Saturday 29 January 2005 – JOHN PEEL A CELEBRATION TRIBUTE SHOW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We rule the school.

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

Planet Beet and the Bury St Edmunds scene

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: Sebadoh – Zone Doubt

Daniel Kitson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: The Fall – C.R.E.E.P.

the V/VM mobile

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: Free Kitten – What’s Fair

Atari!!!!!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: The Jesus Lizard - Boilermaker

worst Waterstones ever!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: Screaming Trees – Halo Of Ashes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: Big In Albania - Bigboote

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: Palace Brothers – Come In

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: Lemonheads - Rudderless

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I pass out.

np: Jesus & Mary Chain - Snakedriver

Cats Against The Bomb as per beer goggles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: Primus - DMV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: PJ Harvey - Dress

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What was I doing at midday today?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: Derek And Clive - Records

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ding dang do.

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

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

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

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

np: Magoo – Queen Of The 8-Bus Singers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: Juliana Hatfield – What A Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: Art Brut – Formed A Band

the New Year's sun rising over Colchester

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now bed ways is best ways.

np: The Breeders – New Year



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

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

Media Player 31 Dec 2004

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

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

go figure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I fall asleep.

np: Red Snapper – The Sleepless

this how I think I must exactly look like sometimes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: America – Horse With No Name

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: Coldplay – Don’t Panic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On a boring note, my day/night ends.

np: Mercury Rev – Chasing A Bee

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: The Beat – Mirror In The Bathroom

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

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

I awaken from this dream, the opposite of screaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: Roy Green – Let ‘Em Come

the best gift of 2004

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas 2004 is over.

np: Dynamic Syncopation – 2 Tha Left