Tuesday 16 June 2009
Dream: I am somewhere and it suddenly appears that my old Gringo Records cohort is insistent that we attempt to work out our problems/issues. I really do not want to do this, do not even want to entertain the idea of opening up a dialogue with the dude because it is just so futile and pointless, he is the only person with anything to gain from doing so. As I say though he is insistent and it begins to happen and with every question I am able to volley back a sensible retort of the error of his ways and why I felt the need to throw in the towel on the label and how it hasn’t done shit since I left and dropped out. As I said, it is pointless and futile.
For some reason this morning I wake up with the theme music from Please Sir! playing in my head. It is a very stupid tune to have whizzing around one’s mind and a slightly worrying one also. Is my current comedy obsession of On The Buses about to switch aligences?
I still feel tired today and know that I have one bastard of a day ahead of me at work. Suddenly out of the blue yesterday I was told that BDO are in on Wednesday (tomorrow). We have just had the auditors in and with these guys coming in it will be just fielding almost the exact same questions/queries and ultimately it will just be another pointless timewasting and VERY expensive exercise in disrupting the flow of getting some actual work done in the meantime. As it will appear like some kind of dejavu crossed with corporate ‘Nam-esqe flashbacks being that I am already snowed with work I am not likely to entertain these people very well or be all that obliging. In the meantime the Posh Boss will be leaning on me for accounts today which I did make decent progress on yesterday but still have a lot of work to do, not least after my boss started saying yesterday how we need to get a sales ledger up and running on the current year accounts, a sales ledger that is incorrectly collated and produced on site at the restaurants and it would appear absolutely nobody is chasing/following up on with credit control. Just another piece of pickle in the mix.
I am very late leaving home this morning, not least because some kind of inspiration hits me on writing just before stepping out of the door.
Thankfully today there is no sign of the last night’s storms and it is a pretty decent day all in all. The walk to station is still a true chore/labour and obviously I miss the 7.03 train.
Arriving at the station also catching the 7.07 with me today is the weird couple that sit in silence, the yuppie Fred and Rose. All does not appear perfect in paradise as they choose to sit opposite each other today rather than together. She looks pregnant but he doesn’t look like he has got it in him so the bump must be from her overdosing on pies, she definitely does not have that pregnant glow, more an abortion grey to her demeanour and a vacant expression of “I hate my life and I’m going to take it out on somebody.”
When the 7.07 stops at a place called Hatfield Peverel suddenly you find yourself faced by the most desperate of commuters, these are true hicks. I get painted into my corner by three of them, the worst of which is the Mrs Royle lookalike with horrible smoker’s breath that makes me wretch as she sits next to me and speaks across me.
As the train finally pulls into Liverpool Street I swiftly get onto a crowded tube across town and as I look out of the window at Barbican I see the Baker Street Midget on the other side of the station, on the opposite platform. This I believe is a sign of me stressing out about Szesze.
Today is an OK day at work, no major dramas just keeping my head down and trying hard to pull things together and get the accounts done and out on time.
In the evening I head out with people from the restaurant to Bloomsbury Bowling. This is a delayed occasion (reaction) for the 21st birthday of one of the waitresses.
Collectively we all head down to Bond Street where we change to head over to Holborn. This is something of an exclusive invitation, these are restaurant staff while I am administration level and reality of sets mingling socially is generally unlikely due mainly to unfamiliarity. This is a good thing.
We step out of Holborn and wait on the corner outside Costa for the final few people to turn up. Holborn is a hectic part of London to say the least. It now feels like a million years since I used to study here and how big and intimidating coming up to London felt in those days.
While we wait some police motorcycles come storming through stopping in the middle of the crossroads junction near the Sainsburys shouting and ordering all vehicles to stop. Swiftly some kind of cavalcade follows them through. Must have been someone important.
After the final few people turn up we stagger towards Bloomsbury, past the museum and through Great Russell Square. I love this part of London, it has maintained all its character and to just look at the buildings is breathtaking.
