October 16 (Saturday): A Talking Junkie. Today is a bad day. I wake up around 5 AM in a panic, immediately springing out of my bed to make sure I managed to get my mobile phone home last night. I did. In fact, it appears I even had presence of mind to put it on charger. Sometimes, there are some things that are pretty wrong with me. I go back to bed.

I probably re-awaken around 7.30 and then 9.30 and both times I curl back up to safety with my head pounding more than ever. Next to my bed is a bottle of water but it doesn’t last long and won’t go far in the prevention of a hangover.

All morning I am in’n out of grace until finally Chris emerges strongly at 11 AM blatantly wanting to get/go home. I get up and attempt to pull myself together, easier said than done. I stagger around the flat with a sore head for a few minutes and then I throw up into the toilet.

Eventually around midday I manage to pull us both out and give him a lift home. This trip is really a dangerous mistake and I should not have done it. As we near Stanway and Chris’ house, I have to actually pull into the Co-op car park and park up because I think I am about to throw up. Somehow for some reasons the gods smile on me though and I don’t bring up. Once I drop off (dump) Chris back at his, I buy the Saturday papers, get some food and return to Bohemian Grove and go back to bed.

In order to clear my mind (and conscience) I put on the Football Factory and attempt to kid/delude myself that that was how I was acting last night and that I am THAT cool. Yeah, I turn out to be so cool that I just fall straight back to sleep again (feeb).

I hang suspended until 3PM hits and its football. Today Millwall are away to Sunderland (an away trip Stevo really wanted to make) and I spend the afternoon keep tabs on that. Around 4PM Tom hits me on MSN, at which point I am still too hungover to do anything. Strangely/fortunately, our exchange actually has some substance and surprisingly clears my head (which is a bonus considering I only have four hours to sort myself out before I take Sarah out tonight). Millwall however end up losing 1-0 to Sunderland by a Kevin Muscat own goal, a very shitty result.

The afternoon lingers and soon it gets dark and turns into evening as I find myself slow in getting ready. I run a bath but I take forever to get into it as people keep logging onto MSN and pestering me. Did I say pester? Don’t mean it. First Dad comes online followed by Richard and then finally Sara. Sara turns out to be most interesting as it is 2AM in Australia (where she is on work) and she has returned to her hotel room off her tits on coke, flying high as a kite. Sara actually sounds in a real state and I kind of feel obliged to talk her down, be there for her while her head is blown off and she is in a room on her own. I don’t know what happens, during over conversation I find myself distracted attempting to get ready for my own social life. She brings up the whole “I love you� thing and tells me that I don’t have to tell that to her. Fine. However tonight though, she just craves attention. When I tell her that I am going out with Sarah, she gets really pissed off, telling me how I shouldn’t go and that I am an idiot for having anything to do with her. Jealous? Eventually I leave at 8PM after getting texts from Sarah going “you haven’t forgotten about me have you?�.

The night happens and it turns out to be another car crash occasion, that to be honest was on the cards in earnest. When I pick Sarah up around 8.15, she emerges from her house looking fairly pretty. We get in the car and head to town. Immediately there are chinks in the armour when she tells me that when she had those pops at me on MSN the other Friday they came at the end of a very hard week for her, one in which her doctor had offered to sign her off work for depression for two weeks. Why is this not surprising? Still emphasise with her and plod into town regardless. I park on the villain part of Crouch Street and we head towards Edwards with me telling her all about last night and my little flit/flirt with violence. I move paranoid with peripheral vision because the honest truth is that I would have no idea what the guy I started on looks like and personally I believe he would be fully entitled to just come up and smack me at the first opportunity. As we pass Sam’s Pizzeria (scene of the crime) there is a broken bottle (smashed glass) almost exactly where we stood last night. Sarah makes yokes (unfunny jokes) about me causing that commotion and I nervously laugh whilst at the same time still watching my back.

When we arrive at Edwards it is still relatively early and therefore still relatively laxed/relaxed. I buy the first round (me on cokes) and we begin talking/chatting, doing a general catch up. Very early on (almost too early on) I find my eyes rolling as she goes on about the situation between her and Griggs when Rachel caught them out. She tells me “I like him and he kind of likes me� – no he fucking doesn’t, he was taking the piss out of you you dumb fuck. For some reason (probably Drew’s prize comments) she thinks that the people in our office think she is a bit of a slag when really I do not/cannot possibly think of or imagine a more tighter cunt (physically). This girl really thinks of herself as being much more interesting than she actually is.

Almost immediately then, the night is already a grind and I begin to wish I had stayed at home for some cyber love but I’m a good guy, I stick it out and put the effort in to stop the whole affair/night being one long drawn out nonversation (with the view to maybe getting some at the ending). That said though, soon I am very bored with it all: the company, the surroundings, the music, the ambience, the beverage.

Conversation shits to the hell night from July, a night she still holds in fine regards (sadist). She tells me how her work mates liked me (whereas I thought they were dull as dishwater and occasionally stomach churningly arrogant). I act surprised (as I genuinely am) and give her a sanitised run down of my opinions on them, mainly taking swooping pops at her managers, the jazzed up adults that reminded me of old nightmare people from my school days (daze).

As talk meanders further into work, I remember how Sarah had boasted to me that a manager-type from Capita’s Manchester office had taken her out to dinner in London. I enquire further and it turns out that the whole affair was not really half as great as she had been selling it to me. Apparently the guy was past his forties and has since subsequently had a stroke, which in my mind is an understandable reaction to spending time with this mad Mcslim girl. One thing she however couldn’t get straight in her mind is/was how she led the man on. She tells me how innocent the whole meal was but my god, if he took her to dinner with no real reason/agenda, what else would he have been wanting/expecting? Still, she claims/pleads innocence when obviously the girl either knows what she is/was doing or she is the stupidest person ever (which, come to mind, kinda fits also). Then again, bare in mind this is a stifled Muslim girl who has never had freedom or a real social life until now and there is now stuck in a state of flux/limbo, a perpetual state of catchup, having probably only just reached her teenage/first time getting drunk stage.

Gradually the night wears on slowly and Edwards begins to fill up with Chavs and a shocking about of oldsters all dolled up in their appearance and still remaining looking shitty (applicable to both sexes). Sarah asks me if I have anything going on my love life. “Erm, I’m in fucking horrible Edwards with you on a Saturday night, does it look like I have?�. As I said earlier, dense. Still though, in a valiant attempt to keep thinks peachy (whilst really testing my patience) I ask her the same question back. She tells me that there is someone for currently which prompts me to bark back “well why the fuck isn’t he fucking here with you tonight then?�. More than likely it is some male Mcslim piece of shit, carefully bending his dogmatic religious rules/agenda to benefit his own end, to get his end way whilst this dippy girl gets lead on and half goes insane. Yeah, that little relationship/fling must be smouldering. Is it any surprise she says she was indecently assaulted.

And on the indecently assaulted front, she issue gets raised when she tells me how once she was “flashed� by someone on a Colchester road called Priory Street. The thing is, Priory Street is smack in the centre of the rough side of Colchester town centre and even I would not go around/near there late at night (then again Griggs got mugged/robbed there at knife point once, so its not all bad then). Sarah then tells me how the guy (the flasher) then tried to get in her car with her! And here she is telling me how she didn’t fancy him because he had a small cock! So, all in all, this brings about the question in/from me: “was that when you were indecently assaulted then?�. And at this point she curls up physically and mentally and replies “I don’t want to talk about that�. Shame that, I do/did.

The night gets old and she keeps knocking back the Alco pops as I get bored and fidgety as the fag smoke etc begins to get up my nose and back comes my hangover and general illness from all day. And then add to that I accidentally lean my white Black Flag shirt sleeve in some red wine (which never comes out).

Eventually conversation dies and I get to the point where I want to leave and when we don’t leave, I begin to act like a kid. And this becomes my turning point as I drop the best behaviour mask and begin to ask bored questions beginning with “when did you last have sex?� shortly followed by “have you ever had sex outside/outdoors?�.

We reach some kind of slipstream when she begins to tell me that I “have no confidence with girls�. Is this derived from the fact tonight I’m finding most girls in this Chav den repulsive or by the fact that I am not hitting on Sarah because tonight she really isn’t working for me. She adds that I need a girlfriend which makes me think “well if things (“dates�) continue like this, there isn’t much fear of that�. The final sticking the boot in turns out to be when she tells me that I should get a new image. She tells me that she did (got a new image) and……I’m not sold, she’s still a boring cunt it seems to me. She keeps telling me that I have lost weight when really I don’t think I have. I think/refer to the Rat Pack episode of The Sopranos when the wired contractor told the same thing to Tony a couple of times and such insincerity (sucking up) only served to spring him in Tony’s mind as an FBI rat and eventually got him whacked (my god, what a tenuous link).

When I go to the bar to get drinks, I look at my reflection and know I really shouldn’t be here. I know I look bad generally most of the time but tonight I look semi death warmed up with a real scowl and general air of negativity. When I return to Sarah I half expect to find some guy chatting her up and I relish the opportunity to converse like an arsehole. Then again, who the fuck is going to hit on that. Upon returning with drinks however I find her left, standing like a lemon staring vacantly into space (as is her general mindset it seems to me). I tell there that I half expected to return to find some guy hitting on her and she seems surprised by this statement (but nothing near as surprised as me with hindsight!). I tell her the truth though, how girls just have to wear low tops (such as her’s tonight) and stick out their tits and some guy will hit on them. And I look around at the people around, now pissed and acting obnoxious (basically me last night) and figure “beer goggles not on tonight�.

Bored by now and really wanting to go, I start to go out of my way to insult her. When I finally see a genuinely good looking girl (an Oriental one), I say to Sarah “look at that bamboo over there!� and she replies “don’t be racist� to which I reply utterly ignorant on purpose: “no way, she’s fit!�. I also begin asking really personal questions, probably stopping short at/of “do you shave your bush?�.

The sure sign of death to the evening is when I begin playing with my phone. I almost text Griggs to say “Azmei’s sister, fucking take her�. Instead though I hop onto the GPRS to see what is on TV at the moment and just what I am missing (out on).

As she finishes another drink, I make gestures to make moves (go somewhere else) but she makes gestures to get another drink. By now it has come around to my turn/round but I’ll be fucked if I’m going elongate this hell any further. She however doesn’t take the hint and goes and buys herself a drink, curiously a coke (her first non-Alco pop of the evening). I ask her “aren’t you bored?� as we near the third hour mark of standing around like lemons having half arsed conversation moments and people watch Chavs in action (a term which, by the way, she does not know). She tells me she’s not bored and that “I just like listening to the loud music and being here�. Vacant lot, I tell her “you’re a dull girl� and get away with it (I’m learning now you can’t treat Mcslim girls as bad as you want and they will take it, it appears to be in their culture and learning).

Around this point my phone vibrates/rings and it is Stevo calling me from god knows where for some reason. However with all this noise (the DJ etc) going on, I cannot hear a fucking thing and it takes Stevo two calls to realise this. This does however prompt much activity on my phone as I begin texting people, expressing my boredom to anyone that will listen (and hopefully reply).

Sarah begins to flag and whine eventually, strangely moaning like a child “my arm hurts� followed by “my tummy hurts�. I look in in disbelief and like its one big laugh comments/jokes “bet its like being around/with a ten year old� to which I respond “a ten year old would be more fun�. I think I bring up the indecently assaulted thing again with a comment like “if you get into this kind of state, no wonder……� and she curls up inside herself again and then suddenly goes “I’m going to be sick�. Whoops, did I trigger some psychosomatic? Whatever/regardless, she flies/disappears off to the toilets. I finally find some humour in the evening as the realisation/fact that only I could/would get a girl so drunk (with view to….) that she would throw up in the process. This is so typically me, especially with alcohol, the way I do/take things too far.

It is at this point that I look across the room (with a smirk) and see Rob (the Ipswich fan) from English class. I would have said “hi� were I not patiently waiting for Sarah to return from throwing.

As time carried on, thoughts appear in my mind of “what if she has passed out in a cubicle? How will I get home?� but eventually she returned after about a ten minute break, a break long enough for me to manage to finish drinking her drink. Upon arrival, wiping her chops, she moans that her drink (almost full when she left it) had gone but I begin to lead her outside telling her “I’m taking you home (but not to fuck or anything)�. She whinges that she doesn’t want to leave but then also that she doesn’t feel very well and that maybe she should have something to eat. Torn mentally, she shows some reluctance at leaving to which I respond “I’ll get you thrown out, I’ll tell the bouncers that you’ve been sick�. I however grab her cardigan that she is holding and lead her out of Edwards.

When we get outside things go even more pear shaped as Sarah now insists that she doesn’t want to go home (“it’s still early�) and begins bitching me out that now she will have to pay to get back into Edwards. By this stage, I have fucking had enough and I make up lies like “I’ve texted your sister and she says to take you home�. Undeterred, like a nutter, Sarah goes “you’re lying, how late is Yates open?� and she begins walking towards Yates. Like a div I follow her but also I begin texting Azmei saying “your sister is really pissed, what do I do?�.

When I get to Yates and attempt to catch up with Sarah, there is a really big bouncer on the door stopping people from getting in. I am completely happy/down with that however I really should be looking out for Sarah, I feel obliged. I text her saying “they won’t let me into Yates� and walk off back to my car pissed off, leaving her stranded in town. I don’t know what person ultimately is the more reckless/irresponsible but if this is how Sarah acts, no wonder she got “indecently assaulted� in the first place and unless she learns some common sense social skills, it may only be a matter of time before it happens again. Especially when arseholes like me leave her stranded in town, with their patience having been pushed through all limits.

I return home, hoping that Sara is still online and that I can speak to her some, it seems she cares for me more than Sarah ever will. Unfortunately though, there is no sign of her. Tom however is online and I speak to him about events in an effort to clear my conscience. He tells me that I appear to have acted responsibly. I glad I can convince him because I sure can’t convince myself on that issue.

So ultimately tonight I manage to get a female Pakistani Muslim drunk at the beginning of Ramadam? Is this as bad as it sounds? Ho ho.

On TV is the movie The Cell. I once saw this stoned around B’s house with her weirdo Colchester friends (well, nu metal semi Goths). I can’t decide if this film sucks as much as I suspect it does. It is fucking ridiculous, adding a sci-fi bent to a Hannibal Lector movie with a touch of S&M whilst having a pretty good cast. Vince Vaughan however does look a total mess while Jennifer Lopez all gothed up vampy looks the most amazing that she is ever likely to.

Around midnight, I text Azmei again telling her that I am really concerned about Sarah (lie!). I am actually semi surprised not to have been sent grief giving text messages or calls to pick Sarah up. Not good.

The night ends with the Peter Cook and Dudley Moore version of Hound Of The Baskervilles. It shouldn’t but it sends me straight to sleep.

np: Primal Scream – Swastika Eyes

You're cautious, a bit paranoid. You left the scene for the suburban married life, but somehow, touble seems to follow you and piss on your mornings. You are quick to share your point of view, but have no problems with giving in to the requests of wives and wolves. Take the What Pulp Fiction Character Are You? quiz.

October 15 (Friday): Now Who Wants Ice Cream? Today I had a really weird and disturbing dream with basically involved one of our more colourful/interesting clients (Steven Alexander) telling me aggressively (while I work on his PC) how to pull and fuck women. And the aggression is not playful or laddish; it’s almost rapist-esqe. I find myself feeling fearful but still toy with him, looking to piss him off when I point out how much he looks like Carson off Queer Eye For A Straight Guy. Piss him off? Mission accomplished.

I wake this morning, depressed, disheartened and generally fucked off. Last night I couldn't even be arsed to set my alarm clock, so when I wake up at 7.30 it is by instincts alone and may as well have been 5.30 or 9.30 for all I could have known. I wake feeling bad about and within myself and the complete concept of going out tonight terrifies me as I only feel disgusting and minging.

I cross my computer (which made me cross last night) and there have been over night attempts to contact me from both Tom (12.30, "you awake") and Sara (3.30 "hungover"). Not long after I begin murmuring, Sara logs in and gets me on MSN. We have a pleasant exchange (as if usual these days) and she directs me to internet radio, where I eventually wind up on BBC London listening to Danny Baker like it is still 1992 for me. I talk to her and she tells me how she got her hangover, getting pissed with a Yank from Texas last night, celebrating after a good day at work. Really! I then tell her how I got Emily's number, all probably done in an attempt at envy, which seemingly works as she tells me that she doesn't like hearing about my "ladies" in the same way that I don't like hearing about "her men".

Eventually I slope off into, mooching, hoping my car hasn't been keyed in the night. For some reason, on the radio this morning, Scott Mills (Chris Moyles' stand-in) has got a dog on air attempting to hypnotise his co-host. Whatever.

I get into work and all is well and, generally thanks to Sara, I found I have cheered up myself. And Stevo also trots in with a smile, so its goodness all round. Today I have to go out to a client called South East Painting and do some cover work for poor old Alan. Getting the client however entails riding the company bubble car with Lindsey. After a brief bit of waiting around, we eventually get going. The ride is a bit laboured and fairly awkward. It’s about eight months now since I've properly spoken to Lindsey so scraping out any conversation now comes with baggage and is really laboured, especially when her responses all sound semi-nervous. Still, we live and get through the ride, the opposite of at eachother's throats.

My morning goes fairly well, save for a minor scare on Sage when it goes bollo/tits up but fortunately a quick phonecall to Stevo (Sage expert) sorts it out. However, just as I am having a weird think about the time in 1994 or 1995 when I went to Specsavers with Jackie, Lindsey turns up to drive me/us back to the office. This ride is somewhat more awkward but eventually the sphincter loosens when I ask her what she is doing this weekend (going to a wedding it seems).

When I get back to the office, minutes after getting in Stevo is on the phone asking me what I am doing for lunch. The Marquis or Nandos gets suggested and as The Marquis is cheaper, I plump for that. In the end it winds up being myself, Stevo, Brian and Sandip all chowing down. As we walk into town, we pass Natalie walking out town and today I just about manage to squeeze out a smile, which ultimately I feel is pretty futile as I feel utterly utterly minging. Lunch is odd and I wind up eating half Stevo's lunch also, self christening me "Jason Two Dinners". On the way back to work, we make sharp comments about today's students being future windowlickers.

I get back to work and tear through the cheque books at a hare's pace which frees up/earns me some time to work on my journal. Mid afternoon my phone beeps and it is a text from Chris asking me if I want to go around his tonight's for dinner. Back of the net!

When I get in, really it ought to be time to make moves to Chris’ but really the flat needs a really good tidy, nothing of short of a total overhaul will really do. And then The Apprentice comes on TV and I really have to catch that.

I finally get to Chris’ around 7PM where I find everyone, whoops his whole family including Gran, waiting me for to turn up so we can all eat dinner. However as per usual, I get away with murder. Dinner tonight is Toad In The Hole (YES!!!) times two (one for veggies and one for normal people). It’s bonza tuck.

We finally make moves around 8PM and head to Sainsburys where we debate over what booze to get destroyed with tonight. It is exactly two months since I last got off my tits and officially I am off Stella because it turns me into a monster. On a Hunter S. Thompson I consider Courvoisier, until of course I see the price tag. In the end we plump for cheapo bourbon with Sainsbury Classic Cola as the mixer (which is actually an aces brew I’ll let you know). I also finally get one of those Mudshake (?) girls’ drinks, the alcoholic milkshake. Once finished struggling with the Sainsbury pump to put air in my Focus’ tyres (I think I may already be a little drunk), we head to Ben’s to pick him up and take him back to Bohemian Grove for a party.

Back at mine, we lunge into a full on assault of the senses, tearing into the booze like termites on a farmhouse. Me and Chris are binge drinkers and disgusting with it. Ben settles for his ONE (!) can of something. We (me and Ben) play FIFA 2005 on Playstation 2 while I just know that Chris is on my PC looking at the porn links on my AOL Favourite Places (“just check my email!�, yeah right). As time wears on, the more pissed me and Chris get and, after jacking the Media Player to pathetic volumes (N.E.R.D. – She Likes To Move being party track of the evening), we finally leave my flat. At some point around my flat Sarah texts me and asks me if I want to go out for a drink tomorrow night, an opportunity I jump at like an utter idiot.

We leave at 10.20 to head into town (a 25 minute walk) and between leaving and arriving, things become blank and blurry. I do remember much to Ben’s disapproval my kicking every traffic sign in the way in the process of our walk/march.

Upon arrival in town at 10.45/10.50 I find that I am utter fucking mullered and have very little idea of where I actually am. I realise we are in the Hogshead but other than that….. I recognise a few faces and take the piss out of them with contempt, each comment/blow annoying Ben more by the second. We sit outside in the garden for a while and I am only semi conscious to the fact that we have just stolen some people’s seats (there are bags beneath our feet). I’m conscious but don’t acknowledge it (ignorance rules). I find myself in a drunken text rally with Sarah saying who knows what but stuff I am sure will eventually come back to bite me on the arse. I also, for good measures, decide to text Sara (now in Australia) with “I love you� for a laugh.

We decide to make moves to the Arts Centre and god only knows how I get in there, I can’t even pretend to be sober (not drunk) enough to be let. However, they let me. When the guy searches me, I do manage to empty my pockets onto the table but the process of putting all my cash and credit cards back into my pockets becomes more than a bridge too far. At the desk, I am lucky enough to have the correct money because there is no way I could ever have dealt with change. And I see Emma (my English course bud) doing security and I fire “wassup!� finger shots/expressions at her.

I manage to spend three hours of my laugh inside the club but I can recollect very little of it. I think the first thing I was met with was some girl in the distance doing interpretive dancing to the term “fuck off�. I also remember standing like lemons for long periods of time and me macking some gorgeous oriental girls, attempting to remember/word some Cantonese at them and referring to them as “bamboos�. I’m bad. I think eventually we moved into the centre of the floor and danced some. For some reason I decide I want to hear some Dexy’s Midnight Runners and I force Chris to go up to the booth to request some for me. I follow him up to the booth and act with somewhat more enthusiasm than him. The DJ tonight is spot on and does have Jackie Wilson Said, so naff its good. When we sidle down the booth steps apparently (according to Emma) I fall arse over head and only manage to drag Chris down with me. As the night got busier, things apparently got suckier and I kept making repeated trips to the bathroom, at one point finding myself passing out while standing up at a urinal. Luckily some helpful patron patted me on the back, which woke me up. Maybe this was also the guy who I had my arm around on the dance floor who apparently worked for Col U who also told me he loved Millwall. Who knows? The whole evening/experience was basically akin to the period in my life where/when I would go around introducing myself to the question “who the fuck are you?�.

We leave slightly before two, when I should have long been thrown out. As I stagger out the front, I see Emma and she goes “did you have a good night� and I slobber a response of “nahhhhhh!!!!!�. Cracked them up but I wasn’t fucking joking.

Still pissed, we head to Crouch Street with food on our mind. I could not tell you what frame of mind my head was in at this point, only that I was on autopilot about to slip into fighterpilot.

