Sunday, October 24, 2010

Sunday 24 October 2010


Sunday 24 October 2010

As I awaken and look out of the window this morning I am faced by a full moon in the middle of a brilliant blue sky.  The time is only 7.30AM.  What is that about?

Last night was yet more disturbed sleep.  Nothing physically, everything mental and emotional.  I don’t think the saga of the smashed door is quite over yet.  Its all depressing through and through.

Off the back of this stressful mini drama unsurprisingly I have a headache.  It may still be the same one from last night but I’m not convinced.  I’ll try to power through.

To counteract this I put on my Sir Henry Rawlinson DVD that I bought yesterday but its nonsense on purpose and much too much for my pounding head at this time.

From here my attention gets switched as we all laugh at the Kings Of Leon YouTube video of them fumbling “Sex On Fire” at Reading.  At first I think the video is real, aware of their lack of actual talent it would not surprise me.  Then it suddenly occurs to me that it actually makes them sound better.  Go figure.  Good spot.

Eventually I pull myself out of bed where I finish off watching the first two episodes from season four of Mad Men followed by the episode of An Idiot Abroad from Mexico.  These are all fantastic pieces of television.

Off the back of Friday night today our building is very quiet.  Around 2PM I spot the Trash Humpers head off together on their bikes.  They’re back in love I guess.

Slowly I pull myself together to head to the olds for 3PM and Sunday lunch (as per routine).  As I step out I hear the door of my downstairs neighbour as she calls me into her flat and naturally asks me if I know anything about the smashed window of the our communal front door.  Like a fiend I deny any knowledge, choosing to just point towards Caroline Geary at 15 Hollytree Court and the Trash Humpers upstairs as she beacons me into her apartment for a state of the nation chat.

We have an awkward conversation as I find myself having to lie through my teeth.  However I have built up a whiter than white reputation here so whatever I say (within reason) is always going to sound believable.  Unlike those above.

As a result of this I end up getting to my parents at Balkerne Heights a little late where all the visitors parking spaces are occupied.  Luckily however the one in the underground car park is free/empty.  From here I step into their flat where the dog immediately rushes me in excitement.  I arrive with them already having started to tuck into their dinner.  Yeah, don’t wait for me to start.

Before long I find myself telling them about the antics of my neighbours on Friday with the old man asking me “is that what you meant about them “playing rape”?”  I tell them how I had to smash the window on the door of my own building in order to get in yesterday and naturally they frown upon my actions but realistically needs be, it would seem this is the only language these people may understand.

For a couple of hours I linger around my parents place as usual on a Sunday as I hear of the latest shenanigans of the various powers that are in control of Balkerne Heights (PMS, BHRC, Terry Sutton, Barry Hepburn, blah blah blah).  At times it all sounds like a bad episode of Beadle’s About.

As ever I download last night’s episode of SNL which makes me smile and cheers me up ahead of the tortuous train service on a Sunday that lies ahead of me.

Tonight I am heading back up to London back to the London Film Festival for the screening of this year’s Surprise Film.

In the end I board a 5.30PM train which again means for second Sunday running I am having to put three hours travel time into seeing a two hour movie.  Such is the overriding incompetence of National Express East Anglia on a Sunday.  Maybe their slogan should change to “fuck the weekends”.

Once on the 5.30PM I feel fearful of experiencing my latest NEXD as things roll at what appears a snails pace.  Thankfully things roll relatively smoothly as we quickly get to Witham in no time.  Unfortunately this is where the good stuff ends as unfortunately upon boarding the replacement bus/coach, here I get stuck sat next to some drippy teenager with a kid held in his arms.  A kid looking after a kid, this is the fodder of modern world where Jeremy Kyle is king of the gypsies.

Ultimately it’s a long and arduous bus journey as eventually we get to Ingatestone where we proceed to sit in station without moving for twenty five minutes.  Why?  This gesture in itself holds NEXD potential.

By this point I am already suffering battery angst in addition to a dulling headache as my journey is then not necessarily made any easier as a happy couple decides to sit noisily on the opposite side of the carriage.  A carriage is not a room.

Eventually the train begins rolling and after a real plod into town I finally and thankfully get to my beloved London.  From here I head straight to Leicester Square (via Holborn) to experience the West End on a Sunday night.

It turns out that the West End on a Sunday night is a hideous and hectic thing, especially in the run up to Christmas.  Do these people not have homes to go to/be in?

Shying away from the masses I hit the Spar on Haymarket with view to grabbing a bite and a funny bottle of cold tea with Chinese writing on it.  With its bright colours it could taste like anything.  The fun is in the gamble.

Returning through Leicester Square I find myself met by garish Christmas attractions and rides as some kind of garish fair appears to have consumed the square.  Despite this I can’t help but love how the big ride plays the Star Wars theme each time it sends people skywards upside down.  Did they get permission from George Lucas to use that?

From here I spend some time standing opposite the Vue cinema where once more the movie is playing.  With nothing better to do with my time I take in the hectic ambience of proceedings.  This place really does not possess the aura of a Sunday night.

With time nearing the screening hour I eventually step inside the cinema where there is a buzz to proceedings as people attempt to guess what tonight’s movie is to be.  When I bought the ticket, early on I was convinced that it would be the new Woody Allen movie You Will Meet A Tall Dark Stranger but realistically his stock isn’t really high enough to carry such an event any more.  Also I found myself half hoping for Machete but who am I kidding on that one.

As I enter the cinema and take my seat it is immediately apparent that I have a good place this evening, a good place until some boring film geek unfortunately sits himself to my left and immediately plops the largest cup available of Pepsi in the cup holder on my left arm rest.  Once again with this I feel violated.  No wonder the cunt is fat if this is the rate at which he consumes his fizzy drinks.