When we get to Bloomsbury Bowling it is exactly how I remember it. Tonight I feel good, my last few times bowling I really feel that I have come to master the sport having finally found my groove and execution. The last time I was here was the night Billy Ruffian played music while Kate Nash was spotted bowling just as “Foundations” zeroed in on number one. We could sense the sense in the screams coming from her big yellow dress that night.
As we change our shoes into those grubby clown shoes I suddenly notice the lady running the restaurant/diner/food part of the lanes and she is a beautiful girl that reminds me of the Indian girl I worked with at the studio and fancied even though she was one of the hairiest ladies in history. Bless.
The plan is to blow off some steam tonight and with it get completely wankered and obliterated. If nothing else it should help/assist me to get over the language barrier. As I’ve said before the foreign people that work at the restaurant are really good guys but I’ll be fucked if I can understand them (I barely understand English people).
Soon I am drinking and soon we are bowling. There are two bags of pistachios on the table to our lane and we pounce on both of them like ants. We need food.
Recklessly and quickly I find myself tipsy well on the way too drunk. As people nurse their first pint I find myself coming to the end of my second (good job we chipped in for pitchers). With it my bowling strokes obviously turn to shit as they become all or nothing but generally more nothing.
It’s a fun night we’re all fucked and having fun. Eventually I head to the bar for more peanuts and a White Russian and only succeed in buying the former which almost induces some sick in me. Not a classic Lebowski.
The more I bowl, the more I drink and the worse I get. Every time I head up to release it is met with cheers and hilarity. At one point I stand at the foot of the lanes and hear “Whip It” by Devo over the stereo and I just can’t concentrate on the job at hand if someone is playing Devo. I begin to suspect that the powers that be are playing this on purpose in order to distract me.
My release of the ball by now is eternally late/delayed and as the ball bounces towards the pins I appear to be christened with the moniker “Dambuster”. This would be cool if it didn’t mean every bowl was resulting in a gutter ball.
As I head to the toilet I pass the flyer stand and discover the Vice Festival Guide and it is probably the clearest indicator that I am drunk that when I get back to our lane and sit down while reading the booklet I laugh profusely at the photos and captions from ATP. Surely this can’t be healthy.
Our first/main game concludes and somehow I manage a fairly respectable mid placing I believe even though I insist the scoring is broken and that I probably won. After this for a quick game we all get paired up and I end up with the waiter I have never really spoke/talked to and despite thinking he was English he turns out to be Albanian and super cool.
I continue dambusting my way through throws/rolls even despite many people trying to assist me through and then proceeding to laugh when I clumsily gutter.
Eventually our time runs out and the doubles game closes inconclusive. With the night still young we continue with shenanigans including hitting the pool table.
At this point I get into clipped pigeon conversation with the cool Italian guy that works in the kitchen and went to the Millwall play off final last month. It turns out that he’s from Verona and fairly (worryingly) interested in football hooliganism. He should meet Stevo. The Verona thing works out really well as immediately I zero in and remember that Preben Elkjaer from the amazing 1986 Denmark football team used to play for them. That was a legendary team; I swear at that time because they had Jan Molby in their team I liked them better than the England national team that tournament.
We end our evening at Bloomsbury Bowling playing pool. I am so fucking drunk at this point that I just cannot hit a ball straight and I basically embarrassment myself. In my defence I do at this point find myself distracted by the gorgeous Asian girl working the diner but then my hopes are dashed and my drunken heart broken as she appears to leave with the cook.
We leave walking towards Holborn. Rather we leave screaming our heads off as we stomp towards Holborn kicking a bottle along like school kids playing football. The night is still young for some as they head towards the centre of town but I got to head home to Colchester. There are offers on the table to put me up for the evening but I just want my bed. We part ways at Holborn and it’s a beautiful thing.
I get a good train back to Colchester and after a dizzy ride I find myself staggering towards Balkerne Heights on the way home. Things go a bit pear shaped when suddenly I am sick down myself a little. It has been a while since was this drunk, drunk to the point of puke. Here comes sickness. Darkness.
By the time I get home the world still has not ceased spinning and I crash and pass out knowing that tomorrow I probably won’t feel very well.