Upon arrival at Bodrums, I have absolutely no idea how I am able to manage to order a kebab but I do and actually do so, giving Johnny Foreigner the correct change. Now that is talent! Then again, how hard is it to grunt “large doner� at someone and work out £4.50 in coinage. Eventually we get served and stagger out the kebab shop. As we leave (perhaps) someone makes comment about us, perhaps using the word “fat�. As we walk up Crouch Street and I dip my fingers into the first part of my doner, it appears the gimp at the shop has failed to put chilli sauce on my baby. I rapidly lose interest in my food and begin to get slightly ticked off. I would imagine this caused me to feel the necessity to lash out at the world as while the others make moves towards the long walk home, I begin to linger around Crouch Street beginning to add up in my mind what occurred verbally in the kebab shop and how it was probably aimed at me and how it was demeaning to me and was someone taking pots at me and getting laughs at my expense. Yes, all this just from someone calling me “fat� (which really could/would never be confirmed one way or another. Does this make me paranoid?). Momentarily I toy with returning to Bodrums to hand/give out some shit but barely able to function in my drunken daze/haze, I spot someone walking past us on his mobile phone talking (or maybe I didn’t even see the phone initially, just thought he was giving me more grief). I snap and standing in the middle of the road on Crouch Street (outside Sam’s Pizzaria) begin giving the guy shit (a guy who probably didn’t even do anything in the first place). Repeatedly I begin shouting at the guy, kebab in hand, “get off your fucking phone, get off your fucking phone�. To be honest, I don’t really remember/recall what else I shouted at the guy but it was probably a really snappy “what’s the matter?�, a rather rhetorical question. At this point Ben pops at me and begins pulling me away as the guy begins pointing to the air saying “there’s cameras up there� while I shout back “no there fucking ain’t!�. Eventually Ben succeeds in pulling me away and begins dragging me home, getting the real arseholes in the process. As we waddle up Butt Road I find myself going to Ben “what damage was done? We all survived to fight another day!� (in that really wanky positive drunk manner) and he pops back “he could have had a knife� and “you only did it (had a go) because there were/are three of us�, all basic code telling me how out of order I am/was, which in the light of day cannot be argued with.

The walk up Butt Road and Layer Road is all but a blur, I guess I was sent to Coventry as I failed to get involved in any conversation. I’m positive at some point Chris and I stopped for piss breaks, all under the heavy judgement from Ben. I do recall a solid point of karma at an early stage of Layer Road as I slipped on the curb and dropped the kebab I was saving out of its box but somehow managing to hold onto the box. I remember clocking Ben watching me do so and through my utter heartbreak at losing my snack, just flinging the box over my shoulder as to say (in my expression) “meant to do that�. I’m a prick to the end.

Upon arriving at Hollytree Court we splinter off and Chris stays around. As we split up, Ben barely says “bye� to me, if at all. Once inside, in the warmth and safety, I just go to sleep to get away from it all, going to sleep hungry.

np: Foo Fighters – Good Grief

October 14 (Thursday): Who Let You In? Dream: I go on a day trip to what turns out to be Disneyland in Florida, although it isn’t very recognisable, looking more like a tube station in London. I go as part of a four person party including myself, Mark, Ben, Chris, Stevo and Tom (you do the math). Towards the end of the day I find myself exclusively with Mark and it begins to get chilly and the mother/daughter combo from my English course begin talking to me, the mother especially, in an attempt to get my coat from me (I have two layers and am not cold). Eventually she gets it from/off me and when it becomes time to leave I can’t get it back, although I don’t mind because it means hanging (inadvertently) with the daughter who I semi fancy. Eventually the old man comes along and I get my coat back and we leave “Disneyland� as it gets to closing time, the exit being like a foyer in a cinema. When we get back after our daytrip to Disneyland Florida (!) four of us sit talking over a table at Wilson Marriage Centre and one of the downys I recognise at the centre from ten years ago recognises me and begins talking to me. Ten years on, he appears to have recovered (or at least improve mentally) and I/we have a nice conversation, pure and optimistic.

I wake, dry throated but surprisingly without a hangover. I hit Sara on MSN for a few words from Australia. After a prolonged exchange, it turns out that she might be coming back to England for a couple of weeks in November. I should be excited but instead I am filled with dread.

I have discovered the first Foo Fighters record in the biggest way, with hindsight it is SO good

Hard times. These are the days that get sent to test us. I think by rights, I really really should have woken up this morning with some kind of minor hangover/headache, especially considering my dry throat but no, my mind comes clear as can be. The walk into work turns out to be a breeze when stand-in DJ Scott Mills cheers me up by playing Estelle and the new Graham Coxon singles ("Freakin' Out") which some reason this morning (unlike previously) sounds amazing.

At work today, I need a solid day after slacking yesterday afternoon after getting back from Kentford/Kennett and really need to get Suffolk Sheds done and dusted, which really is within the realms of reality providing I work on it solidly.

The day however takes a turn for the worst when Heddle phones over to Chernobyl (our office, division 2) asking Stevo to tell me to go up into the loft in the main office for him. Oh yeah, that'll happen. That actually is really taking the piss, what possible part of his mentality deems it sensible to get me to up sticks, go all the way over to our other office and root around in the loft, where Seymour has previously stated I am too heavy to go up into anyway. I become belligerent, happy to let the request drift and float away, probably being passed onto to someone more appropriate. Stevo however does not let it go, instead taking it as a lack of respect to his authority and he promptly goes over the road to comply with the request on behalf of myself and Sandip, who then gets dragged into the whole issue. Talk about a storm in a tea cup but when Stevo goes up into the loft himself, the issue gets blown out of proportion and for the remainder of the morning a very nasty, hostile atmosphere is born, causing chilly me to become paranoid to the point that I don't want to go into the main office for being collared and reprimanded for my apparent lack of respect and distinct disregard for orders. As I say, storm in a tea cup but when Stevo returns from whinging to Heddle having been told "you should excerpt your authority" and Sandip returns after being asked "why wouldn't you go up" and then telling me "you're in trouble", I just look vacantly into space like Tim in The Office in one of his mind-blowing, jobsworthy disbelief moments. Eventually Heddle comes over to our office to do something with Emma, and a now paranoid to the hills Jason braces himself for a bout of shit, which only fails to happen as Heddle and myself only exchange salutations. When he leaves the office, Stevo cannot believe he has not gotten me into trouble and Sandip makes comment "he's scared of you" which regards to Heddle. Like fuck he is and after all this drama, I suspect this may come back to haunt me at some point. Once more Manager Steve upsets the roost. Give him a book/course/lesson on assertiveness vs aggressiveness.

By lunchtime, the day has been an utter grind and when I am able to get some fresh air and spend some time on my own, it is much relief. As I stagger around town drained, I bump into Emily from frisbee in Marks & Spencers. As usual she is a glow of energy and at least acknowledges (these days I couldn't want/desire more from a person). As I act near comatose (nice one), she mentions the Sunday night quiz and asks me if I'm going this week and that I should go, even if Mark isn't about now (to hold my hand with the frisbee bods). She gives me her number so I can.....whatever.....before the quiz. I act so goofy, it is embarrassing and when I leave, I storm out in a hurry, accidentally knocking some garments on the floor. They're old granny clothing and I don't want to fucking touch them, so I ask a nice lady near me to hang it up for me. Dickhead.

I wind up buying lunch from Boots, a very unhealthy looking chocolate sundae after a three piece chicken sandwich (where did my health kick/streak/trend/fad go?).

Fortunately for my remaining sanity, the afternoon pretty much passes without incident, I large to everyone about getting a girl's phone number and get Suffolk Sheds done and dusted. Louise happens to mention that she used to have Emily's mum teach her English at Tendring High School, so this gives me an excuse to text her, just if it is to just inadvertently give her my number. Still though, all afternoon Stevo and I hurl insult after insult and muddy abuse at eachother, to the point that when it gets to home time, he doesn't even want to give me a lift home. Whoops.

When I get in, after my laboured half hour walk, my computer is playing up royally, refusing to go back online and download any lovely new MP3s and/or the latest episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000 that I am downloading. My phone beeps though and it is a reply from Emily (cool, she didn't stiff me with a bum number) saying "Cool. My crazy mum is famous! What the name of the girl who knows her? Make sure you come to the quiz! Emily x".

Before my English class, I do however get chance to watch tonight's episode of The Apprentice. Seems old Donald Trump has been hard at it and since monday, Tammy is no longer on the show and has been fired. I fucking fancied the arse off Tammy. Tonight the utterly revolting Omarosa (or something) finally gets kicked to the curb, about five episodes too late it seems to me.

English class this week is really really hard work, I feel utterly exhausted and too tired to give it any heart, I am very much lacking in enthusiasm, especially for the poetry of Christina Rossetti. At least however though, this week Emma is back in class. Early on we get our essays handed back to us and teacher says their standard was very encouraging. I worry about getting mine back and when I do my mark is a "strong C/low B". Not bad! Cheers me up some. Sadly however, she later breaks us up into groups which means I can't sleep my way through this week's class, I have to actually participate. I wind up in a group with the Timothy guy from Thorpe who appears to be class pet and the girl who comes to the class with her mum who I recognise from a pissed night out last year when I semi fancied her and she turned out to be a friend of Loxley’s brother Jeff Tim. Our little team hardly sparks though and we come up with limited ideas, my particularly limited as I just don’t get/enjoy poetry. Luckily though we get saved by the bell before we have to speak to the class and we live for another week.

When I get in, a drama called Sex Traffic about Eastern European prostitution has already started. It is grim as fuck but all the more interesting for it.

My evening ends with a real personal horror as my every flailing PC dies, the hard drive/disk is just full to the brim and I can do nothing about it. I am now experiencing problems with my PC due to broadband that I never had prior to installing the software. Hard times.

np: Graham Coxon – Freakin’ Out

Hunter S. Thompson watching the football. Bless. 

October 13 (Wednesday): We Regret To Inform You. Another day in Suffolk and I grab the bubble car Micra and leave Colchester at 8.15 (intended leave time 8.00) and head up the A14 to (yet again!) a soundtrack of accountancy teaching tapes. I arrive in Kentford just after 9.30, thinking that I have already passed the place.

My morning there goes really smoothly but still I do not manage to get away all that early, actually leaving around 1.45. On my drive back up the A14 I listen to Colin and Edith and some days these are just agreeable and not in the least annoying. Unlike the A14 which in my opinion is a road just as bad as the A12 any day.

Once I get back into Colchester, I stop by at the Highwoods Tesco and buy the most unhealthy of lunches: some reduced savoury bagel and a bag of Tesco Bombay mix. The hour hits 3PM and I find myself still eating lunch, any cohesive attempts at doing any work are rendered futile. Instead I sit down and write my English homework, much to the annoyance of Stevo. The problem is, the essay examining a Christina Rossetti poem “A Coast Nightmare� is due tomorrow and if we are going out to watch football tonight (Stevo has called off five-a-side as the England game begins at 5.30), there is no way I will be able to get it done in time. Still, this fact is not registered by Stevo who bitches like a cow and I even catch on my PC at one point, reading it like a sneak.

As the rain pisses down, Ben turns up at our office at 4.50 PM to watch football. We call him in and all attempts at work ends for the day. This afternoon, in addition to being arsey about my work, Stevo has been a total flake in deciding where to watch the football tonight, its not as if Azerbaijan v England is much of a crowd puller. I suggest the usual reliable haunt of the Wig & Pen but no, for reason that’s not good enough for him. Instead he has been suggesting going to The Dragoon or The Drury, for reasons only known to him because those two pubs are rough as fuck. As alternatives I suggest Quilters or The Curve Bar but no dice from Stevo there. Eventually we pull out and head to The Dragoon where Stevo embarrassingly asks Andy there if he is showing the football and Andy looks at him as if he is an idiot and says (in his gruff Scottish tone) “ain’t got Sky�. Eventually, painfully, we come full circle and wind up in the Wig & Pen. And I have to admit, I soon realise why Stevo was objecting, I don’t really like it there much either.

It doesn’t turn out to be the most memorable of nights, as uber pondlife chavs surround us as we all watch the most boring of matches with England looking even more dull than on Saturday. I as a result begin to tear into drinking and with each Stella get louder and more obnoxious, not really caring when the carthorse Michael Owen scores for England. Like a wanker, I even find myself cheering for Azerbaijan towards the end as England, through beer goggles, look more inept than ever. Three Stellas on and I find myself semi raging, just talking bollocks the whole way through the match. Light relief occurs when we look towards the entrance and there once again is the Hunter S. Thompson lookalike (now sporting a Russian hat) stood by the door peaking in, watching the match. As part of care in the community, someone please buy him a fucking beer and let him in the warmth! By the end of the game and England’s lacklustre 1-0 victory in the middle of nowhere, I am three Stellas strong and bang up for it. Outside the rain pelts down and there is a sudden urgency for food. Stevo steers us towards Sam’s Pizzeria on Crouch Street where we get treated to yet another winner pizza from the weird Eastern Europeans. Stevo and Ben talk football bollocks while I dig in, eating yet more unhealthy food (5/8 of the pizza), regularly checking my heart for stopping.

We stop by the office to pick up our and stuff and Stevo, the ever sport, gives us lifts home. I get in and I’m semi all over the show, these days I am the king of the lightweights. As predicted I accomplish nothing, only managing to watch this week’s episode of Arrested Development through beer goggles.

np: Brand New Heavies - Sometimes

October 12 (Tuesday): What To Think. Another day generally of my “can’t be arsed� attitude towards things. I leave my flat late (again!) and look set to arrive at work late (again!). Before I arrive however, I get Ivan on my mobile asking me if I am actually coming into work today, which isn’t as cheeky as I make it sound (sorry).

This is the start of my working and here I am in the office when I really wasn’t expecting to be today.

Early morning and Andy takes me over to South East Painting as another cover job for Alan I have been given. Andy tells me he had told me that he had arranged the meet up last week. Nope, he didn’t tell me, he actually told Louise that she would be doing the job instead of me. Confusion rains but I don’t care, I’m happy to be doing more jobs out of the office, something different, something to put me into a different perspective in their minds/impression. As he drives us over to Cadman House in Stanway we drive past a schoolgirl to whom Andy pervs over and makes comment. Jesus Christ! We then pass said school and it is his old school and he tells me how much he enjoyed going there, which might explain why he acts like a fucking school kid sometimes these days.

The job in hand at South East appears to be pretty simple, perhaps just time consuming. The woman (the client) is really nice and actually really fit for an older lady. I make arrangements to go over there Friday and do the job, it is another one with the VAT deadline looming.

At lunchtime I manage to blag a lunch off Stevo at Edwards. I am such a slag/ponce but really I have to count the pennies these days in ways Stevo is unlikely to understand until he gets a home/place of his own. As a result I placate him during lunch and act enthusiastic and keen. And it isn’t overly difficult as sat around us are some really attractive young ladies, this is obviously where the fit girls lunch. I then look to the corner on my left hand side and there is Lindsey with her blonde friend looking as if she is having a right old moan about things (her posture and body language looking fucking terrible). And as a result, I put more effort into appear to have (be) fun and it turns out to be the best lunch I have had out in a long time.

In the afternoon, I arrange another appointment at C&T for Wednesday (tomorrow).

At the end of the day, as I sign myself out in the staff diary, I find myself in the reception with Seymour and Barlow. Seymour asks me if I am “busy� and I reply “I’m going out a lot� and Seymour retorts “that’s not what I asked, with that answer you sound like a politician�. He asks me how C&T is doing and I tell him “good�. He then enquires about Pipeline and I grimace, turning to Cris and asking if Kaye need be involved while we are “playing catchup�. I comment that yesterdays trip/appointment had been very “frustrating� to which Seymour replies “now you know how we feel�, whatever that is supposed to mean. It gets decreed that me and Cris will go up there next week to do a tidy/clean up job without Kaye being there but as Seymour says this I pull a face at him as if to say “just leave it to me�. However, I don’t think ESP is my forte. The impromptu meeting comes to an end and jokes get made about overcharging C&T tomorrow. Ha ho, I’m left feeling like I’m banging my head against the wall.

I take the bubble mobile back to my house and then fly home to Holland to see my olds and watch the Sopranos. Upon arrival, once more they are full of news and they tell me proudly that they have sold their house already. I don’t want them to sell up in Holland-on-Sea, this place is quiet and better suited to OAPs than the apparent hustle and bustle of a new flat bang in the centre of Colchester. Also, it will accumulate value quicker than any fucking flat ever will. Nightmare.

I settle down into the front room and begin watching some old Nirvana documentary on MTV2. Dad comes in and watches it with me and has never felt so cheesy watching Nirvana footage.

Dad remains around also watching most of The Sopranos with me, which is pretty cool. Tonight is the anger management episode of season five (episode ten) where Janice loses it at a kids soccer match and Tony, Tony B and Christopher retreat to the country to relax and dig up decaying bodies. Dad actually laughs at some of the episode but doesn’t stay the course and unfortunately misses the fantastic climax of Tony winding up Janice over her missing son and the priceless grin/smile of satisfaction Tony amounts in the process all to the soundtrack of the Kinks’ I’m Not Like Everybody Else (a song Cocker spookily used to love back in the day). This and the next three episodes of season five really are the epoch of the series.

I drive home listening to Mark Radcliffe on Radio 2 with Travis in session in Liverpool I believe. Its not a normal show from Radcliffe and therefore not as good but it’s a comfort all the same. When I get out of my car, past midnight, Janice Long is on the station playing International Bright Young Thing by Jesus Jones, a song I have not heard in a million years.

My night ends.

np: Foo Fighters – Alone & Easy Target

October 11 (Monday): The Cry Of A Hungry Baby. This morning is another trip to Pipeline Maintenance, the worst possible scenario for a Monday being the hard times trip/drive up the A14 at the beginning of the week to Mildenhall. Fuck Suffolk and its ridiculous speed limits.

I get into Mildenhall and the client’s shortly after 9AM and my arm and neck are still caning with pain, even to the point I blag some Nurofen from the clients. Is it down to the all driving I have done lately I wonder/consider?

My day at the client’s is pretty frustrating as once more I play the supervisory role to the boss’s daughter (Martin Fowler’s stalker lookalike) and watch her try to play catch-up on accounts behind back to April this year, knowing that I could put/push the information into the computer at at least twice the speed. This is my second day of this current run on/at this job and in the summer I was criticised for taking too long, taking two days doing double what this current spell is achieving.

By the time 4PM comes around, and after working through lunch, I am bored rigid, next to tearing my hair out and apparently it shows and the clients can tell. Not good. Still, it is a genuine relief to be out of there today and heading back up/down the A14 home to safety.

When I get home there is this new reality TV show on BBC2 tonight called The Apprentice which features Donald Trump giving jobs and tasks to various Yank business types view to winning a spot on/in his corporate setup. The show is the greatest! Suits without shame. And the guy who almost gets eliminated tonight is complete insane, its excellent telly.

The evening turns out to be a real no no and I have every intention of staying up to watch Father Ted and The Sopranos but instead I just pass out knackered/tired.

np: Fitz Of Depression – See Me Hear Me

October 10 (Sunday): Patriotism, Pepper, Professionalism. Dream: I’m, walking around Clacton, escaping what seems to be a foster family that I am living with and it gets me in trouble with the police. Later we are playing five-a-side when the game reaches an abrupt halt. Seymour appears to be feigning injury, Jez gets in a huff and begins packing up and it becomes apparent that I am dropped. I speak to Isabelle and she tells me that I have been instructed to stop playing in order to concentrate on my A-Level. Bollocks. Basically, in the real world, I get the inkling that Seymour is about to fuck me over again.

I wake up and it is another slow Sunday, Sunday’s are a real drag. Sadly, my day mainly consists of too much FIFA 2005 on Playstation 2 and I only get better and better at during the course of my day while I really should be concentrating on either: writing, revising or sorting my flat out.

Eventually I do a newspaper run but head home to safety almost immediately, Sundays are for stronger minds than mine.

The remainder of the day pretty much consists of zip.

In the afternoon I make attempts at watching Eternal Sunshine Of A Spotless Mind on DVD but it just manages to send me to sleep, my now regular/weekly Sunday afternoon nap it seems. Only, I always awaken from it feeling utterly lazy and pathetic with a big line of guilt running down my back like a white stripe.

In the evening I do the do, in preparation of my trip to Mildenhall in the morning. I do actually manage to get into writing some but when I try to soup it by taking a shot of Rocket Fuel coffee, for some reason pangs of agony hit me on my left shoulder and neck and turn me into a cripple unable of any chores.

TV saves the day however, showing the nominees from the nineties for the Music Hall Of Fame. It is an utter farce but the segments on Oasis and Nirvana are pretty cool, even if they make it all seem really old and dated, and having Henry Rollins comment on prime time TV about the Spice Girls is worth the price of admission in itself. That and Steve Albini on primetime commenting on the career of Nirvana. Good show in the end but I have this horrible, nagging feeling that Radiohead will win whilst also being humourless and dreary dull.

However, it does not put and end to my neck and shoulder pains and they are in full strength as I turn in for the night.

np: Living Colour – Love Rears It’s Ugly Head

October 9 (Saturday): Sad Songs Are Nature’s Onions. Saturday morning and last night I had/have another dream. Today’s dream I emerge from involves the wellbeing of my flat and mainly the communal area and the landing outside my door. At some point in the dream, I open my door to leave my flat to discover that the landing has been smashed to pieces and the bars on the staircase have almost all been knocked out. I appear to be leaving my flat to meet up with/welcome old school faces back into my world/life, the main two school faces being Greg Nelson (whose Dad I have been seeing at Wilson Marriage Centre lately) and Merrem Jones. My initial suspicions are that they have something to do with the general decay but then I also wonder whether the mess is down to my “hunk� neighbour who actually looks like a tarted up David Platt. What on earth should I do/read into this dream? Jason, leave all thoughts of school behind.

Once up, I can’t help but get bang on the Playstation 2 again and get more in FIFA 2005. This game gets better with each play and when I play as England vs Wales, we win 2-0 with Rooney getting both goals. Looks a good bet to me. I also find myself almost texting Louise, the West Ham fan, when Millwall (me) beats West Ham 5-0 to tell her how realistic the game is.

I also MSN with Sara some, who is…….somewhere.

Mid morning, the joys of getting my phoneline back from the internet because of installing broadband hits home when some Asian cunt is on the line trying to get me to change my phone line and “save me money at no extra cost�. And he phones me just as Polly the trolley dolly is on kids TV in her French maids outfit. Motherfucker. I get a bit arsey on the phone to the guy, god knows what fucking country he is calling me from. When he asks me if I ever phone abroad I shout “NO WAY!�. The arsehole pronounces my surname wrongly, which rubs me up the wrong way and when he tells me he is about to transfer me to his manager (the closer) I begins shouting down the line “what are you on about? What are you doing?�. He promptly says “bye� but indeed succeeds in managing to piss me off, albeit with a little snigger on my part.

I tell Sara about it and then leave for home to watch the football. I stop off via Tesco and buy Eternal Sunshine Of A Spotless Mind on DVD just because I feel like watching it again.

I arrive home in good time, catching some new satirical radio shows on Radio 2 I now really enjoy, its as if The Treatment never went away.