To further antagonise he immediately gets up, turns back around and heads to the toilet again literally and mentally stepping on my toes.  With him away I begin banging his Pepsi with my arm.  I drink Coke.  It is encroaching my personal space and my enjoyment of proceedings in general.  This is just too rude for me.  What is the etiquette for cup holders in cinema seats?  I can’t but think equally it is not to impose your huge cup on a stranger as it is to get angered and annoyed by such a gesture.

He returns.  By now I have made the rest of the armrest my bitch and with a sweeping gesture I knock the lid off his cup.  Does he take the hint?  Does he fuck.

Eventually the woman from the BFI comes out to introduce the mystery movie.  She is wearing nice boots and with an air of authority goads people into guessing which movie it is.  As names get thrown out apparently some people guess correctly.  Needless to say I am wrong.

The surprise film turns out to be the BRIGHTON ROCK remake.  I had no idea this was even in the works.  And having never seen the original or read the book I cannot say that I am necessarily interested in it either.

BRIGHTON ROCK circa now is a big production from the off with booming orchestration and a subtle noir attached that almost feels like Batman.  Most people will not agree with me on this but I am right.  Just about.

As the film begins the dick to my left persists in being annoying and ruining the evening by looking up the movie on IMDB on his phone.  With this his iPhone lights up a large part of the pitch black cinema and the movie rolls at its darkest.  His light is blinding.  So why don’t I make the point to him that “there’s a movie on the screen”?

BRIGHTON ROCK is a big movie, vast and expansive displaying the south coast of England in a manner that I do not necessarily recognise.  A little revision has been applied to the story as the tale has been moved forward a few decades to coincide with the Mods and Rockers violence of the sixties.  Suddenly we are in Quadrophenia.

The fact that I have neither read the book or seen the original movie means for me this is a fresh story but I am aware of the apparent homosexual overtones (mainly those that Morrissey has led me to believe).  And that in itself is interesting stuff.

The lead is Sam Riley.  In other words Ian Curtis from Control although there is also an element of him that reminds me more of Pete Doherty.  All in all it’s a tough sell, this guy looks barely out of his teens and yet he is supposed to be exuding all this sinister menace.  It’s a tough sell but fortunately he has a strong cast to back him up.

It turns out to be Andrea Riseborough who steals the picture as he captivates the scenery.  It is early on that she gets dragged into proceedings, having her photo taken with a rival gang member by a photographer who I think is Jason Isaacs (citation needed).

It is funny to watch Phil Davis working against the Quadrophenia backdrop although these days I can’t help but think of him as Albert Steptoe since starring with Jason Isaacs in The Curse Of Steptoe.  Elsewhere Helen Mirren and Bob Hoskins drive the film with seasoned backing while Andy Serkis proves excellent but horribly underused.

As the film continues I suddenly become conscious of the time and my actual options for getting home.  Being Sunday the usual rules and timetables of public transport go out of the window as on the whole everything runs half arsed at best.  It proves an annoying distraction away from the movie on top of idiot boy to my left.

Eventually the film juggernauts to a swift conclusion that is very well executed and comes topped with a couple of postscripts including a chilling completion possessing a spooky and sinister degree of tension and revelation.

With that the movie ends to much applause and being that it is my first time with the story I get drawn into the “is he, isn’t he?” study of Pinkie.

When the lights come up out steps the director Rowan Joffe who fields a few questions to explain why he has remade the movie at this time and in this way.  He seems happy to be here and the audience echoes the gratitude.  Then as the other screening of the movie next door comes to a close the brief Q&A session gets called to close as we all head off home in our respective direction.

At this point I take one last lingering angry glare at the twat sat to my left who in the end didn’t even finish his fucking jumbo Pepsi.  What a waste.  What a waster, that fat fuck.

Thankfully by this time the night has not quite reached 11PM and with a degree of confidence I head back to Liverpool Street secure in the notion that I should be able to catch the last train, should be able to get home this evening.

Before long after boarding the tube at Leicester Square and changing at Holborn I get back to Liverpool Street and soon find myself on a train to Ingatestone.  By this stage tonight’s attendance begins to feel hardly worth the effort.  This is how National Express East Anglia manages to squeeze all fun out of existence.

Tonight this is a Fellini train, a train full of lost souls and people up to no good coupled with the usual confused foreigners.  Everyone is guilty.

By the time we get to Ingatestone the time has passed midnight and we are officially into Monday.  From here as we step out of Ingatestone station there appears to be some confusion as to which rail replacement bus we are supposed to be boarding/catching.  This is not assisted by the National Express East Anglia employees failing to direct us.  Never let it be said these people care.

Finally we find ourselves stood outside the bus that we think is right.  Looking inside sat behind the wheel is some disgruntled and grumpy driver appearing uninterested in letting us on board until he has been told to so.  Just following orders.  Meanwhile as he waits the rest of us freeze stood outside the bus.

With a degree of relief and reluctant mercy the jobsworth finally opens the door and allows us to filter on, seemingly much to his chagrin.  From here the knackered old bus pulls out of Ingatestone and aims for the A12 at time when it should really be illegal to be driving along the road.

After a thirty minute drive we finally get to Witham where a couple of trains await us, not that they’re fucking moving it seems.  For twenty minutes I sit like a plum on a weird orange Friday 9PM Lowestoft train as the hour races past 1AM.

Eventually it grudgingly pulls away while to my right a French couple appear to be attempting to conceive.  You can’t fault them really considering the boredom and the hour.  Still, the horror!

After stopping at every village station possible on the way back to Colchester the train finally gets back just after 1.30AM.  This was such a mistake.

Once home I fail to fall asleep before 2AM.  I’ll be great fun tomorrow.

No comments: