, which lends these films as a real density and sense of value.

The first movie of the programme is “The Artist On His Way To Work” which shows CHILDISH getting himself ready and prepared to head out and paint his latest master work. As he ties the canvas to his back and carries his palette while battling the snow and elements very quickly he paints a beautiful scene in front of our eyes as one medium captures another medium recording the vision and view.

From here we get treated to some grainy music videos for “Troubled Mind” and “Punk Rock Ist Nicht Tot” coupled with playful moments such as “The Flying Mustache”, “Smoking Yoga” and “The Impossible Shoulder – Leap Of Death” which all look like home videos from a lighter era when everything wasn’t recorded for posterity and chucked up on Youtube, when there was some value to such treats.

The final movie documents a wartime route recreation on the continent where fully garbed enthusiasts pay tribute to the people that lost their lives during the war. Apparently this movie was shot on a particular film stock (reconditioned I think) that gives it an even more grainy feel.

After the screenings CHILDISH keeps up the appreciation with a very accommodating Q&A during which he demonstrates a very open and self depreciating attitude, not least when faced with not exactly the best line of questioning. As ever though the questions regarding his influences are the most illuminating ones.

Soon it all ends and I find myself storming towards Charing Cross station in the rain. From here I change at Tottenham Court Road and hit a busy Central Line on a boozed up Thursday night.

In the end I catch the 11.18PM Clacton train home. Almost immediately after I board it, it fills with squawking women.

At 00.10AM the fucking thing beaches at Witham while Information Jimmy tells us nothing. I just want to go to bed. Eventually I get home around half past midnight.

When I get back to Bohemian Grove there is a car parked in my space. I want to kick off but I have no direction to aim it.

2010-02-20T09:39:00.000Z

Saturday 20 February 2010

Dream: I am in an alternative universe version of last night. The people are pretty much the same but the locations are slightly different. Within this situation I find myself flirting with certain female members of the night and suddenly impressing for the first time in a very long time. Strangely last night I did have something of a confident bend, again for the first time in a long time. In the dream I appear to be particularly clicking with one certain person, who is not an obvious choice. As we get to the alternative universe version of Richard and Eleanor’s new place the one in the dream actually resembles something on the Holland-on-sea seafront. On the green grass I act like a clown but appear to impress along the way including during a black cab ride to wherever. Later the dream progresses to the Union Chapel where I am present for today’s gig. Again things look ever so slightly different and as I head to the bathroom I do my business and suddenly I awaken petrified that the gesture has carried through into reality and I have, as an adult, wet my guest bed.

Fortunately when I awaken at 7AM my dream has not been a nightmare and all is dry despite my need for the bathroom. With a slightly sore head (mini hangover) I head to the toilet to have a good time. With this accomplished I return to my airbed on the living room floor and manage to achieve the unnatural for me: additional sleep.

When I next reawaken the day has reached 9AM and with it a natural entry into Saturday morning. In sync with me Racton also murmurs and we exchange morning greetings.

Outside the beautiful day of yesterday has managed to carry through into the weekend. Morale is high.

I always feel embarrassed when my friends are so accommodating to me and with this in mind Racton (and Eleanor) set about looking after me, first giving me a cup of tea in a Satriale’s mug and then frying up a truly amazing full English breakfast. I’m ashamed to admit you don’t get that when visiting my crib.

We sit super civilised, super mature at their table eating the breakfast of champions. This definitely makes for something of a departure to my usual eating a bowl of cereal at my computer desk (here where I am writing now) or over the kitchen sink (catches the toast crumbs, its functional).

From here with some time to still kill we play some Star Wars Lego on the Wii. As ever I am like Grandpa Simpson when it comes to playing videogames (even my own). I did have Star Wars Lego for Playstation 2 but I think I put it back in the box after one play because it was too difficult.

Eventually we make moves catching a bus to Finsbury Park tube station before heading to Highbury & Islington and the Union Chapel. Outside today is gloriously sunny but very brisk with it. There is a freshness in the air that attaches itself to the day in the most optimistic of manners, startling and invigorating.

We get to the Union Chapel just after midday (via an ATM stop for me) and as we enter the building DOOMED BIRD OF PROVIDENCE are beginning their set. It is a booming performance that suits its settings very well and provides the kind of wake up call that only empowers a hangover, able to blow away any cobwebs that may be lingering.

Today the DOOMED BIRD OF PROVIDENCE are rocking as a four piece with its numbers sit soulfully as Mr Kluzek out front addresses the audience with descriptive tales of just what it is like to be Australian at various points in history and the troubles that have always served to come with. Strapped to his chest is a heavy accordion that serves to back up his gestures made to the audience. It is a performance most explicitly Antipodean as the vocals ring around the church at an ungodly hour capturing and transfixing all in attendance, displaying true personality and purpose in the process.

Lacking a live drummer the band is very on today as basslines rumble to frame the set and the violin work lends the songs a sense of criminal decadence leaning towards places inhabited by the Dirty Three and the like. It is the layering of so many contrasting sounds that truly gives the band a unique form, the kind that gives to drama and has stock that thrives.

After the set we meet up with familiar faces and rekindle some kind of social scene that for too long now has been suffering. Meanwhile while we reacquaint with some, others fall to wayside as Mark begins sending a series of texts describing his battles with a hangover and the inefficiencies of weekend public transport. In the end he just throws in the towel and heads home blowing us out in spectacular fashion.

The second act of the day are CITY REVERB. With a frontman that looks a lot like Dave Pajo immediately their songs are put up against a pedestal in the name of judgement and its all downhill from here. Their songs are flowery and upbeat, too so for my own tastes. During their set I experience some kind of epiphany insofar that I realise and concede that I don’t pay enough attention to the lyrics that bands sing anymore. I am sure that there is a high level of emotion being rinsed into these songs but I just am now working hard enough to value and acknowledge it. This is a true sign of ignorance on my part.