England v Wales turns out to be a really wanky match. England are the source of no end of disappointment in our nation of football fans and this only highlights why. Today Erection is playing with three up front, an utter sign of disrespect for Wales but also a reality of lost souls up front, getting in each others ways. And Michael Owen is the worst, with things going wrong for him at Real Madrid, he only serves to act completely out for himself on the face of today’s performance, right up to the way he lays claim for Frank Lampard’s goal. And Lampard’s goal is a fantastic relief when it flies in, its scarily good how many goals he is scoring for England from midfield. Hey, its not as if the truly overrated Jermaine Defoe is going to actually do anything. The game actually turns out to be a minor shambles and a Wales equaliser would probably have been deserved before half time and would most certainly have made it a better match/game. The second half happens and turns out to be notorious for the actions of David Beckham and little else. Granted his goal is fucking extraordinary but his actions in fouling Ben Thatcher (ex-Millwall) and getting booked only taste/smell of an arrogant primadonna retaliating with an air of “how dare you foul me, I’m a superstar and untouchable�. Beckham just reminds me of certain people I used to know at school, the untouchables, the ones who were head of the football teams (the jocks) and actually appeared to be feared by the teachers. Then again, these are also the people I see these days trawling kids around, looking unemployed and the people who do not appear on Friends United because they’re obviously too poor to be online. What happened, didn’t your football careers happen for you? Rant over. (In the following days, Beckham’s subsequent comments only reveal him to be more backwards than I thought but realise). I don’t know, the attitude just reminds me of things I see playing five-a-side sometimes.

The game ends in disappointment but at least it was a victory. Focus soon switches to Eurosport (?) where Northern Ireland v Azerbaijan is on. I watch the game for about five minutes and suddenly feel like slashing my throat, it is very bad. And the country playing Northern Ireland just looks like a bunch of Taliban rejects/wannabes. The games ends a predictable 0-0 but luckily I don’t waste much of my life on it.

Saturday evening turns out to be France v Republic Of Ireland live on BBC2. For some reason, there is something almost romantic about international football from France on a Saturday night, I can’t just transport my mindset across the channel and a glorious Parisian night (albeit stereotypical). This match turns out to be game of the day by a mile, the football Ireland plays is actually exciting and unconventional. On paper, the Irish team is pretty pants but this is a team with heart and fight. And especially against such a lacklustre team as France should definitely not be. Sadly though, the most memorable part of the first half does turn out to be Roy Keane running off the pitch having to change his pants. As the game carries, it becomes evident that Ireland are the much more dangerous team of the two and the Arsenal “superstars� really do not appear to have any game whatsoever. Towards the end of the game, as I find myself asking “who goes Clinton Morrison actually play for?�, they almost sneak a win against a most impotent French team which really should not be. The game however ends at 0-0 after a thrilling end. Now they just need to put Steven Reid back in the team (ho ho).

I leave late for a Saturday night (around 10pm) listening to Westward on the radio except its just some guy standing in and, more so than Timothy, he is the bomb. When I get in, I don’t last long and get lost to the evening.

np: Nas – Bridging The Gap

October 8 (Friday): Like Chickens…Delicious Chickens. This morning, out of nowhere, I awaken from a dream about my Dad dying, not so much the occurrence but more the aftermath, the hospital visits, the funeral and the general duties. It is the worst imaginable dream going, it makes me feel old and immature but also vulnerable and 100% depressed upon waking up and beginning my day.

I drive into work and drive out of work in the horrible bubble car, not another thing happens today as far as I can recall.

Late in the afternoon I check the BBC news on my phone GPRS and it turns out that there are reports of a video of Ken Bigley’s demise being distributed to Reuters. And that one is that, really it was only a matter of time in earnest.

Today is the day that EA FIFA 2005 comes out and in the newspaper it is advertised as being only £24.99 at PC World. This turns out to be bollocks as I head straight to PC World after work and get charged £29.99. Whatever though, FIFA 2005 is much better than FIFA 2004, quicker and easier to play, I’m well into it. Also whilst in Stanway, I go to Sainsburys and buy the sickliest, most unhealthy chocolate cereal for my evening’s dinner.

This evening Sarah Shah texts me out of the blue, asking if I would like to go for a drink tomorrow night. Why is it that she always seems to want to go out when England play matches? I tell her “this weekend isn’t good for me, maybe next week� when really I think I might be better for me just to ignore. She soon shoots back though “its all right, I’m going with Darien now�. Like I give a goddamn.

I play FIFA 2005 until late and then go to bed, a very thrilling Friday evening in the life of JGRAM.

np: Mudhoney – Poisoned Water

October 7 (Thursday): Eat Rotten Fruit From A Shitty Tree. Today, I find myself back on the road again, heading up the A14 towards another one of Cris’ clients, this time, today the lucky company is Pipeline Maintenance in Mildenhall (home of a very prominent US airbase).

I wake up as per usual at 7AM and have the best intentions to leave at 7.30AM in order to arrive at my destination for 9AM. However, this does not quite happen, instead I just about make it out the door at 7.45AM, still half asleep.

Just like Tuesday, I drive up the A14 listening to my BBP/ACCA tape/cassette, ragging the tits of the bubble car Micra, a loser mobile for poor women if ever there was one. Today I also listen to Light & Magic by Ladytron and laugh my arse off at the distortion of the stereo speakers when I max it.

Against the odds, I make great progress and arrive at the clients at 9.20AM. When I arrive, people here act happy to see me, I feel liked at this client/company and I like them back just as much, we are lucky really, we have many nice/cool clients.

The day begins healthily as bacon rolls get ordered all around and I get treated, people just seem to love to buy food for me. I begin showing the boss’s daughter (who looks like Martin Fowler’s stalker on Eastenders) what to do until Cris gets involved and tells me to do something else.

It turns out to be a really long day, I work through lunch as I observe what she does. And it is processing/inputting that I could do in half the time. And then another lady turns up to observe, it turns out that she will be doing/taking over the Sage in the near future. What is going on? This is definitely a case of too many cooks here, why on earth are there three of us gawping at Sage, especially with the slowest of the three putting the actual information on. Bad management/organisation baby.

I leave Mildenhall around 4.30 and get home around 5.50, in time to get ready for my English class tonight.

English class tonight is semi hard work, after my day running around East Anglia, I am shattered and the last thing I want to do is sit through a class until 9.30. And extra woe, Emma isn’t about tonight. Once more, we are studying Christina Rossetti and tonight focusing on one of her longer poems called Goblin Market. After break, we get paired off into groups to do mini talks to the class. Nightmare. I get paired off with the Ipswich fan called Rob who actually turns out to be really cool and was telling me how he’d smoked some pot before the lesson and what considering finishing off his joint at break time. Excellent, I’ve found the stoner of the group, my new drug buddy. Teacher gives us two pages to analyse and review to the class and me and him tackle the poem with about as much sensivitivity as you could/can expect out of two young males into football. And then it doesn’t help when we go and critique the wrong two pages. Whoops. However, the class is pretty cool as I finally hook up there with someone that isn’t Emma and, as childish as it sounds, make a new friend.

It doesn’t however stop me from going home utterly shattered, almost falling asleep upon arrival at Hollytree Court.

I do however receive an email from Eva tonight, not saying much but wishing me well in my upcoming “snip�.

np: Ladytron - Fire

October 6 (Wednesday): It’s Insane, This Guy’s Taint. I wake up this morning and broadband has officially arrived in Jason Graham’s world as through the night I have successfully downloaded episodes of Meet Ricky Gervais, South Park and Kids In The Hall. I find myself spending the early part of my day, staring at my computer at tiny AVI files of some of the greatest/funniest TV shows of the last few years. It’s a beautiful thing.

Getting up today and facing the world is yet another day of late up and late in. Where is my heart? Before leaving for work, I take one of the golf clubs from the boot of the bubble car and place it into the boot of my Focus. It is mine now.

Today is Azmei’s birthday and shortly after 9 AM I text her “happy birthday�. I get no reply immediately, eventually I barely get any reply at all. Ignorant cunt.

I arrive at work this morning (after my day on the road) to discover that various jobs of mine have been given to Sandip and Louise. Now that really makes me feel needed. And in its place I am handed three little income and expenditure jobs, jobs that are the lowest of the low, real no brainers. Jokingly, I nearly cry. And then I go over to the main office where JS ignores me, which pretty much sets the scene/tone for my day within thirty minutes of arrival at work.

Mid morning I get a telephone call from Nat West who seem really eager to give me a loan, no questions. I get calls like this regularly from these lot, hustling/hassling me trying to get/talk me into taking loans that are not necessarily the most financially sound options, they must think I am really green. I hear the guy out though and it sounds like a loan will be very easy to get, it is just how good the deal will be.

At lunchtime, with Stevo not about, I head to town with Louise and after getting my free WWF DVD from Woolworths (a promo from The Sun), we head to Costa and do lunch there. Costa is tonnes, really nice. Corporate coffee house culture appears to have hit Colchester in the best way. I know this isn’t my first time here but it is my first time macking the crowd/dwellers, mostly fit, good-looking young people. Conversation with Louise is so so but it does shock me when talking about relationships that she actually admits to me that girls do indeed “expect more these days�. Seems Louise is about to leave home for the first time with her other half as current living arrangements are creating tension.

In the afternoon, I see Purple Haired Girl for the first time in weeks. As ever she looks fantastic, cutting edge gorgeous. And today, on both occasions passing Chernobyl, she looks in. I smile at her like there is something wrong with me, at probably ten years younger than me, she is so out of my league (old timer).

Later afternoon and I receive a phonecall from Accountancy Additions with details of a position that is opening up in Chelmsford. The women is just asking me whether she should put my CV. I guess so. The opportunity sounds mixed, it will either be fantastic or terrible but at this stage I am so blasé and jaded about a new job I don’t care anyways.

In the evening is this weeks league match in five-a-side and it is against the steamroller Anglia Grain, a game for which none of us really seem/appear to have any enthusiasm for because it will pretty much guarantee a stuffing. However things pick up slightly when we learn that Dick’s son James won’t be playing as he is now at Sheffield university. This is a real left off because I really feel he is their best player. The game kicks off in more ways than one. Tonight is my 25th game of the year (I have most appearances of anyone on our team) and our team really holds out. Tonight we are: me, Kev, John S, Jeremy, Ivan and the returning Stevo. Anglia Grain don’t look their strongest but they still have the guy that looks like Wayne Rooney, now christened Grain Rooney (© Mark Boyle). We actually have a fantastic first half, we never lead but we do have our heads above water and at half time we go in drawing 4-4, a performance above and beyond. Tonight Anglia have come up with another two youngsters, one of which wears an Arsenal shirt with the name “Fireball� on the back, which obviously makes him a cunt. The two new lads do actually give us the run around and the second half does get nasty, especially as someone on Anglia really rattles Ivan’s cage and he begins sounding/kicking off, even to the point that Seymour is heard to be telling him to calm down. And all this is lapped up by Dick, who holds things solid and later claims that this is the turning point of the match/game. Whatever, some kind of falling apart occurs in the second half and we wind up losing 14-4, failing to even score a goal in the second half. After the game, back in the changing room, Ivan and Jeremy storm/stomp off almost immediately as Dick boasts how they played right into his hands and the Anglia goalie (The Crab) claims the final score to actually be 17-4. Whatever. I say “bye� and leave with my head down.

Before heading home, I pop into Asda to get some dinner. Like a fatty I buy some of those Chicago Town Pizza Wraps, very healthy. It does however get embarrassing as I stand at the checkout and the till complains of a smell like damp socks. I suspect immediately that this is my doing/pong. I apologise red faced and go/get home as soon as humanly possibly.

Tonight I actually manage to get into the bath I run and get ready for my day ahead tomorrow in Mildenhall.

Arrested Development is on TV again tonight and this week the episode is even better than last, David Cross gets funnier and Portia Di Rossi better looking by the week although Jason Bateman is just not convincing as a middle-aged man.

I visit the Matador Records website and then go to sleep.

np: Helium – Pat’s Trick

October 5 (Tuesday): It’s Perfectly Understandishable. Dream: I’m knocking about, guesting with a firm at Millwall in the same way that I do with Stevo at AFC Wimbledon. The head of the firm is the guy from the Chelsea firm in Football Factory and he tells me to get lost, that I don’t fit in. The rest of the firm disappears but I am not budging, instead I am still making efforts/attempts to impress and fit in. In the end I find myself cross referencing an audit file!

This morning, I am out on the road, heading to a place somewhere around Suffolk/Cambridgeshire called Kennett/Kentford and a client called C&T Harness. I try, I genuinely attempt, to leave my flat at 8 AM but it’s a tad beyond reality after waking up at 7 AM feeling sluggish (as you do). Eventually I leave at 8.15 and hit the nightmare roads of the A12 and the A14 listening to my BPP ACCA student tapes/cassettes. As I put some files into the boot of the bubble car, I find a set of golf clubs in the boot, surely no one will/would notice if I just take/borrow one of them.

I arrive at the client at around 9.45, finding it first time after passing Bury St Edmunds and its famous sugar plant which smells sickly sweet in the sickest way. I drive the company bubble car for the first time in weeks and every time I ride/drive this car, I resent it’s existence more by the moment. Today, my efforts towards destroying the car (it’s a leaser) is to see if I can make it go 100mph. And it just about does.

Once again, I arrive at the client at 9.45, parking up in the wrong section of the industrial estate car park, macking the most amazing looking secretary in big pink jumper, making the perfect packaging, wrapped around the best pair of breasts going to man that I just want to reach and grab. Sadly however, this is not the client I am working at today. When I eventually find the office I am supposed to be in (whoops), the guy/manager/director I am working for today looks like Mike Ditka, is very gruff and has ageing tattoos all up his arms. I do all right introducing however, Barlow is there to hold my hand initially and it’s a breeze and I soon tear into my work.

I work all day non-stop, feeling welcome at this client and being regularly refilled with great cups of coffee. This is a fantastic company/firm, a real mom and pop success story employing local hicks and making a real difference to its community. The employees are real good people types, all of which seem to know Alan, who I am covering for today, and asking him how his baby is getting on, not knowing that the poor bubs is in Great Ormond Street fighting for its life. I briefly explain to people the situation, cutting short not wishing to be a downer and not really knowing all the details myself. I do find myself at moments in the morning thinking about the whole situation of Alan’s baby falling ill shortly after birth and I find myself feeling genuinely upset for him.

Mid afternoon I get a phonecall from Stevo and he is pretty much begging me to play in goal tomorrow night as they cannot find anyone else to play. For some reason, Barlow changed the plans today and told me that he had arranged for us to go over to Pipeline Thursday whereas I originally thought I would be over there tomorrow, seems he thought today would be a two day job, so I’ll be back in the office tomorrow anyway. The good vibe of the company is conducive to producing good work and I have a great day, getting more work produced than I could have hoped for. I leave with everybody happy, not least me for feeling really pleased with myself and having really enjoyed the/a work atmosphere for the first time in weeks, maybe months.

I am finished by five and I tear down the A14 and get home just after six. As per every other Tuesday, tonight I tear home back to my parents to watch The Sopranos etc. Upon arrival, they’re all right.

Tonight Dad points me towards the photo they took of me on my birthday holding Snowy and they both (mum and dad) tell me what a good/nice photo of me it is. I look at it and I just look really terrible/awful in it. Also it seems Dad’s niece is trying to arrange some kind of meal between us lot. Its currently a strange situation with the family, mum’s side seems to be messing them about causing a real rift while dad’s side of the family appears to be trying to regroup or something. Pros and cons, pros and cons.

When I drive home, late at night, I notice a drunkard staggering home, walking up Layer Road and I consider how cool would it be if I got out of my car and hit him with a golf club and took his money. He’d never know what happened, what had hit him. Alas however, the golf clubs are in the other car.

Once back in the warmth and safety of my flat, I discover that my downloading of an old episode of the “lost� Meet Ricky Gervais has happened. I suspect her will want to keep this TV show buried but there are some really funny moments on it.

I go to sleep.

np: Monkeywrench – Call My Body Home

October 4 (Monday): The Story Of Everest. Ouch ouch, the headache that I had last night appears to have become a tumour as I awaken with one of those specialised behind my right eye migraines that always feels as if my eye/head is bleeding. And I must be ill if I don’t bother with speaking to Sara on MSN.

I walk into work in the pissing rain and it is thoroughly miserable, this is a stereotypical Monday morning straight out of the depression text book.

At work this morning there is something of a real vibe and this is not helped by the bad news that Alan’s little baby is really ill in hospital.

When I go over the road, I go into the cellar to collect some client’s files and I find myself able to clearing overhear (eavesdrop) the weekly Monday morning partners meeting. I hear my name get mentioned and wonder what it is in conjunction with. Paranoid as ever, I wonder if this is finally the turning block and they are deciding to give me a long deserved dressing down for my poor performance. I hold fire however I hear Pipeline discussed and suddenly the conversation sounds more constructive in my direction and regard by the partners. The meeting can no longer be as clearly heard as initially but it sounds like I will be called in/asked to cover for Alan for a bit.

I return back over the road, slightly arrogant about the fact I was able eavesdropping on the partner’s meeting and that I know what is planned of me almost before they do. And as per my announcement, shortly after the meeting ends I am called into the board room by Barlow to speak/talk to him. I go over and he asks me to take over one of Alan’s jobs (C&T) and that we need to get to Pipeline and get them sorted out (their VAT quarter has ended and is due at the end of the month). Doing so equates to me being up the Suffolk/Cambridgeshire border four days this week, so it gets suggested that I stay up there at a Holiday Inn (or something). Immediately I am filled with dread but then I come around to the idea, less feeling like Alan Partridge, more feeling like Willy Loman, a tired, lonely staying out on the road in rooms by himself (ha ha). I agree to it all (although I do have football Wednesday and English Thursday).

I go back to my perch in Chernobyl and figure if I take the company laptop I’ll be able to do some work (writing) and watch DVDs to keep myself amused.

Today Louise is having a lunch meeting (pre-interview) with someone from Scrutton Bland about returning to the company for a new job. Apparently it turns out that many people have been leaving there of late. If it goes well for her, I might consider her putting a word in for me.

At lunchtime Ivan, Stevo and myself go for lunch at Nandos. I am really bored of/by the food in this place by now but it’s a good lunch all the same, I’m on form and really hungry. And there are some really honeys here, not least the two oriental girls and the young blonde business girl in whore boots. When we’re done here, I quickly pop/fly to HMV to get American Splendor on DVD in the sale. Job done. And once more, I see tourettes man.

When I get back to the office, Louise is still out on her lunch in Zizzi’s (flash/swank). When she finally returns I ask her how it goes/went and she really was not impressed, the job sounded crap and the pay really crap. All turns out, maybe BS isn’t that bad after all (oh dear, trainee accountants are in trouble).

In the afternoon, Stevo turns on me and suddenly tells me that he is going to need/require the laptop for a job tomorrow. Suddenly, out of the blue, he needs it back. What a coincidence. So this effects and scuppers all my plans as he acts like a real dick about things but technically he has seniority on me and I can’t do a thing about it. Without this, there seems no point in staying over now if I will have nothing useful to do in the evenings, I really cannot afford to waste my evenings away. Still, he acts like a real dick over the whole situation, getting semi aggressive, and when I leave and he is having problems with his computer (it crashes and there is a loss of work), I get a slight perverse enjoyment out of it.

I take the bubble car Micra home and put petrol in it and my Focus, £10 and £20 respectively. Guess which receipt I’ll claim back? When I return I find that Stevo has tried to call me on my mobile. I phone him back with “what do you want� half hoping he has come around on the laptop front. No dice, it doesn’t even get mentioned, instead the clot has got lost in Chelmsford doing errands for Barlow. I suspect he is doing his thing of calling me to make sure that we are “all right�.

The rest of the evening is spent doing this and that, having a bath and taking in Monday night TV in preparation for a client I have never met before tomorrow.

np: Joe Maneri – Paniots Nine

October 3 (Sunday): Rudy Will Await Your Foundation. Sundays suck. That’s my opinion and that’s fact. As per usual, I MSN with Sara for a bit but this morning it all feels like pulling teeth, sometimes it’s just no fun. I head out and get my Sunday paper but soon return to my flat for safety and warmth, I have plenty things to do today and really don’t look like to get any of them done.

First things first though, in a lack of correct order of priority, I do finally install my broadband AOL. In order to do this, I have to free up so much space it is sickening. I really don’t know why my PC is so full to the hilt but all the same it is. And it is really off-putting to think that installing broadband entails putting in a new modem. It turns out to be a real bonus when the modem turns out to be external and just slips in a USB or something. After only a couple false starts, I finally get it in, up and running. I also have to install AOL 9 meaning a leap from AOL 6 for me, so this really is a crappy brave new world. Hats off to AOL, it does turn out to be really user friendly and easy to install but the speed just isn’t all that impressive initially. I slap on Soulseek and wait for my song queue to disappear before my eyes. It doesn’t happen, if anything it now appears to take longer to download stuff. Internet through AOL does immediately appear much quicker, so I hit the porn for a bit at which point Sara comes back online asking “where did you go?� and we talk a little bit more.

Today Millwall have another Sunday game and are at home to Nottingham Forest, a real hard game even if not on paper/league positions. The team/line-up appears almost decimated from Thursday’s European game, Wise really rests most of the team and puts out a number of “reserves�. No fear though, in the end they get a really good 1-0 win.

Bored and with nothing to do, in late afternoon I find myself putting on the DVD of American Werewolf In London that I bought the other just because it is cheap. Big mistake, the movie that once scared me most in the world, now just comes over as thoroughly cheap and tacky. Upon first attempt at watching it, I just fall asleep, missing all the dream goodies and horrific images that are kinda cool. I awaken and reattempt to watch it again and once more utterly/thoroughly fail to do so again, once more falling asleep. I do however manage to wake up in time to witness old/young Jenny Agutter drag the wolf back to her plush London flat to fuck him, mere days after just meeting him. What a load of old bollocks this film is to me now, as I said old and tacky. It does however introduce me to a really fantastic Van Morrison song, that guy is growing on me in spades.

After seeing Ricky Gervais acquit himself so fantastically on TV last night around Mark’s, this afternoon I find myself on his XFM website checking out his old radio shows after going through all the radio MP3s I have listened to. His is SO fucking funny, he just laughs his arse off as the other two guys on the show (Stephen Merchant and Karl Pilkington) just verbally hang themselves, probably actually being more funny in the process but Gervais never once relinquishes the show himself. He is today’s hero for me.

As the Sunday afternoon becomes evening and it begins to get dark, I attempt to call Mark and get in touch about going to the quiz tonight. No dice, no reply on either his cellphone or home number, which I guess means he is out with his parents on his last full day/night in England before heading to Tokyo to his job. I give up on going to the quiz tonight; American Werewolf just gave me a headache, making me feel dirty in the process for wasting my time watching such aged drivel.

I stick with the Ricky Gervais audio files, have a bath and then watch some show on BBC about the World Cup 1990 semi final where England lost on penalties to Germany. It actually turns about to be a really good show after me and Mark could have been found taking the piss out of the show around his house last night.

With that programme out of the way, I settle down to watching Little Nicky on Channel Four. This film should really be the dream ticket, with Harvey Keitel, Rodney Dangerfield and Zeus The Human Wrecking Machine and all, but it’s only just OK. I remember vividly, horribly now, renting this movie in the summer of 2001 from Blockbuster and watching it at Bella’s just after we had a real big argument in Ipswich Ask restaurant. So, the movie now comes to me tainted and with baggage.

Around this point, my phone rings and it is Mark. It’s just past nine and he’s about to head to the Hogshead and wondering if I am still going. I’m actually about to head to bed, so not really now. I get the old line “would have been nice to see you before I leave� and I immediately feel shitty about not going. I wish him much luck though with the new job, still absolutely gutted that he’s going, saying all the right things to gee him up and to wish him the best.

