Monday, September 27, 2010


Monday 27 September 2010

I didn’t get enough sleep last night.

With the day outside almost pitch black it is with bleary eyes that I pull myself out of bed and drag myself together in the most budget and sparing manner.

Things move slowly this morning as I exit to not quite knowing whether I am early or late.  Invariably it is the former as I drive head first into a misty daze.

There is drizzle attached to proceedings as rain becomes the predicted way things will go this week.  I really need to buy a new coat.

Before long I am standing on the platform awaiting the train.  When it arrives it is a mongrel one.  Welcome to Monday.

I need sleep.

At Chelmsford the spitting image of Nardwuar The Human Serviette sits opposite me.  Where did the idea for that look come from?

Eventually the train pulls into Liverpool Street where I find myself walking towards the tube/platform still in something of a daze.  People’s movements look different to me now, their gestures exaggerated and even occasionally hostile.  Are they actually there?

Beyond a fairly smooth ride across town I soon find myself one of the first people into the restaurant.  It’s a calming feature.

As I pop on the radio it would appear that Chris Moyles is now ripping off Danny Baker’s monkeys dressed up as famous people feature with some kind of register bit.  Has that guy ever had an original thought?

The boss has been in Spain this weekend and remains out there which means I have the pleasure of doing the bank in the knowledge that he will be on the phone at any moment to check that everything is OK.  Sometimes he runs like clockwork.

The Filipino has also been away this weekend and is back from Oslo.  As I ask her about the visit she does not sound impressed.  Perhaps it was the company she was with.

When The Girl comes in she is flapping because she has fucked up and given up the keys and tenancy on her flat in South London without actually having arranged another apartment to move into.  Its all gets very dramatic as she declares that she will be made homeless on Wednesday.  Is it really possible to be earning £24K and be homeless?  It shouldn’t be.

Early on I spot Dave online and in a gesture of reaching out for damage limitation I tell him how good it was to see him on Saturday (half true) and if we are still on for Wednesday (as a result).  Immediately I sense hesitation in/on his response and soon it becomes obvious that it won’t be smooth.  In the end he responds with some kind of maybe, telling me how something work related has come up at his end.  I can’t help but feel this is karma smacking me in the mouth.  Things get left up in the air.

From here feeling frustrated I slog through proceedings continuing to make a meal of what should be a simple petty cash reconciliation.

After too much pottering around on my part we soon reach lunchtime where the roving chef is serving up fishcakes.  Frustratingly he doesn’t serve them much different to the usual method.  Disappointment abounds.

Into the afternoon The Girl keeps going on about her flat declaring that she will have to take Wednesday, Thursday and Friday off this week.  Just like that.  We are officially too accommodating.  She doesn’t ask, she announces.  Where is the courtesy in that?

At the close of play I head straight to Shepherd’s Bush, exiting at Westfield to meet up with Racton to see THE OTHER GUYS at the cinema there.  The ride across to West London on the Central Line is one with real connotations for me these day as strong memories always come flooding back.

Within minutes of arriving there we easily meet up and head to Pho for Vietnamese noodles and a Weasel coffee where apparently the coffee bean is eaten by the Weasel then naturally regurgitated at which time the enzymes in its digestive tract cause the bean (and coffee) to taste nicer.  Really?  How on earth did they discover this?

In the end I wimp out of the Weasel coffee, half put off by the price and half put off by the concept.  Additionally the food fails to ignite my imagination as the girl at the till informs me that I am ordering (apparently incorrectly) a cold dish.  This immediately prompts me to order the most masculine dish on the menu before finally wimping out of the poo coffee.

While we eat our food an Asian (Oriental) guy comes to our table and puts a little toy rabbit on it.  At first I think it is a freebie but he’s on the ponce and within a couple of minutes returns to recapture the bunny.

Soon we finish off our food with time to spare to have a peak at the winter coats in Debenhams.  I cannot believe the season’s stock is in yet, the pickings are so slim and pathetic.  I also cannot believe how much the price of clothing appears to have shot up.

Eventually we head back and enter the Vue cinema where we step into the screen and almost empty theatre.  Somehow though there are still people sat in our seats.  Go figure, what are the odds?

THE OTHER GUYS turns out to be a fucking mess of a movie, almost incoherent in its delivery and nonsensical in its plot.  It actually begins well with a decent setup and origin as Samuel L. Jackson and The Rock rip it but beyond their demise, soundtracked by the Foo Fighters, things soon turn messy.

From here the piece fails to make much sense as seldom does Will Ferrell act on form.  And you can’t hang a movie on Mark Wahlberg; I just don’t think he is up to it.  Elsewhere Steve Coogan pops up looking like Davy Jones from The Monkees and proceeds to be painfully underused.  As in Anne Heche who is looking gorgeous and better than ever these days (perhaps Hung has rejuvenated her).

Tonight our enjoyment of the movie is also somewhat hindered by the crazy giddy person sat behind us laughing at any moment remotely nearing humour.  He then appears to be turning to the person next to him to repeat and explain the joke.  And I am not so sure that he is actually her with that person.  Later in the movie the guy moves slightly to the left when we turn around one time too often.  This only seems to make him worse.

In the end THE OTHER GUYS comes to a close in a hurry as I have to concede that its finish arrives with a degree of relief.  What a waste.  From here Racton and I exit Westfield both being very dismissive of the movie.

With this we head to Shepherd’s Bush tube station where we board the Central Line and wheel across town in a rush to get home in time for the latest episode of Inbetweeners (episode three).

Eventually I get to Liverpool Street where I catch the 9.30PM Norwich train which means I get home to Colchester just in time to miss the show.  That’s my life.  Fortunately tonight E4+1 saves me as I experience another sorry story in the lives of those little bastards.  Good times.

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