Also it is not helped that during their set somebody spots my eye and suddenly I find myself being distracted by a member of the opposite sex. Perhaps it is indeed the songs acting on a subconscious level for me but then again equally it might be a combination of the settings and morning glory.

Soon their set concludes and it leaves little in the manner of a mark on me.

It is around this point I spot Ben Moor in the audience. I have no idea what he is doing here and whether he is associated/attached to any of these acts but it is so great to see the guy, he is super talented.

The final band of the afternoon is the GILDED PALACE OF SIN. This is quite a different proposition, a seemingly darker one dressed in smarter and more adult clothing. Playing out like an outfit that appears to have listened to Bad Seeds and Tindersticks records it is relatively clear just what it is they are liking to achieve, even if it is a bit Elbow at times.

It all begins positively and soon it transpires that the singer is something of a more interesting prospect that I had initially given him credit for. As he almost shouts his way through the set it is with a clear voice and pretty unique approach to vocalising. Whether the content is worth a fig is beside the point, this is a person that is commanding the stage causing the audience to perk up and pay attention. Such is the power of bringing an unconventional method to singing.

For some reason I find myself reminded of Wilco and Lambchop during the set, two bands that I have to concede I have heard very little by. Perhaps this is how I think they should sound judging by their look and expressions. It all ends well.

At the close of proceedings I finally get to speak with Mark from DOOMED BIRD. It sounds like all is good and unfortunately just as he asks me what I thought of the bands I begin launching into some gripe about CITY REVERB before realising that they are stood next to us.

Later I watch as the promoter laughing hands the bands £11 for performing. These really are not artist friendly times.

Also in the house I spot my old friend Manjeev who tells me about the new record label Bunkland that he has just started.

As I leave the Union Chapel it is with bumping into Arsenal supporters on their way to their game against Sunderland. That sounds like a shit sandwich of a football match.

Eventually I get back to Liverpool Street where I buy the Saturday newspapers and board the 3.18PM train. This is a weird train. Without doubt I would guess it is perhaps one of the most quiet on the schedule. Who on earth rides a train at this time on a Saturday afternoon? Surely there are things we should all be doing instead. This is a train for broken people, the disillusioned and distracted. People with lives do not travel at this time.

Once back in Colchester I perform something of an impromptu weekly grocery shop at Asda meaning that it is almost 5PM by the time I get home. What happened to the day? What a waste.

In the early evening I find myself attempting to write as I try to kickstart things with fizzy caffeine drinks. These only go so far.

Tonight there is a short film event on at the Colchester Arts Centre, which I am half interested in checking out. However interest starts to dwindle as I begin to find my feet with the writing.

It is at around this point that Nina texts to see if I am going to the film thing. Despite my sudden gusto for writing it sounds like a good idea and a rare opportunity to get out of the house on a Saturday night.

We head to the Arts Centre and get in free off the back of the Facebook offer than nobody at the venue appears to know about. From here we take seats towards the front. A little later Lee turns up and we actually almost have a social group.

The event tonight is called 12 SHOOTER, which is a baker’s dozen of short films conceived and presented by Marcia Farquhar.

Over the course of the screenings the movies range greatly in quality. Before the films even begin rolling as Marcia Farquhar makes her introduction on stage I find myself questioning the sanity of the woman.

From here it doesn’t start strongly as the first film sees her rolling off some ghost party monologue from a ballroom in Berlin. My recollection may sound akin to The Shining but the execution does not go that way, it just isn’t that good.

Following comes a video of her playing with cracked eggs and whipping them into shapes and figures and reading into the patterns to a degree that somewhat represents an expression too far. Its all appears film in a classroom which does not necessarily make for an appealing venue of thought.

More impressive follows a film of her and her family all getting into a four person dress sewn together in which appear three ladies from different generations coming together. It’s a very touching and sweet vision, one that I cannot do justice to and the four of them innocent weave around in some kind of symbolic legacy connection.

The final film of the first half is easily one of the best of the evening as the crazy lady wheels out a painting of a distant relative and unravels both his history and the paintings, taking in various Soho locations before eventually heading to Berlin Zoo where the man apparently had some kind of connection with a monkey there. As she shows the painting to the chimp it provides some kind of response of recognition, exactly what she was looking for.

At this point interval gets called where a few people head off for a fag break and never return as Marcia Farquhar holds a small court at the front of the stage debating whether to begin the second half without them.

The films return with the woman doing a Punch And Judy show on a beach in Newquay (I think) on a windy day as she fights the elements of an incoming tide that looks set to engulf proceedings including the movie. The woman seems intent in putting things to risk in the name of a puppet show.

Eventually all ends with another dress related film during which she reveals a bit too much about her private life with an anecdote that name checks Courtney Love (apparently kicking her in the behind at a funeral) and suddenly her links to The Pogues and The Clash become evident as she runs through the history of her dress and the various times she has worn it. It all sounds rock n roll taking in backstage incidents with Las Vegas bouncers in addition to a famous funeral which you suspect was Joe Strummer’s as she mentions the man’s famous campfires. This is like the punk rock equivalent of Monica Lewinsky. Quite possibly she is talking of circles that also include Alex Cox and Jim Jarmusch, filmmakers that might have appreciated this evening (or then again maybe not).

As the projector dies and the lights come up she entices us to buy her book suggesting that we make an offer and pay what we think it is worth. On me I have £7 but being hardback and elegant looking it is worth much more. Lee however only pays £2 for his copy which serves to make me not feel so bad about my offering.