Once done, I proceed to fall asleep watching Little Nicky, which this time I really enjoy watching.

np: Van Morrison – Moon Dance

October 2 (Saturday): Show Me Your Weenis! Wow, today is a fantastic day, the weather is fantastic! My day begins early with me comfortably wrapped up in bed watching my new Mr Show DVD. This show is fantastic, thoroughly hit and miss but when it’s hit, it is some of the funniest stuff I have ever seen in my life. I would quote you some stuff but it is also very very disposable.

After five episodes, I eventually make it into town on a newspaper. Today is beautiful day and it is a blazing Saturday morning which just makes Colchester look glorious. Town is so so busy but you sense this is almost the calm before the Christmas storm. I feel like hanging out in this environment, I feel empathy for people in this atmosphere and good about the people around me. I wander around the streets with the hope of accidentally on purpose bumping into somebody I know and getting them to go for a drink and/or hang out. The people I accidentally bump into this morning are: Asian Sara (from Wellington House), Jeremy from football and tourettes guy from yesterday lunchtime, somewhat calmer this morning. No dice for a hangout though, in the first case, Asian Sara won’t give me the time of day since I accused her “sister� of being in the Taliban (shame really, she is just SO fit!). Second case, Jeremy appears to be with his girlfriend and I wouldn’t fancy hanging anyway. Third person, I’m just glad the guy isn’t in a tourettes storm entering my path.

When I return home, I return to more Mr Show episodes, my favourite this time being a high school kid being made the next Dalai Lama. As much as I dig the shows though, I have to admit, I do fall asleep again.

When I wake up, I find that Mark has tried to phone. I leave, figuring he had too much of a good thing yesterday (ha ha), so instead I (hungry) opt for eating a cold tin of beans out of the can whilst watching the remaining Mr Show episodes. Fortunately for me, Mark phones again and rescues me from my funk and calls me out.

I turn up at Mark’s around 2pm and we head into town, for the hangout I had been wishing for early (there is a god and he makes things like this, well timed occurrences, happen when you need them most). In town Mark has to get ready/prepared for Tokyo on Monday and he has a few last gifts to get for people, left right and centre. Late Saturday afternoons in Colchester town are even better than gorgeous sunny Saturday mornings. And I actually manage to do it without spending any money! Once Mark gets all his prep out of the way, we head to Costa for a coffee but up arrival go “nah� and like old women head to the Debenhams café. Queuing there with us is the most amazing looking pregnant blonde lady with an old man, either her sugar daddy or just sugary dad. Either way, hope I’m the father of her next kid. We sit by a window looking over Culver Square and from this height the town looks even better, from our view the people look like ants, not because of their size, they’re just freakishly ugly. Eventually we chip but not before I try searching for coats again. Finally I find one that resembles what I want, resembling the one Billy in Football Factory wears. I try it on and Mark completely rips it to shreds (not literally/physically but he may well of/have). Whilst also in Debenhams I see a woman that looks exactly like Sombat Bigley, Ken Bigley’s Thai wife. Accidentally I find myself gawping at her and she thoroughly gawps back, like the trooper that she is.

We get back to Mark’s and its an empty house, his brother has just moved to London and his parents are away in Italy/Spain (?) until tomorrow and don’t even know about his new job yet. We listen to Radio 2 and talk bollocks, somehow heavily on the subject of religion for reasons I forget. Oh yeah, Azmei texted me out of the blue and naturally it all goes onto the subject of Muslims. Azmei tells me how her ex-husband has been in touch and is trying to make nice nice. I just tell her that a leopard doesn’t change it’s spots. Radio 2 meanwhile plays all this weird sixties music, some of which Mark recognises as Love. I sense that Mark is mucho busy and has stuff on and I figure I really ought to leave him to it but he tells me I might as well hang, he isn’t doing any of it (it being leaning Excel, reading over the treatment for his Dad’s book or any else of another twelve options). Instead, instead we buy fish and chips for dinner (Mark’s treat).

We go to a fish and chip shop on Mersea Road that Mark has been raving about. We do the basics but to me the basics always seemed to cost more than being “exotic� in a fish and chip shop. While I wait in the car, Mark does the deal as he takes in the “ambience� and digs the guy that runs the shop as being a real gent. This is a shit part of town, I even feel intimidated just sitting in my car in the dark down to it just being dog rough. Apparently while Mark is/was in the shop itself, some homeless person came in and starting talking to the owner as a “father figure�. At the end of the exchange, when the person leaves Mark says the person who was plainly male turns out to be actually female, in other words real fucked up.

We eat dinner and I still feel as if I am imposing, causing an obstacle to Mark getting on with his evening, remaining days in Colchester. Eventually however we do our usual thing of playing Pro Evolution 3 on the Playstation. Tonight is hard going, far from my days earlier this year winning the Quidney Cup with the handicap of being stoned, tonight I suck. I do manage to win the first game, England 1 Ireland 0 with Mark down to nine men but eventually he winds up beating me in every match. In the end he gets tired beating me in every game and turns off the Playstation in an almost disappointed fashion.

For some reason we decide to really endure Saturday night TV and to be honest it doesn’t turn out to be too bad (with the aid of cable). After initial laps of watching the “groomer� channels (the pop music channels featuring scantily clad teens for your enjoyment), after a heavy dose of Celebrity Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, we wind up watching the Bush v Kerry debate from Thursday. Its actually fairly entertaining but also very frightening how Mark gets almost every political reference made by the two and I get very few/little of them. Ignorant thicko. I do blag my way into making intelligent/sensible points though, not least for commenting on George Dubya’s body language and the frightening way he got the blinks (his eyes) during his closing address to camera.

Beyond such a heavy, we find ourselves skipping over to Sky One where they are into their first town on Britain’s Toughest Seasides. Now this is more on my level. It all opens with Blackpool and stag/hen nights that it is apparently famous for having. It is real car crash TV, these people look fucking horrible and act stupid as hell, never before has acting sober and reserved ever been so appealing. We joke about hoping Clacton gets included in/on the show and after some hovel in Scotland and another in Tyneside (complete with seaside wrestling!), just before the ads we get a glimpse of an Essex town and I just know it is going to be Jaywick. When Jaywick comes on and has its moment, we both early watch in the hope of recognise people faces and places. It all reminds me of the time that Loaded did an article on the town. The piece is fucking horrible and people smell of desperation, the people who seem barely able to spew out a coherent sentence are given the most air time. The show does mixed justice for Jaywick, it makes it appear more lively/interesting than it actually is, giving it more credit than it deserves but also at the same time portrays the people living there as fucking idiots. Mark and I both lap it up, laughing in mock celebration but when the piece focuses on the local “hot� musician boasting about his talent/abilities and cutting to his performance in a local pub suddenly I become melancholic on the realisation that I know a lot of people from my hometown for whom this would actually be entertainment, horrible fag smoking people with crap jobs and no education dragging their little fucker spawn along because they are too young to go out burgling houses with their elder siblings. I have to admit to spending some Saturday nights of my youth at such social events as the one on this show and suddenly it hits me hard that I am mocking something that I really shouldn’t be, shouldn’t be dismissing as just quaint and knocking the people on the show, people the producers at Sky are already burying in the ground with the show by it’s mere existence of mockery.

Still, we watch the whole disaster of a tabloid TV show, starting out as viewings looking for a lark and winding up as complete voyeurs by the ending. Our only saviour is Ricky Gervais appearing on Parkinson. Ricky Gervais is such a hero and even though tonight he is really held back, he still manages to knock out enough funnies to stuff that bore Parkinson into the pine box from where he came from, fucking wooden stiff. Beyond, we attempt to watch the all new Match Of The Day once more but again, it is just so fucking boring now. It is notable however for Tottenham v Everton and our boy Tim Cahill looking a proper star before Jamie Redknap chooses to nobble him. Nevermind.

With nerves weaker than Gary Linker, Alan Hansen and Mark Lawrenson combined, I leave Mark to it, still reeling from guilt at my mockery of Jaywick/Clacton and I head home in the hope of better TV on my set before turning in to go to bed. No dice.

np: Helmet – Wilma’s Rainbow

October 1 (Friday): Life Is Precious and God and the Bible. This morning I emerge from a dream about my impending hospital date/operation, which turns out to be rather horrific and myself quite reluctant to undergo such a procedure. I awaken disorientated, with a minor headache unable to fathom what day this morning is.

Once with the program, I enter the day with the attitude: new month, good mood. Of course though, working were I do, it doesn’t last long.

Today at work, Stevo is getting on my tits, making me paranoid to the hills. He emerges from over the road, having overheard a comment by two of the partners that someone is “not recovering�. Such a comment could/would/does certainly describe me but that is due to forces beyond my control (a 60 year old gentleman called Cris). Today’s tune is Take Me Down To Paranoid City and it sees Stevo pulling out the timesheets/timeslips and trying to make head nor tail of the wacky budget system the firm uses, the incredibly flawed system I can’t be arsed to deal with landing me with a very bad looking set of figures on the budget. We have been told this does not directly effect review/report of performance but those who thrive on the budget surely must benefit somehow, in areas that those who don’t thrive (me) will not benefit (mainly I’m thinking financially here). Anyways, Stevo proceeds to spend the day analysing his own personal time sheet against the time slip, fishing for any missing time I might be able to muster. However, he is very vocal in this process and only serves to wind myself (and probably everyone else) up with his declarations how you have to “play� the system and manipulate. Yeah, he really does that (said sarcastically). I hate it when he gets all authorative, it just sounds really wrong and fairly delusional in making sweeping statements that are meant to sound good when really there is absolutely no substance behind/to them.

At lunchtime I meet up with Mark and we go eat outside at the Hogshead. It is an incredibly sombre lunch, Jesus I am about to lose my best friend for at minimal six months and at maximum this marks his inevitable departure out of Colchester, something that doesn’t appear to appeal or spur me on in the slightest. I was always half hoping that I/we might be able to take up careers in the City together but for various reasons this has not panned out on either part (although Mark certainly could have got a job in London if he had wanted to). Actually, lunch is a real downer, we both seem lost for words, I’m morose at his departure and Mark is churning up inside with nerves over his new position, as any sane/normal person would do. There is some relief when a maniac with tourettes (or at least VERY angry and exercising his right to shout). We pretty much let off a combined relief with the acknowledge “hey, at least we’re not in that guy’s boat�.

Lunch ends and I return to the office and the afternoon goes pretty much as per the morning with Stevo harping on about the budget vs timesheets. And he harps on to the point that Andy produces the budget for distribution to staff. When they come out, mine still looks absolutely horrible, still six grand the wrong way. My recent performance has just seen me keep my head above water it seems, on paper I am worse than Sandip and Louise, which is not necessarily the truth, especially in the first instance/example. Still, it doesn’t stop him from making a smart comment, which I overhear while sitting on my throne in the shitter. I feel the flaw in the system gets really illustrated when Emma’s two months on the budget show her to already be five grand the wrong way, almost as bad as me! I use the Brain from Teachers line on her: “I’m going to miss you, you make us look good�.

In the afternoon, pretty demoralised and disheartened by the findings of the budget results (not least Stevo the dildo who actually was the one who brought about its production), no one really does anything. Even Ivan comes over to hang out for a bit. All in all though, I do really really manage to piss off Stevo, this afternoon turns out to be one of those days/occasions where/when I wilfully go too far.


At five o’clock we all run not walk out of the door. I blag a bubble mobile because I am headed to Pipeline in Mildenhall on Monday, so I get a lift/drive/ride home. When I get back to Bohemian Grove, there is a post slip waiting on the floor for me and a package awaiting me at East Hill post office. Immediately I grab the keys to my car and fly to the post office to pick up what I believe to be my DVD of Mr Show season four from Amazon. And that is exactly what it turns out to be and my Friday night entertainment gets sorted.

From there I head to Asda to pick up something for dinner (something basic) and in the process I only manage to get stuck in the car park for nearly thirty minutes again. Once more this is really bad timing/planning as I have turned up there at rush hour on a Friday evening, a sure time/point when commuters will be returning for the weekend. With mission unaccomplished there, I head straight to Sainsburys where I do my thing and get some sickly sweet cereal as my evening’s meal. As I go to leave the car park and pull out of my space, another car is coming along. I casually stop upon seeing him but the guy freaks and stops staring at me for about ten seconds. In my current mood, I just feel like “fucking come on then�, especially still being in my suit and feeling like a superstar (well, not quite). My god though I am aggressive these days, what’s happening to me.

When I get in I MSN with dad for some and then likewise with B, a gimmick that is already getting old. The rest ploughs on and I watch some Friday night TV before finally tearing into the Mr Show DVD box. Mr Show rocks but I still fall asleep watching it.

np: JoJo - Leave

September 30 (Thursday): Today, get up, get in, grumpy. Today, you’d better stay out of my way. I see Sara up online but don’t bother getting in touch; people are only a pain in the arse.

I waddle into work rather downbeat, I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be around these people (fortunately Stevo isn’t in).

I finish off my English homework and it begins to come together and I begin to feel a fair bit better.

At lunchtime, I go around town and do it on the cheap. When I get back to the office, I get bored in the afternoon and call up Mark and apologise for last night’s blow out and get the story on his job interview (which he probably really wanted to talk about last night, hyped). Over the phone, he basically talks himself out of the job/position to me; hanging more to a dream job (ie fun but poor pay) at a newspaper he has an interview for/at next week.

When I get in from work I receive a text from Mark: “i’ve just got a three month internship with a brit company in tokyo. Leave monday. Hell fire-came out of the blue a bit. Still couldn’t turn it down. Talk soon�.

Tonight, after much procrastination, I have decided to go to my English class instead of watching Millwall’s second leg in Hungary against Ferencvaros. The game (the second leg) for some weird reason is not on Bravo (as with the first), instead it is an £8 job on Setanta Sports Channel, a channel I refuse to watch or endorse. So there you go, what a crappy fan I make. As we settle down for this week’s class, Stevo texts me to tell that “the BBC are reporting that it’s kicking off in Budapest already�. Tonight, the Ipswich fan actually speaks to me and asks me if Millwall are going to win (“nah�). The lesson this evening is hard work, once again I am shattered from work. I sit next to a pretty young girl who once more says nothing to me and sit opposite some young mother who sometimes I catch staring this way. The class carries on and teacher says she could describe Arsene Wenger as “debonair� but looks at me and goes “you could hardly describe Dennis Wise as debonair, the man is a thug�. I stare at her and calmly go “the man’s a prince�. At break time, we do the rounds to downstairs where all the handicaps are in the café section with us and I check my phone/GPRS and it turns out that Millwall are losing 2-0. Fucking hell. By the time, the remainder of the lesson is quits, I put on Radio Five Live and Millwall is the main game on air and now they are losing 3-1 and were even 3-0 down at one point. Hungry and depressed, I pop into the chip shop at the top of Barrack Street and listen to the last twenty minutes of Millwall’s UEFA Cup history as the month of October dawns ever closer. The game ends at 3-1 and Millwall’s dreams of rioting in Feyenoord are over but there is still the hope of one last clean out in Hungary before coming home.

I got to bed in resignation.

np: Estelle - Free

September 29 (Wednesday): Morning. Within the space of an hour, a dull day turns into a beautiful autumn morning, complete with fine bright sunshine and comforting chill.

At work, it is a weird morning, with me and Stevo throwing our usual shit at each other (banter) but today we just push too far and wind the other (especially me) up. Louise is in a mood too (El Moodo). It seems that everything is pissing her off at the moment.

At lunchtime, I wander around town on my own and it is actually much preferable to hauling Stevo’s corpse around (as is every other day it seems). At the end of a good lunch break, I walk back towards work and see a couple of Birket long people, the guy that looks like Jake Gyllenhal and Natasha Austin who I used to go to school with. I say “hi� but don’t stop when I get the impression that Natasha really wanted to stop for a chat. Whoops. Problem, I really don’t feel up to small talk today.

In the afternoon, it’s a real bore and the highlight turns out to be me and Stevo pretending to be WWF wrestlers, hitting each other with pretend folding chairs and Stevo coming to the conclusion that if I were a WWF wrestler I’d be called “The Pisstaker� because I am just so fucking lazy. Wanker.

When I get in from work, thumbs up, I have received my Capital One credit card through, to be used for transferring my Virgin credit card balance. I pick up my card and the wankers have only given me £200 credit! Jesus Christ, that will go nowhere; you spend that much on a good night! What is the point of handing out such a low level? I was expecting a limit of £4,000. Tossers.

This evening we play football and it’s far from a success. Stevo laughs it off; claiming his shoulder still hurts when really he’s going to an AFC Wimbledon match. Likewise, after last week’s mauling, Ben has laughed it off to go to Col U v Southend tonight. For tonight’s game, Ivan has dragged in some “useless thug that will kick out� called Lloyd, so it winds up just barely being five on our team (including Kevin and Jeremy, who is pretty much a regular these days who blows hot and cold). Lloyd does turn out to be as described but also at the same, very entertaining to watch. At half time we go in trailing 3-6, which sucks because until a quick spell just before half time, the game had been a lot closer even though Ivan is our only real runner again this week. In the second half, things pretty much continue as per the first half and this week again Jev is acting like a wanker. This week’s match isn’t really pleasure, it is a chore and when it ends at 12-7 to Birkets, we’ve all had enough.

When I get in, I am fucking knackered. And tonight I have my first English essay to write. I attempt it but it is really hard, the ideas aren’t coming. After football, I stink and I really need a bath, which I actually manage to get into/have.

I continue labouring with my homework as B hits me on MSN but I really can’t be bothered with her. I can’t be bothered with anything.

I wind up laying naked on my bed, listening to random MP3s, waiting for a new show called Arrested Development to begin. Around 9.30, out of the blue, Mark phones me up asking if I want to go out for dinner or something. He has only just gotten back from a job interview in Kettering and is starving. I’ve had Corn Flakes for dinner, I am broke and he is suggested we go for a pizza or something. Were it not so spur of the moment, were I not lying naked on my bed, were Col U not busy dealing with Southend messing up Layer Road traffic, were I not waiting for Arrested Development to begin on TV, I would have happily gone along. Even after I decline, I immediately get hunger pains and decide I made the wrong decision not to get something to eat. I’m just not flexible or spur of the moment me.

However, Arrested Development turns out to be a fantastic show, just like Royal Tenenbaums as a TV show with a faultless, excellent cast! And I didn’t even realise David Cross was in it. Top show!

And Col U lose to Southend. Again.

np: William Shatner – I Can’t Get With That

wow! 

September 28 (Tuesday): Oh my, Sara is fucking arsey on MSN this morning. Leave it you cow. At least there is no talk about getting gangsters to beat me up this morning. Small blessings.

I actually take last nights MSN argument into work and print it off and show it around, Stevo especially eats/laps it up.

At work I am doing the best job I have touched in weeks, it is tidy and therefore easy, a real breeze and pleasure to be working on.

At lunchtime I wander around town on a budget. I bump into Chris’ mum in WH Smith who keeps me updated on Chris in Catford, his latest London uni adventure. She catches me as I am wandering around the shop with Stevo looking for books on dogs. Stevo suddenly wants to buy a dog, which personally I think would be a good move because I genuinely believe dog owners make leaders of men, not least because you learn how to handle/use authority whilst being loved back. Stevo goes the whole hog and properly buys a dog owners book (this is all currently brought on of course by Emma just purchasing a puppy).

The afternoon is a real breeze and beyond work, in the evening I head home to my olds to watch The Sopranos on E4.

When I arrive home, already up is a For Sale sign out front of the house, the lucky estate agents being Castles. The things mum gets our family into.

I get in and Dad is having trouble with his feet, which appears to be his latest health scare but bad feet are often linked to diabetes, which he has in spades so it could be serious. He’s seeing the doctor about it anyways. As per fucking par for the course of the moment, Sextons are giving him shit, refusing to pay him a redundancy packet for making him redundant it seems. It’s a fucked up situation.

I find myself sloping off into the front room to kind of get away from it all and I wind up watching Behind The Music on Vh-1 about Guns N’ Roses. It is a really fantastic show/documentary; they were actually a really good band it has to be admitted.

My enjoyment however is cut short when dad comes in wanting me to put Man Utd in the Champions League on the TV, not least as it is Wayne Rooney’s debut for Man Utd tonight. I watch some of the match and see Rooney score his first two goals for Man Utd (and later completely his hat-trick during their rout).

For the second I go on their computer and talk to Sara on MSN, asking her “what the fuck was up last night?�. She complains some more about her mother’s side of the family but tells me to basically “leave it�. It seems she is working through the roof at work at the moment, being the busiest she has ever been in her life and apparently this is making her lose her patience it seems. Is that any excuse? We wind up having a little emo in our exchange but not much. Whilst online with Sara, I am also speaking with half arsed effort to/with Bella. That turns out to be just as excruciating and much more laboured.

While I am sat on the computer, dad sits on the sofa in the front room and when my phone beeps, he is actually sitting on it. The text turns out to be a text message from Phoebe (a rarity these days) and it is a picture of one of her paintings. The painting is actually mindblowingly good, I am really really impressed, and it is not just because I fancy her, she appears to be genuinely really really talented.

Ten o’clock comes around and Dad pretty much watches The Sopranos with me this week. Unfortunately however it is one of the more “transitional� (ie dull) episodes of season five and I really don’t think I am able to sell it on him (it is the episode Marco Polo where Carmela has a birthday party for her father and nearly doesn’t invite Tony).

When the excruciating episode is over, I head home in the darkness, listening to Mark Raddcliffe on Radio 2 as is now my new Tuesday night ritual. Tonight is extra special as he has Charlotte Hatherly in the studio with him and she sounds fantastic as has been usual recently. Good times.

When I get in, there is a Bill Murray on BBC1, The Man Who Wasn’t There (or something). It is dross and sends me to sleep but still it is Bill Murray, so there can be no complaint.

np: Kelis - Millionaire

September 27 (Monday): Palmice. This morning I wake up absolutely shattered and after my bouts with the toilet last night, I come so so close to calling in sick with food poisoning and having a day off. However I am way too honest for my own good and I’m a good guy and pull myself together for work but not before MSNing briefly with Sara.

I get into work and today there is no Stevo and no Emma, which all in all makes things for a very boring day at work. There is Sandip though.

At lunchtime, I knock around with Ivan, posting a panic credit card payment.

When I get home in the evening, I find myself once more both MSNing and Sara and Bella at the same time, the winner once more being Sara who actually appears to have a life.

Bored with things, I get out of the house and do a supermarket run of both Asda and Tesco Highwoods, where I buy Football Factory on DVD. Asda is fucking horrible at the moment, they are doing some un-needed renovation and the place is now chock full of black security guards, talking fuck knows what language making the whole experience of shopping in the building akin to visiting the Bronx or something, the heavy security is fucking ridiculous and horrible.

Things get fruity tonight when I return home and talk some more to Sara on MSN. We have noticed/acknowledged that Jason PM is a lot more nicer/friendlier than Jason AM but not it is time for Sara’s revenge as Sara PM turns out to be a horrible fucking cow, as opposed to Sara AM. Stupidly it takes me a long long time to clock that she is messing about like this because she is probably pissed but we begin swapping snipes and making jibs at eachother which begin to get really really nasty and hostile. We try to outdo eachother, talking about people we’ve fucked and why we wouldn’t fuck eachother, seeming to be trying to make the other person jealous. She then begins comparing mine and her lives, picking holes in my stubborn sticking to Colchester and Essex while she has flitted off to Dubai and “made it�. She gets really arsey and arrogant and she informs me how she has so overtaken me career wise and how I am basically too scared to do anything. She really baits me but I tend not to bite/hook but I do find myself getting hurt by such jibes and her whole seeming, spitefulness of saying such things to me. However, things do not end at this point. I begin to suggest/subtly accuse her of being a silver spooner and then she really kicks off at this accusation, bringing up the subject of her mum’s side of the family. It turns out that her mum’s side of the family is “nuts� and has various members in the clink, with links to gangsters in London including involvement with the Richardsons. Our MSN conversation becomes really surreal, it as if little Miss Haslett has turned into Sam Butcher from Eastenders right in front of my eyes. It is a really unbelievable exchange. It ends with her telling me how heavies were sent around to her ex-fiancée’s house to rough him up and how she could have been beaten up at the drop of a hat. It freaks me out some because it is all so fucking stupid and I don’t know what is going through Sara’s mind in saying such nonsense to me.

Luckily she goes and I get to go to bed to fight another day.

np: Snoop Dogg – Drop It Like It’s Hot

September 26 (Sunday): Cestone. Today I wake up with writing and flat renovation in mind. This however gets interrupted but the usual MSN blah with Sara followed by The Championship on ITV. ITV may no longer have Premiership football but their show still begins with It’s A Beautiful Day and has the kind of go that BBC chokes on. And add that is showing “Championship�, which is actually Second Division, football which means also Millwall!

Eventually I wander out and do the newspaper run. Today is a weird day, overcast and looking like rain but never quite submitting and it isn’t in the least bit cold or chilly. Today I feel like lunching so I phone up Mark around midday to see what he is up to. Unfortunately he is busy, about to speak to his girlfriend, not really an event that should be usurped in favour for lunching with a friend (although I was going to offer for it to be my shout). I do however make arrangements to hook up in the afternoon and do something.

From there I head towards Tesco to do some food shopping, food shopping by me currently equating the most basic purchases in the most basic food groups in quantities that generally fail to last more than one day or two. I think today I purchase bottled water, milk, Corn Flakes, bread and peanut butter. Healthy Graham. As I pay for my food, I see a couple at the checkout next to me purchasing their groceries, a very bad tempered man flinging food stuffs onto the checkout around his four pack of blue and white stripe Tesco Value lager. No wonder he appears pissed off.

Upon return to my flat, my home, my prison, I eat loads of my freshly purchased food and I tear into tidying the flat. I only get so far before I get bored.

On a knackering, mind numbing Sunday afternoon I search for stimulation and decide that today should be the day that I finally watch Spirited Away, which by now I have very little interest into actually watching in the first place (it came with a recommendation by Phoebe, remember her?). Just before I settle down to watch the film, Mark phones and he is heading out in a car with Jeremy and co just to go visit Mersea and……it doesn’t really sound like do much else. I guess I am not the only person in the world that gets thoroughly bored on Sunday afternoons. My gut reaction is to decline the invitation and I do so, although immediately after the rejection procrastination and question of making the right choice kick in, the main personal question being “will I always be this anti-social?�. Plans however are plotted/made for the pub quiz, for a second Sunday running. Getting back in a groove.

Regardless, I settle down to watching Spirited Away, which really really is not my thing. Today I am a real lightweight and cannot possibly face any subtitles, so luckily there is the English language version which saves my bacon. The film for me comes with a top heavy Phoebe flavour, I can only imagine and consider what she was seeing in this moving and what she was taking from it in the process. I cannot help but see the main character as being representative of her, a young Oriental girl with a pure heart against the odds, combating and overcoming fears. I do have to admit, within fifteen minutes of starting the DVD I do/did fall asleep but when I awaken I do/did (I promise) restart the movie from (roughly) where I had got to. The film conjures up some lovely images and the main character is sweeter than sweet, innocent and pure, but I also the story to be ridiculous, making no sense whatsoever.

After the movie, I get back into writing and tidying but now unfortunately I found myself with a bit of a headache, which perhaps came from laying funny on my head when I fell asleep. As the evening comes around, 8pm neared and my headache continues to rage as much as ever and I pretty much decide to opt out of the pub quiz. Mark however phones me up and manages to talk me into turning out, headache and all.

This week’s quiz is fantastic, much more fun and successful than last week. Again the Emily is around, looking even more attractive than last time. I’m actually on form tonight, a very sociable me for a change, more charming and witting than a hard hitting stick. I make funnies which people actually find funny and actually manage to scrape a lengthy and interesting conversation with the Emily girl. It turns out that one of our team-mates from last week (this week missing) was/is a member of the Freemasons and this gives birth to much intrigue and excitement, if I could I would so be part of that thing. Then again, I am wholly imagining it to be just like the Stonecutters fellowship on the Simpsons. Quiz wise, this week we fair much better and actually get questions I know the answers to. The team I am “guesting� is called The Victims and is a team of rabid frisbee players. When results come out/around, we have scored 28 out of 32 and the winning team only scored 29, so I guess that made us seconds. No prizes for second though. Shortly after the results, moves are made. We walk back to our respective cars, me making a pathetic, posing gesture that makes sure everybody sees which car is mine (ho ho). This also coming as I fish Jeremy in with conversation about locals, mainly the rough end Colchester gangsters and apparent local members of The Triad.

When I return home I feel fucked, my head feels like a tumour and I feel shattered. Then Phoebe Toronto hits me on MSN with tales of her weekend spent breaking into cars in Canada and being a usual nuisance of her teenage self (I later look on her blog to see great portions of our conversation published on the internet). Our talk sadly gets rudely interrupted when I get the shits, I suspect I may have eaten too much and/or food poisoned myself with dirty cutlery (maybe). It does however give me the opportunity to sit on the bog and finish off my Hulk Hogan autobiography. When I return to MSN, Phoebe Luk Canada is gone without goodbye.

The rest of my Sunday evening, sees bouts 2 and 3 with food poisoning while I watch a Making Of show for Layer Cake which actually makes it look pretty good but that is perhaps down to the fact that Tamer Hassan, the main Millwall fan from Football Factory has a part in the movie. I end the night feeling like the Alien is going to fly out of my stomach. Good night.

np: Sons & Daughters – Johnny Cash

Snowy sleeping (wasting) his Saturday afternoon away. Lazy fucker. Is he dead? 

September 25 (Saturday): Gismonte. Slow getting started this morning. Sara jumps on me early on MSN, straight from Dubai, on a weekend at work. I manage to actually do some writing, hoping to get my blog up to date but it doesn’t happen.

Eventually I manage to get around to leaving home and heading for Clacton at around 12.30. I stop off at the Layer Road store to buy newspapers but the fuckers have run out of Suns so I have to pop to Asda to get one instead and this is my ultimate downfall. When did the car park in Asda on a Saturday become so fucking chock-a-block? I get my Sun and proceed to spend over half an hour stuck in traffic within the car park not moving a sausage.

My intentions, as sad as they are, were originally to get home for 2pm to catch the first of three episodes of Relic Hunter on Sky today. I fucking fail in all attempts, it eventually takes me almost two hours just to get from Colchester to Clacton (Holland-on-Sea). Loser.

When I get home, no one is in, my parents are to be found up in Colchester house hunting so its just me and the dog. Relic Hunter is well into its episode so I don’t bother with it, instead I jump back on MSN and continue with Sara going “blah blah blah� with a guest appearance by Bella who actually is nowhere near as interesting or exciting as Sara sadly. I tell Sara how I would like to move home after raiding my parents cupboards and fridge; “they have food and Sky and the dog and warmth and its tidy�. Sara however adds the sobering fact: “if you move back home, you will never pull�.

Today Snowy is really dozey and he keeps sloping off, away from me back into his basket. He can no longer jump onto any of our furniture (ie no chairs nor sofas) so I give him a hand and pick him up and put him onto the sofa. Snowy hates being picked up/carried/lifted, so when I do so he next to flies at me when I drop him off. Still, he sticks on the sofa and sleeps the remainder of the afternoon away, not even murmuring when I rejoin him on the sofa to watch the second episode of Relic Hunter.

I get bored and begin reading my Hulk Hogan autobiography I bought on Wednesday and it turns out to sadly be the most interesting book that I have picked up in a long while. When my parents come in, I am actually enthralled in the book and really don’t want to speak to them for wanting more Hulkamania, which only sees me grunting at them like Kevin Teenager when confronted with conversation. Well, did you know that Hulk Hogan almost became a regular on the A-Team to act as a go-between for Mr T and George Peppard who apparently hated eachother as Mr T earned more than the others combined but couldn’t act for beans.

Today Millwall only manage a 1-1 draw at Rotherham after losing the lead late on. Ordinarily, letting in Rotherham’s first goal for 11 hours and only their third goal all season would generally be seen as a failure and/or bad result but Millwall have this recent memory thing about Rotherham for the 92/93 first day home drubbing of 6-0. So now these days, any result against Rotherham is a good result. Rotherham and Gillingham can be currently be regarded as bogey sides.

Mark texts me about hanging out but I tell him unfortunately I can’t as I am at my parents but we should definitely hook up tomorrow.

I MSN again with Sara, fairly late into the night for a Saturday, she is still chocka with work in Dubai it seems and she is about to be heading to Australia on business for a month (lifestyles of the rich and their accountants I guess). Before she logs off we have some final thoughts-esqe discussion which all gets kind of emo when its based along the lines of “it’s a surprise we have stayed friends� kind of stuff. You could be mistaken for thinking there is some really meaning in all this somewhere.

I eventually make moves for heading home, listening to a soundtrack of Radio 2 on a Saturday night (although Westwood on Saturday generally gives good head also). It is a really fantastic station playing fantastic movie, Stuart Macconie hosting some show playing rarities mixed with Nick Cave, Tom Waits and the Kinks. When I get in, I continue with Radio 2 who are broadcasting the most fantastic documentary about Jeff Buckley.

At 10pm, I ditch the radio (which I can hear on repeat/replay online anyway) and begin watching Pleasantville. I beginning to develop a real thing for Reese Witherspoon and it frightens me, especially when I find myself looking at girls these days and going “her X looks like Reese Witherspoon�. Fortunately I fall asleep early during the movie and there ends another exciting Saturday night in the life of Jason Graham.

np: Jeff Buckley - Grace

September 24 (National Dating Day Friday): Bevalaqua. Today’s awakening comes drenched in depression. I have a dream about my English class/course and Webb does feature in it but mainly it suggests to me concern over my apparent failure to mix in the group it seems. I hate feeling so low. B also features in my dream, I guess another representative of a group I do not fit in (ho ho).

After the bad start emotionally (for whatever reasons) I feel at least able to throw some of my bad fortune off the top of a tall building when Azmei gets in touch and offers to meet me at 12.30 for a “drink�.

Yet again, I leave home late and arrive at work late, as one of my managers at Wood & Disney used to say “you should never be late twice in one day�. Whoops. I arrive at work and can feel that I have made a really bad job of shaving. Fortunately people don’t generally touch to see and I will probably manage to go all day without anyone noticing.

Today Stevo is not a work so it is likely to be a bit of a snorer and also a prime opportunity to get some work done. Early on Cris comes over tells me that we are going to have to go over to Pipeline again because nothing has been done to it since I work hard on it early summer and he just promptly ripped what I did to it to shreds and I lost complete interest in the job. When Cris asks me to go over there, he gives off a pained expression that I don’t think I have ever seen on him before. I really don’t want to get involved with this job again but I will, I’m a good guy and very capable of doing it.

Early morning, Andy from Hays phones me again and now we are negotiating properly with Rose Calendars. It seems they are a no no for coughing up any study fees, so its time to compromise. He asks me “what if they won’t give any study support?� and I him that I will have to “decline�. I then tell him that the days they’re giving off to me for “study� are actually holiday days surely. He leaves it at the point where he is now asking them for an extra thousand on my salary.

Today I get a long email from Phoebe, she sounds looser and happier than usual, happy to talk. I point out to her that she sounds happier than usual and she pretty much goes “well I’m not�. All right then grumper.

This morning I look on GPRS internet and discover that the Big Boss Man has just died. Oh no! People are dropping like flies.

I meet Azmei for lunch but its just for a drink, meaning I get a half hour with her until one PM when she goes for lunch with her cunt sister. Actually, when Azmei turns up at the office, her sister is with her but she does not hang out. Which is nice. I go to Costa with Azmei and have the largest cappuccino going (which later gives me a real buzz). I sit down with Azmei and have so much to say, so much to talk about, the half hour flies by full of actual content (as opposed to our last lunch which was a real non-versation). When we are done, we walk into town slightly and I/we meet up with her sister. Remember now, her sister wildly told me that she would force her sister to choose between me and her last week but now it doesn’t appear to have happened. Awkwardly I see her sister and go “hello� and then go “bye�. That was hard.

However, I don’t fucking care, the BIG cappuccino caffeine sees me flying for the remainder of the day. After lunch, my first stop off is at the new, refurbished Virgin Megastore and it is lush! And not least for the additional DVD sections now and the sudden appearance of the entire Relic Hunter back catalogue. Yes! While in there, I see the Ipswich Town fan from my English class, whose thunder I think I may have stolen by being a Millwall fan. We look at eachother briefly but don’t acknowledge eachother (fine by me).

Winter is coming and I really need a new coat. My coat itself is ok but since mum cut the fucking ripped lining out (duh) it currently looks a fucking mess. So basically, I am looking around town for a coat exactly the same as my current one. And can I find it? Can I fuck! Where on earth are all the decent coats? Maybe first of all I need to find the decent stores.

I wander back into the office and have a fairly doss afternoon. Today I have come to the conclusion that all my favourite words begin with the letter “C�. And in my hyperactive afternoon, not least as a result of Stevo not being around, sees me quote “good moods don’t suit me do they?�. Very rhetorical.

At some point over the afternoon Ivan comes over to Chernobyl and “Out Of My League Girl� (© Azmei) that works in Wellington House and walks past our office every day turns out to actually be called “Natalie�. Great, I now have a moniker for the person I perv over.

With work out of the way at 5pm, I run (not walk) into town to pick up some more Relic Hunter DVDs.

My day however becomes stunted when I wind up having a real no no evening. My early evening mainly consists of battered MSN with Sara (with me being PM Jason, in other words Nice Jason) followed by some MSN with Bella. I also put up with the standard Friday night fare on TV and suddenly feel devoid of a life and purpose. Nevermind.

np: Seals & Croft – Summer Breeze

September 23 (Thursday): Giunta. No repeat of last Thursday’s bad back agony this morning thankfully. Today opens up with some very laboured MSN with Sara. I keep attempting to get out of her what those dramatic texts last night were about but really it is truly like pulling teeth. I only wind up in contact with her for a short time as she is frustratingly non-responsive.

In work, I pick up another pony job but today this one is called James Brown, which promptly causes me to text everybody I know to tell them that I am working on the accounts of the Godfather Of Soul. Kind of. Sometimes, I really am annoying.

Today I am supposed to be having lunch with Azmei and I am actually really looking forward to it but unsurprisingly she blows me out, pulling out at 12.10. I don’t get pissed off because it all comes half expected but I am disappointed because was looking forward to going out for lunch, not least for being really really hungry. Instead, in the end, I opt for a Burger King on my own (taken back to Chernobyl to stink it out/up for everyone). Tastes so good.

As I check the newspaper I read that Stoke have put in an offer for Paul Ifill. I am now officially worried, Millwall have visibly missed him this season since he got injured on the opening day of the season and with the wide gap/void Cahill has left, he really is someone that Millwall needs to hang onto in order to have a chance of doing anything this season.

In the afternoon I find myself morbidly regularly checking the news on my phone, to see if Mr Ken Bigley has yet been executed. Personally it seems to me that people are itching for the inevitable to happen in order to have a reason/opportunity to sound off, it is as they are looking to use this as a route to kicking off. I do find it really weird how the reaction to his capture differs completely to the capture and beheading of the two Americans taken hostage with him at the same time. Needless to say, despite my repeated checks Mr Bigley lives to fight another day.

Tensions hit heights in Chernobyl as Stevo keeps flying at me and is now accusing me of being a pervert because I said I fancied the Chinese lady that lives opposite our office. Nothing wrong in that except that she is off pension age like Stevo. Ho ho. Whatever though, if it annoys him, I’ll pick up the ball and run with it. And the crazy Chinese lady is really funny, the way she waddles up and down the road in her old Burberry coat, peering over her glasses at everything and shouting conversations. Then again, I might just be talking myself into fancying her. Has he never seen Harold And Maude?

I also spend an extended period this afternoon why Cat Stevens is actually cool (he is in the news today because he has just been prevented from entering the USA). For the record, Cat Stevens is cool/hip because of his involvement in the soundtrack for Harold And Maude. His otherwise, drippy, wet, dull folk songs really gain a dark air to them for the passionate images, visuals and meanings they accompany in Harold And Maude. However, trying to explain this to people who have never seen the film and actually probably not even heard a dozen Cat Stevens songs themselves, well, its mission unaccomplished on my part.

And when I get in, more entertainment news when I read on the Guided By Voices email list Postal Blowfish reports the death of Russ Meyer. It doesn’t exactly come out of the blue, the bloke hasn’t made a film in thirty year but its still a drag all the same, his films could actually be pretty ace.

Before I am able to makes moves, Bella hits me on MSN and when I tell her I’m going to class, she wonders just what on earth I am talking about. I explain to her that I am doing an English course to which she generally reacts “cool� and I am currently bigging it up to her.

I eventually get going, going to class. This is week three but only my second and already I feel a little bit like an outcast, everyone seems to be buddying up after two weeks. Teacher however is cool and when I explain to her that I was absent last week because I was at Millwall, she tells me that her boyfriend is a Millwall fan too. Cool! I really like teacher, she is very cool, even if she is dressed like Austin Powers (kind of) this week. I get the hand outs from last week and they were doing poems by Whitman and Ginsberg! I missed out poems I actually know. This week however we appear to be continuing to batter Christina Rossetti to death again. At break time, we venture downstairs and I knock about with Emma. After break, we continue and I look around at my class mates and decide that I really don’t like any of them. Still, I get a big kick when halfway through a spiel about some poem or other, teacher stops dead and looks at me in my Millwall polo shirt and goes “god, you’re a Millwall shirt. I know the Millwall song, my boyfriend made me learn their song� and she promptly sings the first few lines of Let ‘Em Come at me.

When I leave the class though, I do feel headfucked by it all so I head to Asda to buy dinner. When I get in I find myself on MSN with Bella once more, which only serves to headfuck me further, with me asking her “have you been online all this time?�. Affirmative.

Just before I left tonight, like an idiot I left my window open and I only return to about half a dozen daddy long legs all in my bedroom, all buzzing around and attacking me. I takes me forever to get rid of the fuckers.

np: Sum 41 – In Too Deep

September 22 (Wednesday): Baccalieri. I wake up this morning feeling like I want to punch myself in the face. I find myself late leaving home, a sure sign of reluctance in my attitude towards my destination (work). Also I have to make moves to make a visit to the doctors and when I keep phoning the surgery/practise the number seems permanently busy, which suits me, I don’t want to go to the doctors so he can look at my ticket. Sixth call though, and I am in like Flint, the woman giving me an appointment for 3pm this afternoon. I become officially nervous.

At work, Louise is in for the first time this week, having been in London at BPP courses for the previous two days (I am so jealous). I tell her about Friday and she finds great humour in it all and actually seems almost…..impressed by what I did.

At lunchtime I go to the cheapo bookshop with an urge/desire to purchase cheap WWF books. I hit paydirt when I find the Hulk Hogan autobiography there for just £2. I add to this some crappy WWF Trivia Book and Dice Man by Luke Rhinehart and I get three books for five pounds which I am unlikely to actually get around to reading.

I find myself talking to people about my doctor’s appointment and the reasons why, maybe I shouldn’t be talking so explicitly to people about my penis. It all adds and works towards making light (and finding humour) in something that I am really really worried about.

3pm comes around and just before popping into the doctors, I drop in at home and wash myself (you know where) thoroughly. I get to the doctors on time and sit wholly nervously and await being called in to the doctor (called in to my death). There is something really unnerving about having a doctor called Dr Banna, Banna pronounced “Banner� as in Dr Bruce David Banner aka the Incredible Hulk. Is it possible he will take one look at my cock and go green? I get called in and bite my lip as I thoroughly embarrass myself in front of the doctor, getting the fella out when the fella really doesn’t want to come out. It is panic stations early on when he looks at my problem and then asks “do you have health insurance?�. Not funny. The doctor is rather droll, making a couple of muted jokes and telling me I have nothing to worry about, I just need a snip. Dude, don’t say that. In what seems less than two minutes, I am in and out of there, with a future date at the hospital lined up.

When I walk back to work, I feel pale. I stumble in and just miss seeing Purple Haired Girl by seconds. All girls will always let me down but her existence will always remain a happy constant for me. I saunter back into the office and have the piss ripped out of me for my little visit to the doctor’s.

After work, we have football and this week it is a league match against Birkets. Our team this week is Ivan, Jeremy, Kev, Seymour, Ben and myself. Before the game I note that we don’t have any scorers nor any real runners. Andrew has now started uni in Hertfordshire and will no longer be available. I however turn up late, Andrew from Hays finally catches up with me and gets hold of me on the phone. We discuss the job position at Rose’s and we now have reached a sticking point with regards to study assistance. We end the call with a sticky wicket, he is going to get back to them and then back to me however they do not seem open/interested in paying for any of my fees (which to be honest are nearly £2,000).

When I finally arrive, the game is already in motion and Seymour is actually playing in goal. Holly calamity. I quickly get changed and take my place in goal, for all the good it does. This week Birkets are ON and soon they are 4-0 within what seems minutes of my arrival. Ben’s isn’t moving much this week either and is getting stripped but then again, the majority of our team appear to suffer in the mobility area, mainly Ivan and Jeremy do the running and appear to resent it as a result. I can’t decide if I have a bad game or it we’re just unfortunate. I do make saves though. I know this because sod’s fucking law, I take the hardest shot in my bollocks that I have taken in months (ironically on the same day that I went to the doctor’s for the fella). Late in the first half Jev severely takes Ben out, flooring him like a motherfucker and there is a sudden apparent air that league matches get taken more seriously than the friendlies of last week. Ben looks fucked off and shocked, and pretty winded, by Jev’s actions, to the point Seymour calls him off before he soughts revenge. Ultimately, the first half is a disaster as we go in half time trailing 2-13. Things pick up slightly in the second half and we actually begin to score and come into the game (but perhaps this coincides with Birket’s able to take it all easy). Eventually the game ends with us on the losing end of a 9-23 score line. After the match, Ben leaves unimpressed and I’m likewise.

When I return to my car, I dig out my mobile phone and there is message from Sara going “it just keeps getting worse�. I wonder what on earth is up but Sara remains tight lipped, being cryptic for a text before stopping to reply all together. I really worry about her sometimes.

On my way home, I find myself scraping together pennies in order to get some dinner, and I wind up with only just about enough coinage to buy some sugar sugar cereal. Very healthy.

When I finally get in, The Wedding Singer is on TV and I dig that movie however I do find myself asleep by 9pm. Why the fuck am I so tired and lethargic these days? Need greens I guess.

In the meantime, I awaken around midnight to discover that Millwall have beaten Derby 3-1 which is an amazing result.

I go back to sleep but find myself being scared out of my life when at 3 AM Tom begins MSNing me like mad, my computer binging a dozen times in a matter of seconds scaring the living shit out of me, thinking my PC is coming alive to kill me, out of revenge for all the abuse I hand it. I politely tell Tom to “fuck off� pointing out that it is a school night and I have work (unlike him). He apologies and I go back to sleep, listening to an MP3 of a Hunter S Thompson lecture.

I just about manage to fall asleep when at fucking 5 AM, Bella begins beeping me on MSN, waking me up again. What on earth is wrong with these people? Don’t they sleep? Vampire killers.

I NEED MORE SLEEP!!!!

np: Men At Work – Down Under

September 21 (Tuesday): Bompensiero. Another day beginning of more random MSN from Sara. What gets said, no one will ever know, like a dream every day it gets forgotten almost immediately.

Today at work is spent with Stevo telling us over and over about the Star Wars DVDs and telling us all facts from the extras with neither knew nor wanted to.

The working day again is a snorer and at lunchtime, me and Stevenator get Chinese buffet and it tastes fantastic. This is Mr Wing’s place and he is a real player in Colchester apparently, from having a number of properties right up to being known as a player to the Triad. Apparently when there was that high speed gangster chase down the A12 from London and the guy just gave himself in at the police station screaming “arrest me, the Triad are after me� (which made it into The Sun!), I have been told this was the guy and the place the crim was headed to. This place is smaller and cheaper than Zentral but the food tastes so much more nicer, the ribs taste sweeter and it all must be badder (more unhealthy) for you. When we are done, we are the last people left in the restaurant and the guy serving us keeps asking if I want another plate, a sure sign I’m getting fatter. And here you actually get fortune cookies, mine which reads “The well-beaten path is not always the right road�. Amen brother.

After work, I head to my parents again, as per fucking usual in my boring routine. I wonder if people are as bored reading this as I am bored writing it? As I leave, I drive past the football ground, already chock full of WBA supporters at six pm. When I get in I blag some grub and bum about home. I call up Mark to see how his latest job hunting efforts in London are going, hopefully better than mine went.

Meanwhile back in Colchester, the U’s are beating West Brom 2-1 in the Carling Cup. Whoops, maybe I should have been there instead.

I stay home and watch The Sopranos on E4 before bumming off home, listening to Mark Radcliffe on the way. As soon as I get in, I have Tom and B both hitting me on MSN but ultimately I’m too tired to comply and scrape too much worthwhile conversation off my back. Good night.

np: Suicidal Tendencies – I Saw Your Mommy

September 20 (Monday): Bucco. The morning begins with me awakening shattered and miserable, more sleep please! I MSN Sara briefly and she is hungover and teasing me about eating a dog biscuit. Still! Its Monday morning and I walk in, to work in. As I listen to Moyles on my phone, it rings and I am rudely interrupted by Andy at Hays getting in touch to ask me further about the Roses job. I tell him that I need to see at work how much study will cost next year and that it really needs to be part of my employment package. I quote him a figure of £1500 and he says that might throw a spanner in the works and that I will have to quote him an exact figure before he can speak to them to negotiate on my behalf. When I finally get in and look into figures, courses for the final three ACCA exams with BPP top £1900 and 25 days! Ouch! Suddenly I find myself getting very serious about my professional studies. I telephone Andy Hays back and it begins to look bleak. And add this to the fact that I am already getting cold feet.

Today I am in a pretty good mood in actuality, bouncing about Chernobyl with vigour. Sometimes I am so wrong. Early morning, a woman who looks exactly like Chan Marshall crosses. I am in like. However she is wearing one of those stupid ponchos that all trendy chav girls appear to be wearing/sporting like fucking fools. Ha ha!

Today is Mr Barlow’s birthday. Today he is old. I don’t think people his age actually have a number, their age is just old. Whatever though, the whole office gets cakes so we like him for that.

In the office I find myself liked. For the off I find myself telling Stevo and Sandip too much detail about Friday night and it is met with equal amounts of hilarity and disbelief. And I actually find myself telling them more details than I told to Sara!

At lunchtime Stevo and I go to town to buy the Star Wars DVD box set like a couple of kids in a sweet shop. We get our DVDs in Woolworths where staff are dressed like Jedi and Wookies. This is the way forward in retail. And its kind of amusing when the staff Stevo if he wants to buy a half price lightsabre and not me! From there we head to the New Inn where Barlow is dishing out birthday drinks. When we arrive, it is just him, Drew and Ivan and is a pretty pathetic sight, with the atmosphere akin to a wake. Even none of the partners have turned up and I genuinely believe now that there is something going on behind the scenes between the partners of the firm and perhaps that he and Seymour may have fallen out. So us four come along and at least manage to liven things up, even if it is ever so slightly. It happens.

Stevo gives me a lift home for the first time in a month, so I guess this now represents his shoulder is officially better. When I get in, I watch that awful Don’t Be A Menace…. movie that I bought on DVD from Swag Converters Saturday. I used to think this movie was funny/cool but now it is so bad, it depresses me and sends me to sleep.

When I wake up I actually manage to write the rest of the evening, right through until the Sopranos is. Bickety bam!

np: Afghan Whigs - Retard

September 19 (Sunday): Moltisanti. Sunday morning, good times. Wow, my shine is already wearing off. Whoops. Here comes the usual Sunday morning sparring bout with Sara on MSN. And today it is a real battle for some reason, we snap at each other and get explicit revealing peccadilloes and perversions, we get boringly clinical about sex in an attempt to gross eachother out I think. And this lasts for a very long period of the morning, starting out fun but becoming tired probably during the first hour of the approximate four.

Today I am considering going up to Millwall to see the heroes from Thursday night, when I genuinely felt inspired. Weather wise, the day kicks off healthily but soon peters out and this (good weather) is an essential ingredient/element when deciding whether you are going to drag your arse to Bermondsey on a Sunday afternoon or not. In the end, the weather doesn’t cut it ,so neither do I.

Instead, I watch the remainder of Fubar (cancer of the bollock of the bollock should NOT be funny!) and spend a boring slow Sunday at home, save for the newspaper run of a dozen stores searching for an Observer with music section. I wind up in town and there I manage to get a paper. I also text Emma to see what English homework this week was. Seems nothing.

When I get home, Three Amigos is on TV and there is always a little time in my heart for the comedic genius of Chevy Chase. First though, I cook my lunch which turns out to be baked beans in Consommé soup and it is thoroughly revolting.

I attempt to listen to Millwall v Watford on internet radio on BBC London but for some stupid reason, last week I deleted RealPlayer from my computer and I wind up spending almost an hour trying to reinstall it. When I finally hit paydirt, Millwall sound fucking atrocious and they go down 2-0 to Watford and Danny Dichio manages to get himself sent off. Bravo. All in all, I’m glad I didn’t bother going.

Around 5pm Mark phones up and I go around his and play Pro Evolution 3 and talk about job hunting whilst also watching some of the groomer channels on cable. Result, I blag some dinner and we head to the Hogshead around 8pm to do the quiz.

Spookily when we arrive at the Hogs, I see Bagley again but once more I ignore the prick, mainly because of the stories I found out last summer that he had been spreading about me, communication would only be opening up a can of worms I feel. In the pub with hook up with Mark’s mate Mark who is some kind of birdwatcher and has the loudest, bellowing laugh and a whole bunch of other Frisbee players. A few more people turn up, including the Emily girl whose mum used to teach at my old school. And the girl I semi find attractive, probably due to being an apparent combination of a couple of other girls I previously had a thing for also. In other words, not traditionally attractive, well spoken and drippy sounding (sorry). The quiz happens and its hard work, I don’t think I even answer one question. I do however look up the answer to a question on GPRS, for which I get royally spoken down to for doing; goody goodies. The quiz ends and we all go home.

When I get in, My Cousin Vinny is on TV (and I love Marisa Tomei) but tonight ends with today being the day Bella talks me into registering for MySpace.com. It is the new Friendster. Please log on and be my friend. I wind up on Msn with B until well past midnight, which probably isn’t the smartest move being a school night and all.

np: Nelly – Flap Your Wings

Colchester United v Milton Keynes Dons. Fuck all fans in the away end. 

September 18 (Saturday): Melfi. Good morning Britain. This morning I am up and in good spirits. I have mixed emotions with regards to last night but its good that it happened all the same, I guess in life when you get these opportunities you have to take them.

This morning Phoebe is taking her Advanced Audit retake, the exam that ACCA lost so I text her with good luck wishes and intentions.

Today is a slow burner, taking much too long to get going but it comes complete with an urgency to get into town; the urgency pathetically being to get to WH Smiths in time before they sell out of Only Fools And Horses DVDs. I know, I suck.

When I eventually tumble into town it is a very nice/beautiful morning, summer hasn’t quite evaded us yet. Mission is accomplished when I manage to get my DVD along with the Saturday papers. This morning I am feeling good, the world is my oyster. I stop by HMV and get retail therapy itches and snap up Fubar on DVD.

As I walk along Crouch Street back to my car I see Nina sat at the steps to the entrance of the old (now derelict) Odeon cinema. I go over and sit and talk with her. It turns out her Gran is ill again and she is about to get a lift from her brother to the hospital, so she is pretty down as per is usual sadly with Nina. We sit shooting the shit sitting on the steps of the old Odeon like a couple of pikeys until her brother and mum turn up. Ben shouts out and asks me if I want to go to the football today. I say yay, I am a fool. On my way back I pop into Swag Converter and get the itching finger again and wind up buying even more DVDs.

When I get back in, Bella hits me on MSN. I amuse her by telling her that I am still eating the balti mix from last night (which sadly, pretty much constitutes my meals/diet today).

Around 2pm my already busy day (ha ha) catches up on me and I fall asleep. I awaken to find a text from Phoebe with, what seems, half arsed gratitude but also Ben has been trying to call and get in touch. Just as I pick the phone up he calls again and tells me he will be around at 2.30.

I pull the flat together a bit for when Ben comes around. I take some bin bags out to the bins and see my uncle, my dad’s boss. Fucking hell he looks old. I semi want to speak to him but semi I don’t want.

Ben hits the hut on time and we head to Layer Road to see Colchester United play Milton Keynes Dons. After watching Millwall, going to Layer Road is now quite a comedown. And it is also £15 for a normal spod (such as myself) to get into the Barside, which against £23 for the Upper East at Millwall is a bit of a piss take. Such is life.

Today is a pretty interesting game, the MK Dons are a real freakshow of a football club. I know Stevo vehemently hates them to the pit of his stomach but I am surprised when Col U fans appear to be into them just as passionately. As count the Milton Keynes following (25 at first count and barely up to 50 by the game), the fans around me sing “fake team, shit fans�. As Ben says to me “MK Dons at home, you expect it’s a bit of a given�. The teams come out and the Barside really doesn’t fill too heavily, which is nice as it means you get a view and do not get uncomfortable. On the pitch, today both teams play fucking pathetically, the Col U strikeforce is lacklustre to say the least and likewise MK Dons manage to create opportunities but only manage to fluff them at every point. On the bench for Milton Keynes is ex-Ipswich midfielder Steve Palmer but otherwise they are a bunch of nobodies, pretty much youth team players from when they were the old club. Colchester’s team actually reads pretty good on paper but Bowry is out injured and Ben May begins on the bench, thus ends my interest in their players. Also Sam Stockley, the player I rate most at Col U, is also out injured. Ben tells me just what a star Karl Fagan has been this year and with him looking a little like Arsenal’s star player, the crowd sings out “Thierry Fagan�. More abuse gets hurled towards MK Dons in the form of “franchise scum� and “you’re just a shit town in Luton�. The game turns out to be a bit of a snorer. This is my first visit to Layer Road this year and the pitch looks fantastic but otherwise it doesn’t look overly great to me or any great improvement. Col U press hard but rarely seem to get anywhere and when Milton Keynes make their occasion breaks, they do look pretty dangerous a lot due to the apparent shakiness of Col U at the back. Just before halftime a semi inevitable occurs when MK take the lead. Even though Col U had had the majority of the half, MK had always looked good for the half to sneak something.

At halftime when the teams usually have a group of kids taking penalties against eachother, today it was just Col U, MK Dons could not muster enough kids to compete. The MK Dons are a strange phenomenon; you wonder where the fuck are they from? To some extent they look like people who have never been to football ever before in their lives and with it are far too enthusiastic and keen but as Ben rightly points out, if you’re going to support MK Dons you can hardly be half arsed about it because everyone is going to hate you. The game ends as the lacklustre Col U fail to get back into the game while MK Dons are equally as lacklustre, blowing two easy chances that I could/would probably even have put in. After the game, we spill out onto the streets and this is MK Dons first ever away win in the league and their newbie fans large it while we look at them and consider that they had best calm down before some rabid Col U fans get hold of them for acting like pricks in a foreign land. I step over with Ben as he books a seat on the coach to Walsall for a few weeks time and I see Steve Lamacq and what seems to be Mark Bagley from school (with long gay curly hair all of a sudden) chewing his ear off. Is this some weird alternate universe I have appeared in?

I get back in for five and am really hungry, so once the football traffic clears up, I head to the chip shop for a lazy dinner. BBC are repeating one of the latest Christmas episodes of Only Fools And Horses, so I watch some of that (like a chump).

Bored and lonely, I phone Mark up to see what he is up to. He has company down for the weekend and is about to do dinner but he tells me once he is done he will give me a call to hook up.

I begin watching Fubar and I really don’t get it initially. For a mockumentary, the characters are just too wild and unbelievable at first but when their old, now reformed buddy acts too old to hang out with them (under the thumb of his girlfriend) it suddenly rings home that this film can be kind of spot on. Still, the main two characters are anything but endearing, which I guess is part of the point. I stop watching the movie at 9pm as BBC2 are repeating the Peter Cook documentary from a few Christmases ago, which always will take priority.

Around 10pm Mark phones but I am too tired/knackered to go out, who goes out at 10pm? Even if it is a Saturday. Lazy Jase.

np: Superchunk – Throwing Things

September 17 (Friday): Aprille. More lateness from Graham. Today, in order to get a quick “off� this evening, I drive into work. Still, it doesn’t prevent me from being late into work.

Today is the big day for me, my long awaited little trip to Cambridge occurs tonight but first, first I have to get the working day out the way. Earlier in the week Eva asked me to call her up this morning to confirm this evening and as I head out to finish off the VAT return for South East Brickwork, I make the call from my car. I speak to Eva once more and she tells me that she has had trouble receiving the explicit email that I sent her, so I figure I had best get it to her today, soon, by hook or by crook, by any means necessary.

I get to South East Painting and deal with Daniel and Kevin. Daniel, a drippy Man Utd fan, tells me how he watched the Millwall game on Bravo last and that he enjoyed it although they didn’t look too great. He also noticed how great Marvin Elliott was. South East Painting turns out to be a real breeze; the job is a pickle but nothing beyond me.

When I get back to the office, Stevo whines like fuck about going to lunch and I wind up giving in and heading to the New Inn with him and Brian where we sit cramped, eating pretty awful food/lunch. Why on earth do we bother going to places like this? The meal ends on a low when Brian finishes up and leaves early, before us, with Stevo in mid moan/rant about Sunny or something. I just screw up my face.

With the dinner out of the way, I head/fly to town to get some essentials. On the way I bump into Andrew Osment who I used to go to school with and he is pretty different, looking and acting really older, much more than I do, for someone the same age. In town, I buy the essentials, supplies for this evening: headache pills, water, stomach pills. I also go to the cash machine and pull out cash on my Virgin credit card, never the best move.

The afternoon turns out to be a real drag, lasting forever with nothing happening and being a typical Friday afternoon in the office with none of the partners being around. All in all, in our little Chernobyl, with Sandip elsewhere, very little work gets done. Instead we pick up today’s Sun and each/all do the Chav test. When all is said and done, my score comes out at 31%, telling me that I am Chav-lite and that I want/need to let the inner chav in me come out.

Also in the afternoon, Andrew at Hays telephones me to tell me that Rose Calendars have chosen me for their position and offered me the job. Man, I have much bigger things on my mind today, why throw my concentration at an hour such as now? I tell Andrew “that’s cool� and I tell him that I will think it over during the weekend. He actually give me his personal/home mobile telephone number so that I can contact him on that front, the man is keen. The only holding/sticking point now seems to be study and such costs.

The afternoon turns out to be 100% nerve-wracking, resulting in me spending much of my time sat on my throne in the bathroom, a probable combination of the bad food of the New Inn, my new job offer and my impending “date� with Eva.

Finally/eventually five o’clock comes around and everyone flies out of the office like Fred Flintstone out of his quarry. By 5pm the office is dead and Barlow is the only remaining partner and now that he wields very little authority, all the office is out the door pretty much at 5pm on the dot.

I tear out of town like a man on a mission. As advised I take the A120 route and initially I really begin to wonder if this is the correct/best route. On the radio however the DJ (however) is playing songs in order from the nineties and for 1992 it is Come As You Are by Nirvana and in my car it sounds so magnificent. The A120 is a strange road, you drive through pit roads of Marks Tey and when you eventually hit a motorway around Braintree area, you sense you should have stayed on the A12. By 6pm however I find myself flying along the M11, well on my way to Cambridge and looking obvious that I will be arriving much too early for 7.30.

I remain on the M11 instead of switching to the A11 and it soon becomes apparent that I am going to be in town (Cambridge) before 6.30. When I hit the A14, I miss my turning so decide to go for a little drive around Cambridge. My phone beeps but I cannot reach it after it falls down the side of the passenger sear. I end up in a place called Bar Hill and go to their Tesco for a piss. I check my phone and it is Eva telling me that she has just read my email. She texts back suggesting 7.00.

I tear out of Bar Hill (pretty horrible on first impressions) and am soon back on the A14. I find my way and eventually see a motorway sign for Milton and I begin to get really nervous. I park up as soon as I go into Milton and call her up asking for specifics of her location. She gives me directions and an address and tells me it is pretty easy to find (this I doubt) but tells me not to arrive before 7.00. Her address is 223 The Spires or something. I drive along and actually find the road easy, still with about 10/15 minutes to waste. I also find another Tesco, one almost exactly like the store in Bar Hill.

I drive towards the address for 7pm and Milton’s residential area is really lovely, surrounded by trees giving it a warm feel and new/recently built houses already looking like warms, new but not sterile. The address for our rendezvous turns out to be a flat, which semi calms me down after imagining all kinds of scenarios of seeing a professional lady in a domestic scenario/situation (ie a home).

Now, it depends on how well you know me as to whether you believe me or not when I say that I eat a dog biscuit and find myself forced to masturbate into a dog bowl whilst being slapped in the face. For full details of happened, please feel free to email me.

When I get downstairs and outside I jump in my car, check my phone for messages and down so much water it is obscene. The hour is 8.30 heading towards 9.00 and I feel shattered, hungry and thirsty. I get in my car and drive of, out of Milton. I stop by at the Milton Tesco and can’t decide what treats to buy. I plump for crispy M&Ms and the biggest bag of balti mix ever seen in history. Whilst in the shop I see the most amazing looking lady/girl. She looks normal but when I see her again in the car park, she is driving a sports car.

I tear home in the rain, bombing down the A14 eager to get home. The drive is long and I think about things aplenty, being pretty philosophical in the process.

I get back to Colchester at around 10pm and pop into the Highwoods Tesco for some more essentials.

When I get in (finally), B is online on MSN and I say “hi�. We have a fantastic chat and I tell her (vaguely) what I have done, in full mind of how she reacted to when I told her about Victoria back in the day. I also give her a play-by-play of my overeating of a too big bag of balti mix while she points to various garments on Ebay she appears to wish she could buy.

This evening though, MSN turns out to be my downfall when Sarah (Shah!) comes online to speak to me. We start out being fairly nice nice but then she begins to piss me off, not least for boasting about how some guy from Capita in Manchester had taken her to dinner in Manchester. Is this told to make me jealous? I don’t want to fucking know. However, I am fortunately in a fine mood, so I go out of my way to repulse her, telling her graphically what I have just gotten up to in Cambridgeshire. She begins ragging on me, accusing me of being a pervert or something, telling me that I am “just as bad as the partners� at BS. I don’t fucking care. However this does get us onto the subject of work and she begins moaning about my work mates and going out. The hell night from July, where I just walked off, gets mentioned and she has the fucking arrogance to say that she had a good time (while I had the worst time, she had a good time seemingly at my expense). However, I get in the last/best blow when I tell her that everyone at my firm thinks she is “mixed pickles�, which is not opinion, its fact. She explodes and goes postal, signing offline immediately. Then she returns online for a few seconds saying “when Azmei (her sister) gets back Tuesday, I am going to tell her that she can either be friends with me or you. And if she is wise, she will choose me�. Wow, these are the words of a 28 year old sounding like the words of a pre-teen. I’m such a dippy cunt for even bothering with her. Still, like a cute prick, I think its funny and text her “come back online, you sound sad�, as if I actually care about her feelings at all.

I go back to B (a safer bet) and tell her about my “stalker� Sarah and I go to sleep thinking about the evening.

np: Nirvana – Come As You Are

Millwall v Ferencvaros: second half attack 

there are some Ferencvaros fans there somewhere 

September 16 (Thursday): Parisi. This is the stuff of dreams. I wake up however after the worst night going, with my back putting me in absolute utter agony. Oh shit, does mean that I am now officially old? Joking aside, my back absolutely canes and thoroughly worries me. I struggle to get out of bed and contemplate not going into work (and I never take sick days – note to future employers). I worry about the evening and will I actually be able to go to Millwall, how can I if I can’t actually sit?

Wailing in pain, I get into some early morning MSN with Sara (as per usual) and after some groaning she tells me that she “loves me�, which always annoys and winds me up when she says it. Some people are able just to toss off that term, without meaning nor care. I ask her, Bear At Bedtime style, “is that mummy love or dirty love�. Turns out, mummy love, the shit love.

I drive into work and park up, still hobbling and aching in pain, having regular back spasms with every change in motion. Wha’ happened?

The day at work moves unbelievably slowly, it just proves an obstacle in my way to getting to Millwall and the UEFA Cup. In the afternoon, boredom overcomes me and I decide to annoy Sara and I text her “I love you�. Whoops, she then texts back thinking that I am serious, her freaking out. Oh yeah, when she texts/tells it to me its fine but when I do so to her, she goes bananas.

Not before time, 5pm finally arrives and I run out on the dot and speed (as best as possible) to the train station, to Millwall. I drag Stevo along and give him a lift to the station (bare in mind, he is currently out of action due to his shoulder so he is catching the train to work). While I park up, I drop him off to get me a ticket. I get a plush parking spot and when I get to the station entrance, Stevo is shouting at me to get a move on. It seems when I gave him my credit card to get a train ticket, the machine wasn’t working so he got me a ticket on HIS card. Stevo is too good to me.

We board the train excited, Stevo looking like he wants to go to the game more than I do. As we pass Marks Tey, I see someone in a Millwall shirt; there are more Millwall fans in the Colchester area? Excellent! Stevo gets off at Chelmsford and tells me to keep him updated on the game later. Around this point Sara begins texting me over the “I love you� thing again: “So you love me? Will you promise 2 give me all a girl can wish for and love and cherish me forever�. Heavy.

Good timing, the train arrives at Stratford around 6.15 and I hope of knowing I will get to the ground in good good. The Marks Tey Lions also get off her but whereas I head straight to my train on the Jubilee line, they don’t seem to quite know which one to catch, so does that make me the more senior fan? Ho ho. On the way to Canada Water I exchange awkward glances with them and I wonder if they recognise the Millwall away shirt from last season that I have on under my jumper that is slightly visible. The problem is though, I don’t really want them to recognise me nor buddy up, they seem to be proper chavs. And when I get off at Canada Water and they do not, I wonder “what the fuck?�.

Canada Water turns out to be where I properly hook up with other Millwall fans, all on our way to Surrey Quays and by 7pm I am already at the ground. It is a great dusk evening, one of the few remainders of summer, a great red sky with a chilly air. As I near the ground, taking the Football Factory route (again!) it seems all I can hear in the distance are police sirens, it sounds like there is already a riot in place. When I reach the ground there are no worries, no problems, no trouble except that I buy a program and soon realise my little faux pas at wearing the green and white striped Millwall away shirt from last season, fucking Ferencvaros wear the exact same colours it seems. Whoops, so who will be the first meat head to accuse me of being from Hungary I wonder? I get paranoid I spot a policeman seemingly eyeing me up, I paranoidly suspect he thinks that I am a lost naive Hungarian. What to do? So I just phone home and make sure that dad has got the video right and ready for taping the game (on the tape over the awful Ipswich v Millwall game from Sunday).

Job done, I bite the bullet and go into the ground. I know I’m in the ground a fair bit earlier than usual but it still does feel/seem really subdued, lacking the atmosphere of usual. I go to get a drink and there are cups on all the beer taps and they’re turned off, its UEFA does not allow the selling of alcohol at their games. What a sobering thought. I check my pockets to see if I have enough money for a “Match Day Special� (chicken tikka on top of chips) but sadly I don’t, so I just plump for chips and a coke and wish I had a mixer. This is probably the first food I have had to eat all day and soon I have polished it off, fat bloater. With the time only about 7.15, I take my seat ridiculously early.

Out on the terrace, it is fucking freezing tonight, the sun setting of earlier is now a long memory and the wind is has started to bite and kick in. I look around the Den, mainly towards the Ferencvaros end and they haven’t actually brought too many fans with them but they have however brought the most enormous banners I have ever seen and god only knows what they say. I am not alone in thinking all this as when the Hungarian fans move the banner around, the Millwall fans just sing “what the fucking hell is that? What the fucking hell is that?�. The Ferencvaros fans also do this weird arm gesture when chanting prompting me to text Stevo “did the Hungarians just give a seig heil?�. The ground is slow in filling and pretty empty from the off and it never really fills up fully, it soon becomes apparent there are loads of empty seats and Stevo, amongst others, could have really got in easy. As kick off neared, the crowd announcer/PA reads out the team in English and then promptly hands the microphone over to a woman who reads the teams out in Hungarian and suddenly there is all a very Eurovision feel to things.

Tonight I have primo seats and once more I actually recognise people I have seen here before and actually wind up sitting next to some guy I sat next to last season at the Sheffield United match. The game kicks off with excitement and soon it becomes evident that the Hungarians are much more skilful than Millwall but Millwall pull out all the stops and for the best part play the game of their lives. At times they seem lacking in ideas but on the whole Wise runs the game soundly and the returning Muscat is generally solid as a rock against a very fevered and tempered foreign assault. The real player of the match ultimately turns out to be the fantastic Marvin Elliott who plays the game of his life in midfield, flying in for everything and quite often winning everything (well, most things). Up front, various chances are made as Millwall attack the North Stand in the first half and Neil Harris has (probably) by far his best game of the season. Stefan Moore on the other hand is pretty terrible. The early scrap is pretty fired and Jody Morris appears to do his best in sticking up to the Hungarians but only manages to wanker himself in the process and has to hobble off after about 20 minutes. In his place, on comes Barry Cogan, another youth player who plays out of his skin and has his best game I have ever seen. And the Canadians Simpson and Serioux do their usual thing of running around, losing the ball and scaring the life out of the Millwall faithful. Ferencvaros really do try it in the first, rough housing and then diving and Millwall only live up to their reputation by matching up to them culminating in a minor brawl late in the first half, seeing Muscat cop most of the blame (and get booked in the process). As we neared half time, Ferencvaros put on a hell of a lot of pressure on the Millwall defence with corner kick after corner kick and mercifully (and probably wrongly) the referee blew up for half time mid way through the Hungarians best opportunities/openings.

After no kids’ penalties at half time, the team came back on with as much vigour as the first half and Ferencvaros began to look a bit more livelier. By the second half, the Millwall faithful (Bushwhackers and none) really find their voices singing “En-ger-land! En-ger-land! En-ger-land!� and “where were you in World War II?�. The second half turns out to be infinitely harder work than the first but when in the 66th Millwall got a free kick on the edge of the box, I just knew if Dennis Wise took it, it would be a goal. And so it was, as Wisey fucking place that motherfucker in the back of the net and everyone erupted as Millwall got a goal we rightfully more than deserved. I don’t know, I just knew it was going in and was probably so eagle-eyed and intent, I was the first in the ground to see it hit the back of the net and get up out of my seat and lose my shit. I turn to the to my right (from Sheff Utd last night) and we exchange Fucking-A! glances of recognition. At this moment Stevo phones me on my mobile and I can’t hear him and he can’t hear me for screams of “oh Wisey! Woah!! He’s only five foot four, he’ll break your fucking jaw�. So with the lead, Millwall now found themselves under more pressure than ever as Ferencvaros pressed them hard. That said, when they took off the terrible Moore in the 77th and brought on the returning Planet Paul Ifill, it only looked optimistic. As I found myself texting my hope to Stevo, Ferencvaros got their own free kick on the edge of the box, which I just had a feeling was flying in. I don’t remember bothering to see the kick go in, just looking up at the wanker celebration of the Hungarians in the 78th minute. Around me, the fans started picking holes in and blaming Stack in goal, who otherwise has been really consistent this year. Before the game, Stevo has been ribbing me that if Millwall give up an away goal in this leg, then they are fucked. So there you go. With time running out and me shaking my head with the guy next to me, a seemingly unfit Dichio came on for the optimistic Harris to charge through with Ifill. Very few highlights occurred during the remainder of the match as the Millwall fans found themselves getting more and more fucked off and coming up with the chant of the game aimed at the Hungarians: “you’re only here for asylum, you’re only here for asylum�. The game ended 1-1, which could have been better and could have been worse but all in all equated to yet fantastic match in an amazing year.

The walk back to Surrey Quays is bleak and chilled, with every fan saying what could have been and boasting of their plans now to hit Budapest in two weeks time. When I get on the train, I once more get paranoid about my green and white shirt as I overhear mention of three thousand people that are heading to Hungary on cheap flight deals etc.

I bounce off the train at Canada Water and wait for a train to Stratford to carry me home, hoping that there will actually be one. After a nervous wait as some kind of brief track failure occurs on the Jubilee Line and some random woman asks me the result, I get on a train headed to Stratford. I see a man who has just been to the match with his son in his wheelchair covered in Millwall stickers eating chips and he looks the most miserable person ever. I look at my own reflection in the window and the depressing feel of late night train journeys on your own hits me and the moment at which you, for some reason, feel at your most loneliest (well, it gets that way for me). Riding the train at night on your own really is quite solemn.

Upon arrival at Stratford, I take my platform and have an endless wait of seemingly the longest fifteen minutes in history. While waiting I bump into Justin Bad Hand Records (home of The Blitters) and it is really scary now how I can just bump into people in London, I really should be here NOW! Me and him converse for a good time and he tells me that he lives quite nearby, which sounds a pretty exciting life to me. He tells me he has some more filmmaking stuff coming up, mainly with the guy from Rothko which all sounds really cool and exciting.

On the big train home to Colchester, I am astounded when I see a girl that looks exactly like Sara on the train reading Jordan’s autobiography (ho ho). It is frightening just how much she looks like Sara and she is very smart and business-like and I wonder if catching such a late train (10.45) is all part of the job. For some reason I jump to the conclusion that she is an accountant and is going to be exactly like Sara. I gawp too much but luckily don’t get clocked (I think) and then even luckier she gets off at Romford, so from there it becomes out of sight, out of mind. I listen to Mark Radcliffe on my phone radio on the ride home and it is so comforting to listen to him at this hour, a kind of returning to the womb music style and reliving FM radio 95 to 96. And his guest tonight is Noddy Holder reviewing TV including NY-Lon (which apparently I like and he doesn’t). Today sadly however has been the death of Johnny Ramone and Radcliffe commemorates this by doing a heartfelt spiel before playing Ramones songs (which he can play a couple of because they are so short). However, song highlight of his show tonight is Ian Brown’s new single guesting Noel Gallagher (go figure).

When I get back in Colchester, I am knackered and it is a swarming Thursday night in Colchester. Today I have eaten very little so I contemplate many options in the foodery department but ultimately I want some unhealthy slop like chips and/or kebab. I drive down North Station Road checking out the options and the road looks like carnage, the good kebab shop is gaggling with pissed up looking men hanging out outside. Be avoided methinks. I then look to Bodrums on Crouch Street and one glance at proceedings just appears to echo the state of the union, so I decide to duck out and make the most out of any scraps I might be able to muster at home (which ultimately turns out to be nothing).

Tonight I go to sleep hungry.

np: Ian Brown – Keep What Ya Got

September 15 (Wednesday): La Cerva. This morning is one of those days when you wake up ahead of time (ahead of the alarm clock) but realise this and remain thoroughly tired without managing in your attempt to get back to slumberland. I give Sara another peep on MSN this morning and eventually she responds, telling me that she is at work drunk. Bad girl and that’s all she wrote. Today is another sunny but chilly kind of day, probably my favourite kind.

I get into work and relief it is just me and Emma in the office, no noise, no distractions. Work is getting on top of me big style at moment, I am spending way too much time on podunk jobs and not actually doing to good a job on them either. Louise is back and looking fantastic again. For the past two days she has been up London on BPP courses and I wish I had been too. She tells me that I am too pessimistic about things (mainly exams and Phoebe). Probably.

After a bout of pounding stomach pains (aka the shits), the morning ends pretty much without incident. Just before lunchtime Ivan comes over and asks me if I have seen the travelling theme/fun park that is being constructed on Remembrance Avenue. Oh yes, that gang of pikeys and carneys are becoming the talk of the town. And the sad thing is, everyone is eating it up. It is almost like the Simpsons episode where they get a monorail.

In the evening we have football, a friendly against Birketts, as per usual. Tonight Ben is playing for us and we have a pretty decent team out it seems. When I arrive, Ben is already there 100% up for it. When we get inside it turns out that Kevin (now nicknamed “Magic� by Steve) Johnson has had to call/laugh it off, so including Ben there are only five of us tonight against Birket’s six. Ben shows much more enthusiasm than anybody else involved and when we soon fly into an unexpected 4-0 lead, unlike everyone else Ben is going “yes!� at every goal. Ben slots in at the back and doesn’t really move much and soon gets knackered by the pace. Still, we hold our own and it is a long while before we even concede a goal. Towards the end of the half I begin to let in stupid goals (and getting a shot in the bollocks in the process) but we go in at halftime leading 9-6. The second half begins/continues much as the first half ended and Ben slots in better at the back and is fairly solid. Meanwhile the rest of the team: Ivan, Jeremy and Andrew are all playing blinders and we are knocking a huge lead. At one point I make a save from Birket’s Hedgehog boy and the shot powered my arm against the metal goal post, hurting it like fuck (big bruise next morning). Eventually the game nears an end and it becomes apparent that I might make my personal target of going a game without letting in ten goals. We end the game winning 20-9. The win was a real boost/buzz and was our first win since 14 July.

After the game I find myself talking to Mike (Birkett’s goalkeeper) because he knows Ben from cricket and he also tells me that he was talking to Theo Paphitis at Ipswich on Sunday and he informs me that the Millwall v Ferencvaros game is actually on TV tomorrow night after all, it is on Bravo of all channels. Excellent!!!

Elevated, I actually manage to squeeze in a long overdue bath and fall asleep in my damp bathrobe, which may or may not cause me to get a bad back. The bad back either came from that or from crouching too much whilst playing in goal tonight. You decide.

np: Iggy Pop – Wild America (video mix)

September 14 (Tuesday): Cifaretto. Morning. Sara tries to get in touch on MSN. As I walk to work along Layer Road hordes of soldiers with machine guns come stomping along the pavement, my way. The joys of living in Soldier Town.

At work today there is a particular balls up with regards to the year end on a job, which results in almost an Andy v Me incident. I wonder what will become of the fall out, how much blame I will cop and it really stresses me out.

At lunch time I stagger around town with Stevo, trying to avoid spending money.

In the afternoon I call home, call off my usual Tuesday night visit home.

In the evening, once home, I actually manage to get around to doing some writing. I then put on Star Wars: Attack Of The Clones and try to get into it but this one (as opposed to the OK Phantom Menace) genuinely is awful, way too much CGI.

My TV evening is saved however by NY-LON, a show that I have unfortunately avoided but actually turns out to be pretty good.

Thrilling.

np: Goldie – Inner City Life

September 13 (Monday): Gualtieri. Today I awaken from a good night’s sleep. When did I actually go to bed/sleep last night? Whatever time it was, it has proved sufficient. Today there is a feeling of dread applied to this morning, the impending sense of doom has returned and with that, an air of melodrama. Out the window it is a horrible morning, the deepest darkest grey, looking like Hurricane Ivan might be about to perform a detour and pop off for a stop in Colchester.

Sara hasn’t/doesn’t bother to get in touch with me on MSN today. Best leave sleeping dogs to lie and sleep with their bosses. Rightly or wrongly, this morning I am listening to the Smashing Pumpkins. Trust me, before they got big and popular they were actually pretty soothing. I look out of the window and it is absolutely teeming down with rain. Before I leave home, my nerves get shaken as not one but two piles of documents and items fall over from their perches. These are sure fire signs that I should stay in today, I suspect higher powers may be at work.

I manage to leave on time today and as I walk into town, Moyles is on form but he is interrupted by my phone ringing. I answer and it is the guy from Hays asking me how I felt the interview on Friday went. I stutter out some stuff, trying to concoct the kind of stuff I think he wants to hear. He tells me that he will be speaking to Rose today with the hope of getting an answer and that when he does he will get back to me.

I stumble into work before time, being the first of Chernobyl to arrive. Today is a real dry day. I get receive an email from Phoebe, responding to her brush off Friday and she answers “I’m so glad we feel the same�. Except we really do not, she is knocking anything on the head without giving it a try whereas I’m admitting me and her don’t stand a chance because of logistics. Seems I’d be willing to go out of my way for her but she wouldn’t me, she won’t meet me halfway. Her nonchalance annoys me somewhat.

At lunchtime I manage to return to the office from lunch with it empty and I get the chance to call Eva as I said I would. Again she sounds really funny on the phone and an appointment gets suggests for Tuesday or Friday with her telling me that Friday would be better. I agree on this and she begins to ask me what I would like and I feel funny discussing such things over the phone, in such clinical terms. Fortunately at this point Sandip returns and comes in on my conversation so I tell her that I will just have to email her about Friday. It is now cast in stone.

In the afternoon we begin making plans for five-a-side football this week and I text Ben to see if he wants to play, considering half our team are crocked and a bunch of flids. He responds almost immediately with an affirmative.

After work, in the evening, I do a cereal run for grocery shopping, my home eats/diets now mainly consists of Corn Flakes, not least because Kellogg’s have recently been giving away free DVDs with their jumbo boxes. In the past month, I have probably eaten more Corn Flakes than I have in the rest of my combined life. Am I sick of their taste yet? You guess and you bet I am.

For the remainder, the evening is horrible. As a result of Phoebe being the latest lady to blow me out, once more again I feel that all is hopeless and that all is lost. All efforts made once more have been reduced to wasted efforts to get to know somebody and really be part of their life in the pursuit of happiness (or something). Basically, I’m just gutted.

All in all, the great weekend combined with shit love and shit work life exhausts me and I actually forget that tonight I really needed to have a bath. Whoops, instead I just fall asleep clothed on top of my bed.

I actually wake up in time to catch the Sopranos and I watch it in my living room, chilling out and now partially tidy, my lounge area (complete with new big TV) is almost comfortable.

This too shall pass.

np: Superchunk – The First Part

September 12 (Sunday): Lupertazzi. A slow start to a Sunday, were a Sunday done any other way then something would be up/wrong with the world. Today Stevo really wants me to drive the pair of us to Kingsmeadow to see AFC Wimbledon re-enact the 1988 FA Cup Final. After initial promises of a strong turn out of players from that day (especially Jan Molby) I look on the website and the turn out looks/reads fucking pathetic. I blow him out for a day at my parents (hey, they have Sky Sports and Millwall v Ipswich from Portman Road is on there).

The morning turns out to be notable for no Sara on MSN, a blessing in disguise methinks. Instead I settle down to finally watching my Criterion Collection version of Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas on DVD, not least for the BBC documentary on there. I am currently 100% into this film, this existence and form of expression: Hunter S. Thompson is my kind of guy.

Eventually I get off my arse and head to Hereford Road, Holland on Sea to visit mum and dad. I just about make it in time for the kick off of Ipswich v Millwall and the match turns out to be fucking boring and fucking pathetic, with Millwall looking inept and Ipswich, as usual, being the football equivalent of the bumlicking kid at school that got on with the teachers, was semi intelligent (enough to thrive) and good at football (and in the school team). Of course, he was also probably giving a teacher or two a hand and/or blow job behind the scenes. That is just what/how I feel about Ipswich Town Football Club. The game may be crap but Millwall do at least hold their own, snuffing Ipswich out of the game and only having one real shot in the process (from the god-awful Stefan Moore). However, Ipswich predictably knock a couple of goals in during the last ten minutes and win 2-0, the first goals Millwall let in for three games. No further comment needed.

When I first arrived home, no one was home except for the dog. It seems mum and dad are now more intent on moving to Colchester, a pipedream they now seem to be taking seriously. This morning they have been looking at new apartments in a very plush area called Balkerne Heights, any area I would really like a place of my own in actually. So, when they finally get in, they are full of “houses this� and “houses that�, when really I am not all that interested, I don’t think they should be leaving the nice safe haven of Holland-on-Sea actually.

After the Millwall game, I knock about home in a bit of a huff, grunting like Kevin The Teenager, albeit no longer ginger having reached the age of 28! What the hell is wrong with me sometimes? Instead of watching Tottenham v Norwich on Sky with dad (two more football clubs I fucking hate), I instead watch my moody VCD of American Splendor for about the twentieth time. This is a guy (I guess) that is more on my level.

I sat/slum around my parents until late on a Sunday evening and I find myself getting too comfortable, it feels so right and so wrong all at the same time. Hey, I almost find myself considering moving back home (hey, my parent’s house has: food, Sky telly, a dog, comfy sofas, its clean, its roomy).

I further indulge in my state of arrested development when I find myself watching the Wrestling Channel and news programme The Bagpipe Report and I find myself taking the news in and taking it really seriously. Did I never grow up? Also whilst channel hopping, I happen across Love Them Os by Eamon. Dude has gone and sampled I Only Have Eyes For You by the Flamingos and it sounds SO good. The world is really sick sometimes.

My visit home ends with me watching four recent episodes of the Simpsons that I have never seen before and they are all pretty awful, I think my favourite TV show is finally long past its sell by date.

The drive home turns out to be a race, seems all the Clacton boyracers come out on Sundays. Whoops.

np: Eamon – Love Them Hos

Buckingham Palace 2004 

this is THE place to have it 

here be prostitutes 

The New Den as viewed from the train to Peckham 

September 11 (third anniversary Saturday): Blundetto. This morning hurts. My body clock on form, I wake up just past seven and I really need not do this, I need catch up sleep! Today, so much to do, so little time to do it. Things currently feel like they are getting on top of me, it never ends; there is no cure for life.

Procrastination out of the way and an end to too much thinking and I am able to get a move on with today. I do my duties (buy the Saturday newspapers and post an Ebay Gringo CD to Moscow) and I board a train to London at 10.40, only half an hour after originally planned. Today’s plan is to get tickets for Millwall’s first ever UEFA cup match against Ferencvaros and Mark wants to come along for the ride and hang out in the capital. Off the back of yesterday’s bad news, today as per usual I am feeling a tad morose and I figure no better time to go and see the holocaust exhibition at the Imperial War Museum out of morbid fascination and then later on we might add to that watching Super Size Me.

Welcome to the best day that I have had in a very long time.

The train ride happens and I am able to get off my ride at Stratford. As I unboard the train (is that a real term?) I see who I think is the young blonde girl I wound up sitting next to on my English course on Thursday. Was that her? I’m not sure, I just smile and look away just as to not appear totally antisocial/unsocialable. I must appear so weird to some people, especially the young ones but at least I am in London doing stuff.

From the train, I head straight from Stratford to Canada Water to Surrey Quays. Perhaps I should be heading to Tower Bridge and South Bermondsey but this route just seems/feels quicker and more direct. I wonder what I will have awaiting me at the Den; will it be mass queues? Will it take hours to get my ticket? Will I get mugged between Surrey Quays and Den? Regardless, after early threats of rain, today has turned out to be the most beautiful of days.

I arrive at Surrey Quays and nervously make my way through the tower blocks and industrial mess of the Football Factory route to the Den. The legend goes that the bushwhackers got their name from hiding in bushes prior to jumping out and hitting people and there definitely are ample bushes on the way to Zampa Road. Today however, the worst thing I have to face is a group of four pre-school kids playing and two female joggers running under the rail bridge. I am so paranoid at times. When I get the ground, it echoes ruck, the ground sounds like it has people inside, is the ticket queue kicking off from frustration? Maybe there is a training session in/on the ground? There isn’t a reserve game today, they’re generally Wednesdays. Sadly when I arrive at the gates, the entrance from this direction is all locked up and I now know I should have taken the Zampa Road option. I walk around the industrial, seeing parts of Millwall I have never seen before. This is full on industrial estate South London and this looks being like the future of big city football. This could be any industrial estate, anywhere in the country, only difference being there is a fucking great, mod con football ground/stadium smack bang in the middle of it.

When I finally get to the ground, oh my there is hardly anyone about. Where are the queues for UEFA tickets? I check that the ticket offices are open and banging on at the window is some punter from Eastern Europe having it explained to him that he needs to be a Lions member to purchase a ticket to see Millwall v Ferencvaros. When I get my chance to step to the plate, once more I get my mind blown by the rudeness of the seemingly YTS kids that Millwall employ in their ticket offices, it really is like some secret gang runs things. It is obvious he thinks I am an idiot when I ask if there are any tickets still remaining and I think I surprise him when I ask for Block 17. I ask if I can get a second ticket (for Stevo) but the allocation rules (just like the Cup Final) again are a fucking brick wall.

I feel semi smug when I walk away with my UEFA ticket for seats where I want them and done without wasting half the day away. And sadly my glee sees me staggering into the club shop to buy more shit from Millwall, my purchases ending up as being a Cup Final replica home shirt (which I thought were long sold out) and a polo shirt with the old Millwall badge on. Nice.