Dream: I am somewhere and it suddenly appears that my old Gringo Records cohort is insistent that we attempt to work out our problems/issues. I really do not want to do this, do not even want to entertain the idea of opening up a dialogue with the dude because it is just so futile and pointless, he is the only person with anything to gain from doing so. As I say though he is insistent and it begins to happen and with every question I am able to volley back a sensible retort of the error of his ways and why I felt the need to throw in the towel on the label and how it hasn’t done shit since I left and dropped out. As I said, it is pointless and futile.
For some reason this morning I wake up with the theme music from Please Sir! playing in my head. It is a very stupid tune to have whizzing around one’s mind and a slightly worrying one also. Is my current comedy obsession of On The Buses about to switch aligences?
I still feel tired today and know that I have one bastard of a day ahead of me at work. Suddenly out of the blue yesterday I was told that BDO are in on Wednesday (tomorrow). We have just had the auditors in and with these guys coming in it will be just fielding almost the exact same questions/queries and ultimately it will just be another pointless timewasting and VERY expensive exercise in disrupting the flow of getting some actual work done in the meantime. As it will appear like some kind of dejavu crossed with corporate ‘Nam-esqe flashbacks being that I am already snowed with work I am not likely to entertain these people very well or be all that obliging. In the meantime the Posh Boss will be leaning on me for accounts today which I did make decent progress on yesterday but still have a lot of work to do, not least after my boss started saying yesterday how we need to get a sales ledger up and running on the current year accounts, a sales ledger that is incorrectly collated and produced on site at the restaurants and it would appear absolutely nobody is chasing/following up on with credit control. Just another piece of pickle in the mix.
I am very late leaving home this morning, not least because some kind of inspiration hits me on writing just before stepping out of the door.
Thankfully today there is no sign of the last night’s storms and it is a pretty decent day all in all. The walk to station is still a true chore/labour and obviously I miss the 7.03 train.
Arriving at the station also catching the 7.07 with me today is the weird couple that sit in silence, the yuppie Fred and Rose. All does not appear perfect in paradise as they choose to sit opposite each other today rather than together. She looks pregnant but he doesn’t look like he has got it in him so the bump must be from her overdosing on pies, she definitely does not have that pregnant glow, more an abortion grey to her demeanour and a vacant expression of “I hate my life and I’m going to take it out on somebody.”
When the 7.07 stops at a place called Hatfield Peverel suddenly you find yourself faced by the most desperate of commuters, these are true hicks. I get painted into my corner by three of them, the worst of which is the Mrs Royle lookalike with horrible smoker’s breath that makes me wretch as she sits next to me and speaks across me.
As the train finally pulls into Liverpool Street I swiftly get onto a crowded tube across town and as I look out of the window at Barbican I see the Baker Street Midget on the other side of the station, on the opposite platform. This I believe is a sign of me stressing out about Szesze.
Today is an OK day at work, no major dramas just keeping my head down and trying hard to pull things together and get the accounts done and out on time.
In the evening I head out with people from the restaurant to Bloomsbury Bowling. This is a delayed occasion (reaction) for the 21st birthday of one of the waitresses.
Collectively we all head down to Bond Street where we change to head over to Holborn. This is something of an exclusive invitation, these are restaurant staff while I am administration level and reality of sets mingling socially is generally unlikely due mainly to unfamiliarity. This is a good thing.
We step out of Holborn and wait on the corner outside Costa for the final few people to turn up. Holborn is a hectic part of London to say the least. It now feels like a million years since I used to study here and how big and intimidating coming up to London felt in those days.
While we wait some police motorcycles come storming through stopping in the middle of the crossroads junction near the Sainsburys shouting and ordering all vehicles to stop. Swiftly some kind of cavalcade follows them through. Must have been someone important.
After the final few people turn up we stagger towards Bloomsbury, past the museum and through Great Russell Square. I love this part of London, it has maintained all its character and to just look at the buildings is breathtaking.