Briefly I have chat with her as she signs the book with a dedication of “thank you for coming and staying” while I ask her if she was talking about Joe Strummer in the final story. With so many mentions of Jem Finer in many of the films’ credits you suspect she is married to a Pogue. To this extent I have a whole bunch of Pogues stories to share from having worked at their publishing company for two and a half years but I don’t push it, its not worth it. I have to concede though, for an older lady I quite fancy her.

From here the three of us head home with books and a high degree/sense of satisfaction as tonight equates to my best Saturday night out in months.

I give Nina a lift home as we talk about John Cooper Clarke amongst other things and once home I soon fall asleep upon arrival.

For the win!

2010-02-17T09:14:00.000Z

Wednesday 17 February 2010

I wake tired but feeling somewhat happier and exuberant this morning. This is sick, what exactly was it that changed my mood?

From here my mood gets tested as I discover a hole in the arse of my favourite Gap trousers. These things feel fucking irreplaceable, I’ve tried to buy a second pair but there is just always something different, something wrong with the new strides. These won’t last much longer and as soon as someone at work notices the hole then it will be game over and I won’t be able to wear them again.

Unsurprisingly my mood is once more put to the test as I stand freezing cold on the platform awaiting the 6.59AM, which doesn’t bother to turn up. Eventually it arrives late becoming the 7.07AM. There is no forgiveness.

During the journey at Witham some grey haired old cunt boards and basically tries to sit on my lap becoming the worst plate crowder in a very long time. Quite frankly with these overbearing gestures he is little short of a rapist. Not long after the train pulls out of the station he gets the hump and moves to another seat. Am I right in feeling embarrassment and humiliation by his reaction and the result? Am I really so large these days that people cannot fit in the seat next to me? Maybe he just wanted a seat and a half to himself also. I look at the guy and he resembles failed Liverpool physio cum manager Roy Evans so I can partly understand his angst and frustration at the world and his surroundings (including me). It was funny though how his other (better) half sat in the seat opposite him and didn’t bother to move with him when he did. Their love is plainly not strong; I bet he hogs the fucking bed too.

I cannot believe it is Wednesday already (the Tuesday Thursday Blur). I have to concede that I am fucking fed up today. There are a few pointers as to what is creating this but on the whole things are relatively good and realistically I should not be feeling this way at this time.

Into work, today is another day of pottering, which as a result sees me slow getting started and fairly low on productivity.

As the morning progresses dare I admit that I actually spend a good portion of the first part of the day looking up Howard Zinn and trying to learn about his work. It is time.

The IT Guy is back today. In my opinion the powers that be here are acting quite badly towards him with their complete cut off with his services.

Lunch happens.

From here the afternoon plays out statically. More indications of the IT Guy being frozen out are unearthed as many of his old site information schedules are now taking on something of quite a different format. This does not necessarily work in my favour either.

By the time 5.30PM arrives I am ready to head out to the IMAX where tonight we are heading for a long overdue (and long booked) screening of AVATAR. It is very easy getting there from St Johns Wood, it is Jubilee Line all the way and with a 6.30PM meet up time as a result I am not in the biggest of hurries to get there.

When I emerge at Waterloo it is straight into the rush. This is a huge fucking station and a pretty difficult place to meet up with people if you have set no direction. As ever I arrive earlier than stipulated, I always do. Invariably however the 6.30PM meet up time comes and goes with no sign of any cohorts arriving.

Eventually Racton turns up, well timed because it is just as things are beginning to look bleak. Soon afterwards Brendan arrives and we almost have a crew, which then finally gets completed as Mark turns up not long later.

We take a weird route out of the station (led by a buffoon), one that seems to take in the sights but doesn’t really use much in the way of common sense. As we pass the lower level entrance of the station Brendan points and quizzes “didn’t we just pass that?”

Tonight we headed to a noodle place called Culture situated a few doors down from The Old Vic. On the way a truly weird moment occurs as we walk up The Cut and a strange gesture to cut into conversation happens. It is intensely made and feebly unachieved. It is odd and still confuses me now.

Bowling up to the restaurant despite its promise it turns out to be a no frills cum crappy cheap food joint. It baffles me why this gaff even got suggested. I am so bored of Asian food these days; it’s all I seem to have whenever we eat out these days. Perhaps it’s my growing inability to deal with spicy food.

I don’t really bother with conversation as the others go off cheeping. I just can’t be bothered to shout over people anymore. I went through most of this last night. Sadly the glazed expression I sport is a sincere one.

Despite my cynicism Brendan is coming equipped with great stories of the Sci-Fi weekender that he has just been to at Camber Sands. I don’t think he ever went to an ATP there so the venue sounds like it turned out to be something of a culture shock for him. On the whole listening to the description and having seen the photos from the event it all sounds like a total cash in and rip off.

After our food we still have some time to kill before the movie so we head into The Old Vic for a drink where most of the conversation is about videogames culminating in an anecdote about Salman Rushdie spending his time in hiding actually playing Nintendo instead of writing. That wacky guy.

Eventually we head to the IMAX for AVATAR, buying some sweets from Simsbury’s on the way and hoping that we do not get patted down on the way into the cinema. Once more along the way our group appears to split in half. What is going on here?

Upon entering the IMAX dare I admit that I thought the place would be bigger, more impressive? With three hours of 3D film awaiting ahead I join the queue for the toilet where amongst so much movie enthusiasm I struggle to perform.

We enter the screen and now things begin to look impressive as I find myself having to creek my neck to see the whole screen. Still, would it be gauche to say that I wanted it to be bigger?

As we take our seats we grab our glasses. They are cheap and flimsy. I had been led to believe that they would be of a Blues Brothers Ray-Ban copy hybrid. Instead however they look like something Buggles would have rejected. Immediately it is obvious that it is going to be a long night.

With this I tear into my Haribo with gusto, half comforting eating half emotional eating. Unfortunately before the trailers are over I discover that I have already eaten the bag. Perhaps I was afraid of being rumbled by cinema Nazis of bringing in and consuming confectionary not purchased on the premises.

Just before AVATAR begins a geek rocks the mike and gives it some kind of introduction akin to an air stewardess pointing out exits on a plane and how to blow up a rubber ring. More or less he tells us how to wear 3D glasses and leans on us to get excited. It’s all part of the process.

Betrayed by a blockbuster.

AVATAR proves to be underwhelming. Why did this surprise me? The 3D really doesn’t blow me away and the special effects don’t necessarily look that great either. Ultimately everything is surface.

Initially it is fun to watch early on as Terminator 4 (Sam Worthington) but soon it all gets penetrated by the fact that there is very little in the way of light relief as the film begins to feel as if it is pummelling the audience with some kind of do good message. The lack of humour is even more surprising considering that the guy from Dodgeball is in the movie. In the end unfortunately the funniest thing about the movie turns out to be the changing hairstyles of Terminator 4 and the way it is used to indicate/signify the passing of time in the most unsubtle of fashions. Those are some bad wigs.

Sadly I think party I came into the movie suspicious of it and its apparent subtext and agenda when in reality I was hoping for some kind of 2001: A Space Odyssey experience, the emotional response that so many people have been claiming to have. Quite frankly I want to be effect by Pandora Depression. Perhaps we should have dropped acid before entering the IMAX.

Elsewhere it doesn’t really say much for a movie when the best thing I can say about it is “the dogs were cool.” As I begin to yawn and gain more cynicism towards the movie at a key point of destruction I find myself leaning across to Racton and saying, “that’s just like 9/11.” And that is the problem of the piece through and through.

So why don’t I possess any empathy or sympathy towards the blue creatures/characters? Perhaps it is because they are quite nasty. I do not recall them making one funny (one joke) or even smiling although I’m sure around the point of the stunted sex scene some kind of smirk was raised.

As the movie begins to climax with the Battle Of Endor I actually begin cheering on Stephen Lang, I just want him to kill the blue fucker. What is this guy’s story? His scars are potentially the most interesting thing about the show. Likewise why is the always excellent Giovanni Ribisi so painfully underused and quite frankly wasted in the process? What is his story? Why didn’t they cover any Weyland-Yutani type territory? That’s what I want to watch, something that makes sense where there is a real message waiting to happen that could be used to great effect.

Eventually it all ends in predictable fashion having used plenty of cliché in the process. As we leave the IMAX I comment, “the blue things were Muslims, right?”

Talking on the tube the others are less venomous in their opinions but that is just their natures. They didn’t really like it but right now I am displaying more than enough disdain for all of us. Currently I appear to be drawing a worrying amount of such blank looks and expressions.

I arrive at Liverpool Street around twenty past midnight resentful of the process that got me here so late. The realisation that tonight I will be catching the 12.46AM soon hits me. This is the worst train imaginable, the one for destitute souls and gluttons for punishment. And now it seems for AVATAR fans also. Painfully I will now not be home until past 2AM. Mark did offer me the opportunity to sleep on his couch in Leytonstone but I just want my bed.

Tonight the train comes coupled with a number of Hole fans returning from Courtney’s first show in years. These kids look so frighteningly young like they were not alive the one and only time I saw Hole back at Reading 95.

Eventually I get back to Colchester and attempt some sleep at around 2.30AM.

The madness.

2010-02-16T11:29:00.000Z

Tuesday 16 February 2010 – PANCAKE DAY

It is Pancake Day and the celebration of god knows what. Additionally it is also raining heavily outside so misery abounds. With this running against me I troll to the station where on the platform I spot one of the Kym Marsh lookalikes again. Is she really worth noting? In the light of such routine boredom I guess she is.

Today twenty minutes into the journey I suddenly experience a “where am I?” moment as it occurs to me that I have reached this stage of the day on autopilot, doing everything out of impulse due to familiarity of routine. This feels like a worrying waking call.

At Witham a couple sit opposite me. The man is wearing a North Face coat and reading a Dan Brown novel. I just might have found my mortal enemy. Later there is a Mick Harvey lookalike on the tube platform when I reach Liverpool Street. Do I really need these people in my life?

When I eventually get off the tube and change lines at Baker Street I spot Bellalike. At what point did she sneak onto my train? She sips her Costa oblivious to my confusion and disdain.

Upon emerging at St Johns Wood the rain is pissing down hard, harder than anyone should be expecting at this time. Later upon arrival at the restaurant the alarms are sounding off. At first I think it is part of the music on my iPhone (SPOON) but then it becomes apparent it’s the alarms. Not for a moment do I suspect that anyone has actually broken into the building, instead I just become worried and paranoid that my grabbing the front door of the building has set them off. Luckily when I step into the place and swish my fob it stops the ringing and when it arrive upstairs it becomes apparent that it is the operations manager that has set them off. He thanks me for doing the honour and bemoans that his own security fob has been updated incorrectly.

Less than ten minutes after arrival there is a noise downstairs and it is the security firm turning up, responding to the alarm. Accompanying them is the police and suddenly the benefits of being situated in this area come to light. Harbouring so many rich people and popstars I guess this address boasts some kind of importance when it comes to response rates. We wouldn’t want to get any blood on the money now.