When we get to Bloomsbury Bowling it is exactly how I remember it. Tonight I feel good, my last few times bowling I really feel that I have come to master the sport having finally found my groove and execution. The last time I was here was the night Billy Ruffian played music while Kate Nash was spotted bowling just as “Foundations” zeroed in on number one. We could sense the sense in the screams coming from her big yellow dress that night.
As we change our shoes into those grubby clown shoes I suddenly notice the lady running the restaurant/diner/food part of the lanes and she is a beautiful girl that reminds me of the Indian girl I worked with at the studio and fancied even though she was one of the hairiest ladies in history. Bless.
The plan is to blow off some steam tonight and with it get completely wankered and obliterated. If nothing else it should help/assist me to get over the language barrier. As I’ve said before the foreign people that work at the restaurant are really good guys but I’ll be fucked if I can understand them (I barely understand English people).
Soon I am drinking and soon we are bowling. There are two bags of pistachios on the table to our lane and we pounce on both of them like ants. We need food.
Recklessly and quickly I find myself tipsy well on the way too drunk. As people nurse their first pint I find myself coming to the end of my second (good job we chipped in for pitchers). With it my bowling strokes obviously turn to shit as they become all or nothing but generally more nothing.
It’s a fun night we’re all fucked and having fun. Eventually I head to the bar for more peanuts and a White Russian and only succeed in buying the former which almost induces some sick in me. Not a classic Lebowski.
The more I bowl, the more I drink and the worse I get. Every time I head up to release it is met with cheers and hilarity. At one point I stand at the foot of the lanes and hear “Whip It” by Devo over the stereo and I just can’t concentrate on the job at hand if someone is playing Devo. I begin to suspect that the powers that be are playing this on purpose in order to distract me.
My release of the ball by now is eternally late/delayed and as the ball bounces towards the pins I appear to be christened with the moniker “Dambuster”. This would be cool if it didn’t mean every bowl was resulting in a gutter ball.
As I head to the toilet I pass the flyer stand and discover the Vice Festival Guide and it is probably the clearest indicator that I am drunk that when I get back to our lane and sit down while reading the booklet I laugh profusely at the photos and captions from ATP. Surely this can’t be healthy.
Our first/main game concludes and somehow I manage a fairly respectable mid placing I believe even though I insist the scoring is broken and that I probably won. After this for a quick game we all get paired up and I end up with the waiter I have never really spoke/talked to and despite thinking he was English he turns out to be Albanian and super cool.
I continue dambusting my way through throws/rolls even despite many people trying to assist me through and then proceeding to laugh when I clumsily gutter.
Eventually our time runs out and the doubles game closes inconclusive. With the night still young we continue with shenanigans including hitting the pool table.
At this point I get into clipped pigeon conversation with the cool Italian guy that works in the kitchen and went to the Millwall play off final last month. It turns out that he’s from Verona and fairly (worryingly) interested in football hooliganism. He should meet Stevo. The Verona thing works out really well as immediately I zero in and remember that Preben Elkjaer from the amazing 1986 Denmark football team used to play for them. That was a legendary team; I swear at that time because they had Jan Molby in their team I liked them better than the England national team that tournament.
We end our evening at Bloomsbury Bowling playing pool. I am so fucking drunk at this point that I just cannot hit a ball straight and I basically embarrassment myself. In my defence I do at this point find myself distracted by the gorgeous Asian girl working the diner but then my hopes are dashed and my drunken heart broken as she appears to leave with the cook.
We leave walking towards Holborn. Rather we leave screaming our heads off as we stomp towards Holborn kicking a bottle along like school kids playing football. The night is still young for some as they head towards the centre of town but I got to head home to Colchester. There are offers on the table to put me up for the evening but I just want my bed. We part ways at Holborn and it’s a beautiful thing.
I get a good train back to Colchester and after a dizzy ride I find myself staggering towards Balkerne Heights on the way home. Things go a bit pear shaped when suddenly I am sick down myself a little. It has been a while since was this drunk, drunk to the point of puke. Here comes sickness. Darkness.
By the time I get home the world still has not ceased spinning and I crash and pass out knowing that tomorrow I probably won’t feel very well.
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