Things pick up when at 9AM the tedious link song on Chris Moyles is “Just Because” by Jane’s Addiction. It truly shocks me that the people on the show even know that this band exists.

The Filipino brings in pancakes for us today. This is scarily above and beyond anything ever brought in by any of my work colleagues before. In this climate I doubt I’ll be getting pancakes in any other capacity. Then to top this off the angry boss brings in some huge chocolate and orange muffins.

Beyond this once the day actually gets started frustratingly it turns out to be a wasteland of a day, basically I do fuck all and I am not proud of it.

When lunch arrives I go for the penne option more out of boredom than desire. I am heading out tonight and I usually have something large for lunch in the expectation that I won’t be eating in the evening. Often though this is not the way things eventually pan out.

With rain beginning to spray down outside I play out the afternoon in much the same manner as the morning until 5.30PM eventually comes around.

As soon as I get out of work I head straight for Camden this evening. By this point the day is experiencing its heaviest rain yet, something I was just not prepared for mentally or physically. Worryingly I can’t help but feel the heavy rain helps set the tone for the evening, one I am sadly already lacking enthusiasm for.

By the time I have endured the Northern Line via Kings Cross I am feeling somewhat grumpy having had to spend a cramped train journey with so many dead eyed expressions. As I emerge from Camden tube station if anything the rain has got worse.

Immediately I head to Inverness Street and to Hache, the restaurant that Racton has suggested we eat. When I bowl up to the front of the restaurant there is no sign of anybody. Fortunately I then receive a text from Racton to say that they are already inside at the back of the restaurant. I’m all right Jack.

Stepping through the place it is with a lack of the unimpressed that I take my seat. I’m not late but everybody is sat lounging looking as if they have already been there ages and I am a latecomer to proceedings. Make yourself at home.

Initially I am frosty towards proceedings not really happy that people have started without me but gradually I come around although at times I do feel as if I am speaking in a different language going by some of the responses I receive from comments. I feel out of the loop and not necessarily part of this group. I guess I’m not flattering to deceive hard enough.

There but not there.

Eventually we head to the Electric Ballroom with the rain still pissing down. As we leave Hache we spot the other people in our party coming along to the gig tonight and they’re getting food now. We march on regardless. After a tenuous toil with getting tickets and getting in (well done again ATP) once inside I begin to display a disinterest in proceedings.

Me and my shadow.

When we arrive WHITE RABBITS are already into their set. At firs they come over like some youth club version of SPOON doing Strokes songs. Within their lineup they have a spare guy (a tool) for extra percussion and he turns out to be a true jack of all trades while also looking like Guy Picciotto. Sadly the guitars sound weedy and this more than anything is their downfall. Mark even stretches to the point of saying that he thought they were English because they sound like The Coral, a very fair comment. Towards the end of their set they perform a song that at least displays some degree of balls before arriving at a bouncing climax that curiously resembles Battles. Before my eyes and ears I see the band transform in many ways suggesting something of an identity crisis. Their set closes with the sound of laughter from my group behind me.

By now the others have caught up with us and with this we head closer to the stage to get a better spot as I begin to suffer flashbacks to the party in November. I don’t really feel sociable tonight, its like I’m indulging in a false capacity. Sorry.

SPOON turn in a great set. With a stipulated stage time from 9PM to 11PM I brace myself for a marathon set and endurance but thankfully there is plenty of great stuff in the SPOON back catalogue and arsenal to sustain a near two hour set, even if the last two records were clunkers.

It starts very strongly with “hit” aplenty in the form of “Don’t Make Me A Target” followed by “The Mystery Zone”. Beforehand to outsiders I found myself describing this band as Elvis Costello mixed with Nirvana and I even surprise myself as this description fits incredibly comfortably tonight.

Four songs in it is “My Mathematical Mind” that towers and sends the band flying off into the stratosphere. These days Britt Daniel looks more confident than ever having been fully established and accepted as one of the premier songwriters of this genre.

Seemingly in tribute to being in London the band do a very strange (and different) cover version of “Love Song” by The Damned, which definitely adds a new dimension to both the song and the band as it gets mutated into a state that a casual observer would probably not notice.

By the time the band reaches “The Way We Get By” they have already conquered the evening and have nothing else left to prove. As ever the song provides a joyful minor singalong as we acknowledge our collective small victories that get us through everyday life.

On the day that the guy from The Knack dies “Got Nuffin” once more grabs at the “My Sharona” drumbeat and blasts through like a Guided By Voices song devoid of the drunkeness. It truly rides a wave.

The night ends on “Jonathan Fisk” and a truly efficient and effective despatch. Once again SPOON manage to prove just what a subtly exceptional outfit they always have been.

On the outset of the show I do not go overboard while all around me others make disingenuous gestures. Maybe I shouldn’t take these things so seriously. We leave stepping out into the rain where bootleg SPOON shirts are selling for a fiver. You have truly made it when you are deemed worthy of production by bootleggers.

As the others poodle around I have to leave them behind as my rush to get a train home occurs. In the end I manage to snag the 11.18PM train meaning a post midnight return to Colchester.

When I get home I hope for a Newswipe repeat which comes on at 1AM equating to an early hours bedtime. Big mistake.

2010-02-10T13:02:00.000Z

Wednesday 10 February 2010

Dream: I meet up with others for Crosby’s birthday. It looks like somewhere on Caledonian Road. Upon arrival I don’t really know anyone at the do, which at the time is slightly/sparsely attended being the beginning of the party. I think I recognise Tim with the pot from ATP there. In the end I wind up hanging out with a bunch of egghead types. It is mostly mature students who are now wanting to relive their youths and join sororities (much like myself I fear). One guy is decadent and 104 years old. Basically this dream mutates into the movie Old School.

I wake up this morning into bitter cold. What kind of night have we just seen? I wonder if that has anything to do with my leaving the front door open last night.

Soon I find out as when I step out of the front door this morning I slip on the step and genuinely hurt myself, banging my knee and doing a variation of the splits in the process. I wonder if that has something to do with my leaving the door open last night. I only do it in the hope that somebody will pass by during the night and steal the Pig Personal Trainer’s bike.

Today the world has a subtle dusting of new snow covering and it remains a pretty sight. I am really shocked that the snow has extended on so far into the year.

My day fails to improve when I get to the train station to discover that my £4600 Travelcard is not working at the barriers. How come a ticket that costs more than my first two cars combined cannot continue working for its entire duration of a year? What a cheap fucking organisation National Express is.

Once on the train a lady sits next to my left and proceeds to keep doing little circles with her foot/ankle. Why is this a turn on? What kind of sick fetish is this? One of my counsellor/shrinks used to do this, which prompted me to research it (the body language) on the internet, which came to the conclusion that this was a gesture of expressing a sense and feeling of superiority. So is this what this lady is feeling right now while sat next to me? Is she reading a good book?

As the train stops at Witham today very few people actually board. What is going on with this place?

Later at Chelmsford a fat Alastair Campbell lookalike sits opposite me. He is reading a book called “Texas Death Row.” He is hardcore. As he reads the book his lips move with the words. Harsh. Across the aisle to his right is sat a Wilfrid Brambell lookalike and to his left is a blonde Kelly Osbourne lookalike. Is seeing all these lookalikes of people from the TV a growing sign of insanity?

The lookalike festival is completed when a Maggie Gyllenhaal (complete with mole) sits to Wilfrid’s right. That’s a good look.

When I finally get to Liverpool Street still my Travelcard insists on not working. Is this bad run of luck all due to my leaving the door open?

While waiting at the tube platform some enormous woman comes up to me and asks “how do I know which line this train is?” I remove my iPhone headphones and respond “this is the Hammersmith Line” to which she responds “how do I know which is the Circle And District Line?” at which point I just reply with ESP and body language saying “why are you asking me?” At this point she stomps off with a sarcastic “no idea.” Fuck me, show a bit of gratitude. Ultimately I guess I should have just gone with my impulse reaction which was no to give her the time of day.

Beyond this there is nothing to report from the remainder of the journey. When I emerge at St Johns Wood however I find myself being bombarded by a slight blizzard of snow. It is genuinely fucking stifling as the wind really grabs hold of it. Typically shortly after getting into work it stops.

Today the computers have not been repaired and the network is still down. This situation has never been this bad before. In addition to this woe The Girl is off ill again but then again what would be the use of having the three of us all in doing nothing anyway. Things pick up though when the Filipino comes in and with her she brings cookies.

With the networks down from here once the boss is gone I wind up having a pretty good morning of pottering on with my own stuff on my flashdrive. With this spare/free/down time I am able to set up my DS FIFA 2010 spreadsheets and write the next three Facebook culls.

Sadly the freedom of the morning comes to a close when the consultant comes in. I had been bracing myself for this little piece of misfortune. When he asks me how the new company accounts are coming along I inform him that we have “downed tools.” At first he sounds dismayed but then I explain how our computers are down at which point I now exhibit dismay.

Finally the IT Guy gets in touch in the early afternoon and he says that he is at Farringdon and is 40 minutes away. He asks if anything is working yet. What, just like that?

Around this time the angry boss requests that one of us go to the post office for him to send some important documents recorded delivery. Like a fool I volunteer to do the trip and with this I grab the envelope just in time to run the risk abuse from school kids having their lunch. I head towards Finchley Road where apparently there is a small post office. Like fuck there is so instead I wind up in the Swiss Cottage post office at lunchtime when everybody appears to be posting shit or screaming “gimme gimme gimme” into the windows.

The post office in Swiss Cottage proves an illuminating experience, it is truly horrible. As the queue moves at a snails pace with the staff rocking with lethargy I watch in horror as the woman in front of me in the queue appears to be smoking her pen. At first I think it is emitting smoke but when she refills it with some kind of powder it turns out that it is spewing out sickly smelling dust. What the fuck is this? Drugs? I still don’t know now just what she was doing. Is this some kind of Eastern European or Asian form of tobacco or Nicorette patching? Subtly and slightly I freak out, fearing that the stink will attach itself to my coat. Maybe it was drugs, indeed her movements would point towards her being stoned.

It is with a sense of great relief that I eventually get served and find myself able to escape while the Chinese girl and black guy appear to still be arguing with the counter over whether their lottery ticket is a winner. That or whether their Dole card is a winner. They were here when I arrived and at this rate they will probably be here when the shop shuts this evening.

When I finally get back to the office the IT Guy has arrived and the computers soon get hooked back up and now I find myself being pressurised into getting the accounts finish. This does not rub well with me.

Eventually the consultant exits and leaves me alone. From here I get the work done around 6.10PM.

Tonight I am heading to Leicester Square Theatre to see a play called BOUNCERS. As I head down to Green Park when the tube stops at Baker Street I briefly panic when I think I see Ms Moriarty board. Luckily I soon notice this person is feminine so panic over.

I turn out to be the first (and for sometime only) person in the audience. The show is being staged in the basement of Leicester Square Theatre, which isn’t much larger than somebody’s lounge. They couldn’t even paper the audience. Slightly embarrassed by this I grab a beer and take my seat. Eventually five other people (all female) fill things out.

The play holds interest for me as it is written by a gentleman called John Godber and when I was a youngster in 1987 on Friday nights on BBC2 there was a comedy musical show called The Ritz, which was written by the same guy. It is one of those shows that you remember from your youth but has never surfaced on video or DVD, one of those TV shows you occasionally question the existence of as a result. So tonight I am hoping to revisit such happy times for me.

Just before the play begins I find myself distracted by a gorgeous Asian lady (I suspect Filipino) sat opposite the room as she looks over and smiles as I recoil.

BOUNCERS turns out to be a very skilfully crafted and executed play as four actors interweave and play a whole host of characters (both male and female). With no set and just a black wall with four men dressed in penguin suits it requires the imagination to work overtime as the different roles get clearly defined in comedic manner.

By taking in all characters and characteristics of the clubbing ritual the four of them play out the actions, motions and conventions of the preparation and aftermath of the clubbing experience. Via the four actors we experience a group ladies out on the pull, a group of lads out on the lash and the four bouncers themselves in their sad roles of babysitter, referee and bullfighter.

At regular intervals there is a moment of clarity as the head bouncer (the oldest head) takes the time to explain what he sees in/from the people on a regular basis. He tries to make sense of the ritual while soberly noting just how ugly and demeaning the whole process is to everyone involved. He points out what makes his and his colleagues’ life/job hard and how they can spot incidents from a mile away.

As the interval kicks in I am quite sure that the lady is smiling at me again. With this in mind as usual I do nothing.

Soon after the show resumes as the BOUNCERS now patrol the club as by now the night is in full swing and everyone is in the midst of clubbing hell. Various sketches and mini dramas all get linked together with razor sharp proficiency before a quite frankly terrifying climax occurs off the back of an after hours mistakes by one of the bouncers with the blue movie.

The play ends with the rapturous applause of six people with much appreciation expressed through so few fingers. It took more people to put on this show tonight than enjoyed it.

At this point a normal person would probably acknowledge the gorgeous lady that appears to have been looking over all evening but instead I make a spectacle of putting my coat on and leaving. I fuck off like a numb nuts, dragging it out as if to say “here’s what you could have won.”

I fall out into the Chinatown evening where the orange lanterns remain hung ready for the upcoming Chinese New Year. It is a cheaply spectacular sight, the kind you wish/hope to see every time you step out this way.

With the night still relatively early I manage to get a decent train home (the 9.30PM Norwich train) before spending the duration of the journey shrinking with depression at my inability to approach the lady from this evening.

I ride home listening to the new Gil-Scott Heron record and it’s not strong. More disappointment.

When I get back to Colchester station there is a window still open so I am able to get a replacement Travelcard and avoid further barrier complications tomorrow. The little things.

Once finally back home TV is a wasteland and soon I find myself in bed passing out.

2010-02-08T09:19:00.000Z

Monday 8 February 2010

Dream: I drive to the station and when I get there it is pitch black, evidently the trains are not running. Undaunted I still park up and in the process I manage to get the best space in the car park. There is a problem attached to this as there is a group of hoodlums lingering around meaning I am worried about leaving my car near them in the sparse parking lot. Eventually I do so though and head to the entrance of the station along with other confused looking extras. At this point I wake up. What happened with the trains? Did they start up? Is this what is laying ahead of me for today?

Despite the dream I awaken pretty solidly this morning, emerging early and comfortably, napping until my alarm buzzes. When the inevitable blast of beeps arrive its not such a bad thing.

Due to the issues with the alarm yesterday (and me basically not being able to get into work upon arrival) I don’t want to get to work early today as I still do not have my alarm. As a result I take a leisurely approach into work, which is still a lot more effective than the majority of people.

As I prepare to leave for London (for work) I hear the Pig Personal Trainer on our landing leaving for work herself. Fucking nuisance.

This morning I find myself slightly late in leaving for the station which means I spot The Ghost for the first time in weeks. As ever he is walking his sweet little dog and battling the elements. I wonder where he lives.

When I drive to the station every car appears intent on holding me up this morning. When I get to Balkerne Hill I find myself almost racing with a little suped up Peugeot. I can beat him if I want to but I can’t be bothered, I don’t want blushes if something should suddenly go wrong and the little battery powered car defeats me.

Once at the station walking to the platform I realise that I have forgotten to put my watch on this morning. Hopeless. I cannot be trusted.

Eventually I find myself on a train and today people appear to be visibly ageing on the journey. The main example of this is a blonde lady that I found attractive when she boarded the train at Chelmsford but by the time we have reached London she now appears to be the age of my mum (well, maybe an aunt).

Arriving at Liverpool Street some guy decides to cut in front of me at the ticket barriers. Welcome to Monday. Then as I head towards the tube platform again I see the giant limping Asian man with the walking stick, which again I make sure I steer clear of the stick.

As I get to the tube platform there is already a train waiting for me so I run to hop on it and we are king. Seldom does my life (and public transport) run so smoothly for me.

Looking around and out of the window of the carriage today people appear to be taking on Daniel Clowes like characteristics and proportions. Should I be alarmed by this? Is this my imagination playing tricks on me? Have I suddenly developed an Eightball kind of awareness? I hope it doesn’t kill me.

Somehow my hair has fluked into a good place today, the correct bits are sticking up looking as if by design and for once I feel I actually look like an adult that has made an effort for a change.

Returning to work today it is without fanfare or celebration. Nothing appears to have happened/occurred while I was away Friday so thankfully there were and are no repercussions to deal with today.

This morning a text message at 7.20AM informed me that the boss would not be in this morning until 11AM and with that he keeps to his word. I hate receiving texts so early in the morning.

I struggle this morning to pull myself together work wise. Thankfully there is no word from the consultant which all equates to me being able to just poodle along for the time being. This is until lunchtime when the consultant then phones half flapping resulting in him pulling me off one project to resume work on another. This is yo-yo management and he isn’t even a manager to me.

At lunchtime I come up with another contentious Facebook Cull as I zap my neighbour because of the yoghurt pot lid that has been deserted on our landing (deserted – geddit?) Joking aside this is a bad, conjured out of frustration and anger that I have not felt before from a person living next to me or in our block. Suddenly after almost ten years of residence in the building I am suddenly up against (next to) the worst person to date.

I bond with the Filipino today as she tells me how she watched The Godfather on Friday night (just as I did). I would never have thought we would have this in common, these days I find I am liking her more and more with each week that I work with her.

My poodling continues into the afternoon. The IT Guy comes in and it turns out that he was supposed to be meeting with the consultant at this time but he has blown him out. Low priority I guess. The IT Guy is really cutting a forlorn figure these days.

Eventually the day comes to an end and annoyingly on a day when I have to wait around after work our boss allows us to leave early at 5PM. With this time however I make the most of it by putting some stuff up online.

In the end I leave the restaurant around 6.20PM with no sign of life anywhere in the building. From here I head straight to Camden and the Etcetera Theatre where ROBIN INCE is doing one of his work in progress shows tonight. Ordinarily the idea of heading to such a small venue on my own fills me with dread but ROBIN INCE is an act (artist) truly worth the effort.

I make it to Camden and the pub (The Oxford Arms) in good time and for the first time in my life I actually feel relatively comfortable being a barfly, ordering a Stella while waiting to head upstairs into the Etcetera Theatre.

When the theatre finally opens up and head up some winding steps and into a very cosy and surprisingly nice little room with tiered rows of seats. Truly I sold this place short. As we take our seats each place has a CD awaiting us from the personal collection of ROBIN INCE where it sounds as if he is having a major clear out. You suspect with the well-known destruction of his record collection a few years ago now coupled with the necessity for space at home with the extension of his family he has naturally become less attached to such trivia. Personally hit pay dirt as the first Sleater-Kinney album awaits me on my seat, which is a CD I genuinely harbour. This is a true result.

With everyone in and at their seats ROBIN INCE trots out with gusto and his usual energy. Basically more or less this is as good as stand up comedy gets, an exchanging and exploration of ideas from a most rapid and quick fire mind that still manages to contain wit within.

Tonight is something of an ideas set, a testing ground for INCE as he pieces together parts towards his many new (polished) shows that will arrive at the larger venues for the less smart (informed) audiences. In other words tonight is a privilege and a treat. More than a few times he refers to it as a think tank.

He is the last angry man, somebody that would give Howard Beale a slap in the face for reality. INCE doesn’t so much rant and rave, he explodes as one idea enters into his head and quickly takes some kind of elevated and distracted detour. Every couple of minutes he picks up his notes for the set only to discard them as something new enters his focus. In a way it is schizophrenic but in a positive manner as it all churns away with view to assisting us all. Luckily tonight this is not a “what are you angry about?” type audience for him.

Impressively he trots around full of energy like a man that has royally been at the caffeine. This show (“this hour”) is his third of four ideas gigs and as a result is naturally spontaneous and neurotic, not really structured but still thankfully fun and tickly. Intelligent to the point of intimidation there are lots of mentions for Howard Zinn and Johnny Dankworth (two recent genuine losses to the world) but in equal measures there is material such as the kid from Mad Max 2 doing his grown up retrospective narration over reality television shows. It would definitely work, could even cause me to watch that shit.

Halfway through he takes a break to allow DARREN HAYMAN to perform some songs as he offers some respite in the form of tales from his project about people that have walked on the moon. I have to say I enjoy his solo efforts a hell of a lot more than I ever did any Hefner material.

When ROBIN INCE returns he is full of apologies for his ramshackle set as he endeavours to try out new material from print outs and postcards but invariably with each idea he has a fresh digression appears and one topic turns into half a dozen new ones. In a way I guess this is the comic equivalent of letting light in on magic but it remains very funny and entertaining for it. Is this some kind of happy breakdown?

Swiftly though he pulls it all together, bring an end to proceedings expressing a hope that we have been able to take something away from his set. As everybody filters out and leaves he hands out clearout DVDs to the audience but unfortunately he runs out. Not to be done out of anything as I leave I pick up a discarded Dandy Warhols CD.

As I head down to the stage there is a small group surrounding him where in the absence of missing DVDs to hand out he is offering up his the postcards that he has been writing ideas. Without shame a number of us pounce on them like flies, potentially stealing portions of his future sets. From here I manage to get into a brief conversation with him about Art School Confidential and he comments “when are you going to have something else for me to read?” Chuffed I try to tell him about the Facebook Cull but words fail me, not least when struggling to get a word in against the other punters. Eventually I get to ask him about what he is doing for the London Word Festival and although completely star struck in his presence I hold my own in conversation (I think).

While I am leaving he tells me that he still has my book on his shelf and he “picks it up from time to time.” Talk about the best-timed thing a person could possibly say to me at this time. For a while we get into discussing writing books and the editing process. As ever I get onto my fetish of word count while he explains/expresses concerns about potentially being sued by Ann Coulter. I think his concerns are slightly more important than my own.

From here he packs up and asks if I am sticking around for a drink but as ever I have to turn the invitation down as I have to get back to Essex. Why don’t I ever accept these invitations?

Despite this I bounce back onto Camden High Street feeling lifted, a lot happier now than when I arrived this evening.

I end up on a busy 10PM train home where a middle-aged couple sits opposite me staring at me and then when I get home The Virtual Revolution is being repeated on BBC2. All things have come together this evening. High times.