Job done at Millwall then, I head to South Bermondsey station and back towards to the city with view to hooking up with Mark. When I get the station, I find myself following a very scary looking rough man there that I suspect my enjoy skag. On the platform, I miss the latest train to Tower Bridge by minutes but there is a train immediately approaching going in the other direction towards Crystal Palace (fucking Beagles). The train is heading to Victoria via Peckham and with time to waste, I find myself bang up for some sightseeing, the sightseeing being looking for Del Boy and Nelson Mandela House.

The ride from South Bermondsey to Victoria is fantastic! My love affair with London once more sees me in almost seizures of excitement as I finally get to see Peckham, real London! This all probably sounds utterly dull but seeing these streets humbles me to feeling like a hick from the sticks and I feel gives me a glimpse into real life. Anyone living in London would/will probably see me as condescending and naïve but it’s still exactly exciting. Peckham however tastes plain and then the ride over top of Brixton shows some things never change. As I head towards Crystal Palace and Clapham, there it is, I finally see it; Nelson Mandella House. Now I have since been told that there is absolutely NO WAY that this can be the actual tower block from the TV show but I don’t think you’ll a closer looking one. Ultimately, I think I am right. Why on earth so I fill so much with glee/joy at seeing such a blot on living conditions? Am I getting some quaint-esqe thrill out of it all? Hope not. Whatever, this is some people’s Buckingham Palace. Yeah, fucking nutcases. I would also like to add at this point, Crystal Palace looks fucking rubbish. As I near Victoria and my journey comes to a conclusion, to my right, there it is: Battersea Power Station (as designed by the bod that did the original Tate Modern building). It turns out that I have real fetish for ugly large building that are just recognisable hideous landmarks. What a wanker. Eventually the train ride ends in Victoria but I would so recommend the ride and will definitely be taking it again myself eventually.

I arrive in Victoria feeling something of a lost soul. Victoria has a kind of notoriety for me because of the fact I saw a pro lady here once (back in the day). That was back in 2001 but for some reason I expect/suspect things to have remained the same, I almost expect/fear I might be bumping into Yasmine (aka Chloe Hayek). Who knows? The sun keeps blazing without the suffocating heat and today feels young and fresh. I walk up Buckingham Palace Road and pretty much find myself hurdling over the best dressed people in the City and one hundred and one tourists from Asia and the America. Although the area is vaguely recognisable to me (for dubious reasons), today becomes an exercise in “getting lost on purpose� once more. That is, until I discover/find the place I always intended to revisit (in more ways than one). I walk up Lower Grosvenor Road and wonder just HOW expensive these places must be and then I pass the dingey the door way to the dingey flat I once stepped into on hot August Friday evening excited and frightened to death. The place/area still makes me somewhat nervous. I look up and realise that time has passed so far that I would no longer remember exactly which flat/apartment window it would have been that was open and I looked out on, very cosmopolitantly of course. I walk up and down the street one time and try to recapture memories but fall short, my mind’s eye has so moved on. I wonder if the girl still lives/works/operates here and I would so like to know but would never consider attempting to find out and why. Its sad how some of the most interesting people you meet in your life end up being/participating in it for such a small/short period. I look around and take mental Polaroids for another a day (and a couple of Nokia crap phone pictures) and get a move on before Jason becomes too much of a stalker boy.

Back in the march with the tourists, I find myself wandering along with satisfaction feeling as if the world surrounding me (the one of such great wealth) it just the stuff of a different planet. So generally, as with when in Rome, I find myself becoming a tourist amongst the tourists. Half by accident, I find myself winding up the gates of Buckingham Palace and the building is not half as exciting as seeing what may have been Nelson Mandella House. This is the first time in probably twenty years that I have ever been here and it dawns on me just what a great sacrilicious act it was to see a pro lady so close to where the queen houses herself, high class! Around the palace is the usual swarm/rabble of tourists, which actually surprises me in its volume. More impressive to me, than the palace, however are the statues and the fountains. I walk up the steps and it is here I take a time out, to just chill and people watch. As I sit, looking around suddenly a barrage of motorcycles come flying past the palace on their way to who knows where. And when I say a barrage of bikes, this totals roughly a million of seemingly never ending Hell’s Angels out to police a Rolling Stones concert. Maybe.

Here today is an abundance of Orientals and their apparent enthusiasm for life is so enviable but sadly not so infectious. As I sit pretty much monging (and catching my breath, getting old Jase) the most beautiful little girl (oriental) sits close by to me and her dad takes a photo of her, posing with the palace in the background. Me and him smile at eachother when he picks up his daughter and says to her “when did you get so big�, it was the perfect beautiful moment, immediately I found myself in more than 100% awe of the man, those are the moments I know I want from being a parent and with each day I am more likely to miss out on. In the distance, a fiddle is playing for Jason. Just sitting on the statue/fountain, I find myself the most relaxed I have been in weeks and perhaps the most clear headed and happy, at this point part of me decides that this should always be a special place for me to come and think, especially in its ability to sink in and become anonymous/invisible and be able to just blend with so many different people from different cultures/backgrounds.

Around this point my phone beeps and Mark is getting in touch, suggesting a meet up around 2pm, I tell him that I may as well meet him at Liverpool Street. After about half an hour at the Buckingham Palace fountains, I toss a penny into water, make a wish and make moves towards meeting up with Mark. I walk looking for a tube station, not having any idea of where I am going or where I am headed, desperation almost reaches the point of asking a tourist where to go. Dickhead. I wind up at Charing Cross/Trafalgar Square though and all things are safe as houses as I get ‘Nam-eqse flashbacks of the second City interview I had in the summer.

I eventually get back to Liverpool Street to hook up with Mark but this is not before I get caught up in a tube breakdown between stations which these days just think/fear is the result of some kind of Taliban attack. Whilst sitting patiently on the train I find myself macking some interesting looking prim woman sat opposite me and then I notice some male model looking guy (who may or may not have been somebody) giving me evils in his sandals. What’s all this underground train paranoia about?

Believe it or not, I do actually get back to Liverpool Street and finally hook up with Mark. Immediately we head to the Elephant & Castle and make our way to the Imperial War Museum. After a bit of a walk, suddenly there we are, at the Imperial War Museum faced by two of the biggest guns you will ever see in history. With our minds already blown, we make steps inside. In my youth, I used to be a regular visitor to the Imperial War Museum in Duxford but I have never been to the one in London and it is really an amazing place to visit, really interesting and exciting. Inside we immediately found ourselves faced by all manners of heavy artillery and weapons including a replica of the A-bomb dropped on Hiroshima, which is just mind blowing because the size of bomb is just so small in comparison to all the damage it did. The vehicles are particularly interesting, they are so well kept and I found myself questioning as if they are actually real. At the end of the day however you can give a tank a new paint job but I would imagine it to be next to impossible to accurately recreate the dents.

After milling around we head to the Holocaust exhibition and things become somewhat serious and sombre. It is an amazing exhibition, very emotional and all too easy to get caught up in all the horror. The whole scene really plays on the senses as you find yourself bombarded by image after image and video stories of one of the scariest moments in history. One of the first images you see is Goebbels off on a rant which would be read as sinister even without the background knowledge. Also early on, featured is some literature by Moseley. The exhibition runs chronologically, always showing where the action was occurring at such specific times and personally I learned of the early involvement of Russia which I previously was not aware of. The Night Of Broken Glass period gets covered and leads into stories about concentration camps, where the truth hits home hardest. One of the most staggering items on show is a portion of one of the trains that would have been used to ferry people to the camps and this leads onto a Hornby-esqe model of one of the camps (Auschwitz I think). At this point I become choked when I see the broken belongings recovered, not least sets of broken spectacles which for some reason trigger something in me. Also the other choker items turn out to be recovered toys of children involved in the exodus. Soon afterwards the exhibition ends with the liberation of the camps and we leave the exhibition next to silence having got just what we were expecting in earnest.

We skip quickly through the remainder of the Imperial War Museum, the other main exhibitions currently being war crimes and the secret war, an exhibition on spies and the hidden enemy. We leave the museum and stroll down to the Thames via Kennington Road where I know a Radio One DJ lives. When we eventually make it to the Thames and cross a bridge looking over the Houses Of Parliament from the river’s direction, Mark notes that we are actually really close to the Tate Britain, so we head towards the gallery to give it a peak.

After my experiences at the Tate Modern a few weeks, I enter the Tate Britain a little with reservation but the gallery turns out to be pretty different to the Modern but oddly houses a LOT of modern art which you might imagine be housed in the Tate Modern. The first piece we are hit/met/faced with is Semi-detached by Michael Landy. This is an amazing exhibit which Mark had heard of before and kind of made me feel that I should have also. Anyways, what Landy has done is basically recreated a full size replica inside the Tate of his parents house in Essex, split it into two parts and on the flat/back side of the each house side there is a video wall which images playing an audio track of his father whistling songs on a loop, the most recognisable of these being Danny Boy. The whistling is thoroughly eerie and adds a spooky dimension to the piece, making it feel almost haunted as if there are people/spirits inhabiting the house. There is also a dark background story to his father’s involvement in the piece and how him having to finish his working life being part of Landy’s inspiration. From there we move onto various other modern artists, choosing to completely ditch the old tired “classics�, very rude of us. We spend most of our remaining type checking out the Tracey Emin exhibits. If nothing, the woman is notorious and prolific. On the whole though, I find most of her stuff trite and amateurish/immature. On the wall are scraps from a notebook of her as a teenager pouring her heart out, confused after some kind of indecent assault event. The pages run for about twenty sides of A4 and only the most maschochistic of person will actually bother to take any of it in. Elsewhere on display are rips from one of her notebooks quoting Nirvana songs and doilies by her Gran (surely credited to the wrong person Emin!). With time running away on us and the Tate about to close, Mark and I leave barely having scratched the surface, this really is a place I should return to one day.

Outside, we opt out of getting another train to Trafalgar/Leicester Square, instead choosing to hop on a bus and take in some sights. Eventually a big red bus comes along and we get driven around the Houses Of Parliament and past Downing Street, this really is the greatest place on earth. The bus ends and we get dumped back onto the streets and foot again as we see Nelson’s Column in the distance as we head towards Leicester Square and all the cinemas there.

When we finally reach Nelson’s Column we can see the stage that is being set up for tomorrow night’s Pet Shop Boys live show of them soundtracking a live screening Battleship Potemkin. This place is tourist land a-go-go complete with pigeon shit and wankers driving around the capital in hired limos. We waddle up Pall Mall, past the site of my second City interview from the summer (as mentioned above) and we go up past Haymarket Theatre and finally When Harry Met Sally has gone, which represents yet another thing in my life I would have dearly loved to have done but never did.

We hit a cinema and check on tickets for a showing of Super Size Me and we have just enough time to buy ourselves a McDonalds before sitting down to the movie. We eat in the main Leicester Square branch and it seems like it must be the busiest McDonalds in England but very quick and professional with it. I have no idea what it is I order, a flat bread chicken sandwich? I think it supposed to be part of their new health conscious line but it’s just kind of crappy. I also order one of their “new� cappuccinos and it turns out to be the most pathetic frothy coffee I have ever sampled in my life. Mark seems to enjoy our efforts at trying to recapture our youths but I just don’t seem to manage to get into the vibe, sometimes I really lack enthusiasm and direction. However, as I people watch I see the people leave the booth next to us and two sets of people run to get the seat, each occupying a side of the table. One side is a group of three young pre-teen black girls and the other side is a real obnoxious white guy in his thirties with his mother it seems, grabbing seating before he has actually got their burgers in. I watch as the girls argue with the guy over ownership of the booth and the guy begins to get really arsey and territorial over a McDonalds and soon it becomes obvious he isn’t joking or messing when he is telling the girls to “fuck off�, the guy is a racist bully. Eventually the poor girls, resembling pop group Cleopatra (© Mark Boyle) give up the seats and start whining, with one girl remaining behind giving the guy some final doses of shit. I check with Mark to see if he is done and we get up and give our booth to the girls who begin not singing but SHOUTING our praises saying what “nice people� we are. Its embarrassing as much as it is flattering and funny, dude recognition from the hood! Martin Luther King could not have done it better himself.

After attempting to get me a student discount on my Super Size Me ticket, I wind up paying £8 for a cinema ticket! Super Size Me actually turns out to be pretty entertaining and I find it a lot more enjoyable than Fahrenheit 9/11. I do however make the conscious decision that this will be the last ever documentary I watch in a cinema. Super Size Me starts totally preachy and pretty much maintains that air the whole way through the “movie�. The real big problem with the film is that the centre piece, Morgan Spurlock, is just so fucking smug the whole way through. For a person pointing out the blinding obvious, he seems very proud of himself. But it doesn’t spoil the movie, it only taints it. However when Wesley Willis pops up on the soundtrack with Rock N Roll McDonalds you can’t help but warm to what you are watching. Once Mr Spurlock get into his 30 day binge, things begin to liven up as it becomes something of a minor travelog but things really do get off to a poor start when he makes the biggest meal out of eating a super size, what a fucking pussy vomiting over eating ONE McDonalds meal. As his little martyr continues, I personally found myself looking at the food and licking my lips, if anything, the guy is making an inadvertent advert for McDonalds and as your mind begins to wander out of boredom, you consider whether Ronald McDonald had actually decided to make this film in the first place to put his restaurants into the media (hey, all press is good press). Crunch time appears to occur around day twenty when the doctors/GPs begin to tell Morgan Spurlock he may be about to commit permanent damage to his body, mainly his liver. However by this point, the Jackass sensitive nation our youth culture has now become, I find myself almost cheering the guy on to complete his 30 day marathon even if it is fucking killing him in the process, by this point I have to admit I do not care if Morgan Spurlock dies, I just want to see the man complete his feat. And complete it he does, along with his bitching shit of a vegan chef girlfriend sticking with his arrogant arse all the way. I actually wish some of my “friends� who are PC new agers would try something similar and come close to permanently injuring themselves all in the name of art. Fucking people, go back to eating meat, it doesn’t kill you, just comes pretty close to it. And if the guy wants another McStomach Ache, I’ll happily punch him there, especially if he ever makes another such condescending movie ever again in his life.

On a brighter note, I now have my idea for a reality based, documentary, edutainment movie. So, once I get to borrow a camcorder from somewhere/someone and my parents will pay for my mortgage and living expenses while I make it, coming to a cinema next summer may be Jason Graham: The Movie.

After the film, we fall out onto the streets of Leicester Square, which once more is tourist central and a horrible sight at that. Mark becomes paranoid of pick pockets amongst other things and suggest we get out of Central London FAST! To be honest, I’m in no hurry but in reality there is nothing left to do with today, so I give in and we make moves out of there. Suggestions are made to going to Brick Lane, but I’m not really down with Asian stuff/culture at the moment (for many reasons) so instead we hope off the train at Oxford Street in the hope of finding a Waterstones open at past 8pm on a Saturday night. I have to admit; at times I am not the sharpest tool in the box. Needless to say we don’t find an open book shop (and thus no Christina Rossetti) but there is an open McDonalds on a next to empty Oxford Street and I buy a McFlurry making the latest score: McDonalds Corp 2 Morgan Spurlock 0.

By the time we get back to Liverpool Street, after finally throwing the towel in on the day, we stop off for an urgent Costa coffee. These turn out to be the best coffees in history, a proper cappuccino (as opposed to the McDonalds wannabe) served up by the most bored coffee shop employee in history attempting to make funnies with me and failing. Myself, I fail in my attempts to get the Sunday newspaper for the ride home but Mark prevails and gets his (mine being News Of The World versus Mark’s Observer), so I guess I find myself technically riding the loser train home. After initial blips of Mark getting a bit pissed off by thugs on the train (“he had a knife in his back pocket�) our train ride home is a pretty refreshing and interesting conversation about dating Asian ladies.

Upon arrival back in Colchester, the pair of us are exhausted and next to falling asleep as we get into my car and I drop Mark off and I head home. When I get in though, the movie Heartbreakers starring Jennifer Love Hewitt and others (including Jason Lee) is on. That’s some good movie.

np: A Tribe Called Quest – Award Tour

The last beautiful Friday night sky of 2004 

September 10 (Friday): Sacramoni. Serving hard time. I awaken with no time to sit. Off the back of five hours sleep my aim/requirement today is to pull myself together to today’s return interview at Rose’s. I awaken at 6.52 desiring another four hours sleep, seeing the expired Run Ronnie Run DVD running on my TV. I pull myself together and dude, I look money! I couple this with a very milky cup of Rocket Fuel and I am ready to roll.

I drive to the Business Park with gusto, Moyles playing American Idiot by Green Day and it sounds the best thing ever. The interview is pretty sound. I interview with the Managing Director (I believe) and give good, I find my voice and reign coherently, almost like my old self. It seems to go well.

I tear through Colchester, driving triumphantly listening to Last Splash by the Breeders at earbleeding levels. I arrive at Butt Road for work about 20 minutes late. No one appears to notice. Stevo thinks I have skived off the day and gone to Millwall to get UEFA tickets. As I walk from the car park to the office I check my email and there is one from Phoebe. I read it and it is the inevitable heave ho I eternally seem to receive. It reads: “About the going out thing, I think you are fantastic and I am so happy that you want to spend time with me, but is just that I know you are looking for a girlfriend and I don't want you to waste your time on me, since I am not looking for anything like that at all - sorry. I hope you wont be mad at me.�

Back to square one.

It is becomes a heavy day, the grind that is work these days feels supersized. Bored at work I phone up Mark to see what’s what. Nothing, just the general job hunt on his part. I then phone home and Dad has been made redundant by Sextons, turns out that he has been to work and had an argument with Ernie (the boss) after returning to work did not quite work out. Mum then says that they’re about to have their house revalued, sounds like they’re on the move; the move being suggested is to Colchester. I them complete a hat-trick of phonecalls when I finally sign up for AOL Broadband using some offer they are currently pushing/touting. I feel a mug signing up but I guess once I am viewing broadband porno all will be forgotten.

When I get in from work it is still a priceless evening but nothing is on. I decide to get chips to cheer me up (comfort eating again Jase). When I pop out, there is my neighbour religiously washing his old banger done up Ford Sierra/Mondeo, eager to chat it seems. I wave him off, avoiding the man like the plague.

As I drive through early evening Friday night traffic, via the mean streets of Colchester, I see the new Mecca of the town and its name is Funderworld! A travelling theme park is setting up shop in town for a week or so and it just brings a buzz with it. These sad, pikey, carney types are invading Colchester and all we can do is embrace it. Two words: Springfield and monorail.

As I return from the chip shop, my neighbour remains around and fully collars me. We talk about the politics and ins and outs of Hollytree Court for much too long but at least it is being social and “good neighbours come good friends�. Ho ho. While I’m talking to him, Ben calls up to see if anyone is going out tonight. I don’t fancy it, Mark is busy until late and Chris has an early start in the morning, so it all seems out. Ben is easy to fob off.

Once I finally escape my neighbour’s grips I return upstairs to settle in for another saddo Friday night in. I settle down for more life lessons from Queer Eye and dad logs in on MSN and I ignore him, tonight I really do not want to listen to his woes. I think I am a big big arsehole for having this attitude but some days you just want to bury your head in the sand and not listen to anyone else’s problems other than your own.

The highlight of my evening turns out to be watching Jasper Carrott’s shit sit com (shit com) All About Me about the world view of an teenage Asian Stephen Hawking. How sick is the world that we live in? Again I fall asleep watching Run Ronnie Run. Fever! Sweet dreams.

np: Money Mark – Hand In Your Head

September 9 (Thursday): Rabkin. More early morning MSN and I have Sara going off on one at me, telling me how I am not myself and how I am acting strange and that there is “something up� with me. Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t. Fortunately by the time I leave home for work I have come around and cheered up, mainly due to a very funny episode of Everyone Loves Raymond featuring his wife looking really fit and getting drunk. I stroll into work with Mary J. Blige on the radio and all is bling.

Tonight I begin my English course. I leave around 6.40 and turn up at Wilson Marriage Centre and begin having pulpitations and ‘Nam-esqe flashbacks. Terrifyingly I recognise faces from ten years ago and scarily some of them recognise me. I shouldn’t rag on it but this really is the most depressing building ever known and it obviously means a lot of bad stuff to me.

I arrive and check out where my class is being held and I stroll through the building and find my room. It is five minutes to class time and the door is locked and everything is empty. Another woman wanders around looking lost also so I speak to her and she is on the same course as me. Then things get amusing as Emma Webb turns up. I eventually wave her over and it turns out that she is doing the same course as me, which is both really good and really bad. Start time (7pm) comes and goes and there remains no sign of life. Emma disappears to go look/find out “what gives� on our part and it turns out that the class has been moved and we have missed the beginning. The three of us roll up and stroll in late and redfaced. I hate such embarrassment. The night is a general intro, easing us into the course and just before break we have to do a roundtable introduction of the approximately twenty of us. I look around for honeys and there are a couple but upon introduction they appear to average three kids a piece. There are also a couple of funny looking girls who turn out to be about 16, its scary to think that I am officially twelve years older than these bints. When it comes around to introducing myself I fumble and fail to make funnies, perhaps I am now the token suit (by the end of the evening teacher is referring to me as “the accountant�). I tell her “I am bored and it is all work work work and in accounting there is little room to be creative, creative accounting is kind of frowned upon�. My big joke and silence. Ho ho.

Later we take a learning test on the computers and I/we get further exposed to parts of Wilson Marriage Centre and suddenly it is all coming back. I sit in a room that ten years ago (almost to the day) I was initially stepping out into the world and learning business administration! Loser. At least they have installed new computers now. I tear through the test, being the first in our group to complete it and also teacher tells me “the quickest person to ever complete it�. The test was rudimentary, asking you questions about “what hand you do this with� and “how you read things etc�. I avoid giving any left handed/sided questions as Drew has said left handed means gay. My test results say I learn kinesitically (apparently).

I’m kind of hoping to happen upon a group akin to the ensemble in the TV show Book Group but I really don’t think I will based upon first impressions. The teacher however is fantastic, she completely reminds me of the Illeana Douglas character from Ghost World. And that is passionate.

The lesson ends and Emma has managed to get me a free in at the Arts Centre for the show, which is a real result. I give her lift to the Arts Centre and find myself still able to crack her up with her really loud laugh (hyena babe).

Upon arrival This Ain’t Vegas are playing and I immediately hook up with Chris, perched at the decks (well, CD players). I see Staff also and say “hi�. He seems a bit humpity and it turns out that Kill Yourself have been less than pleasant in their attitude today and this evening. I attempt to drag Mark out to the show but he is knackered and uninterested and at a price tag of £6 you can hardly blame him for a no-show.

This Ain’t Vegas are ok but pretty much emo by numbers. And that is original emo inspired (DC stuff) not what goes for emo these days, which is weak punk bands with sissy boys on vocals. This Ain’t Vegas are perhaps the sort of band that I might have loved five years ago but no longer have the least bit of interest in. A Shudder To Think comparison wouldn’t go a miss and the vocals very much reminded me of the singer from Karate (Farina?) but definitely not the music. This ain’t variation.

Next up are the budged Kill Yourself, originally headliners I think maybe. Apparently so far, they appear to have spent the day rubbing up people the wrong, which is a sure sign of tiredness and fatigue as well as attitude. And it doesn’t help when Chris’s DJing is interrupted by one of the band asking him to stop playing his tracks and play a crummy CD by Itzhak Perlman. Oh yeah, that is real alternative, kill the mood by putting on some wanky high brow music. Alienation is their business. The start their set and it is very much the in thing for now, Lightning Bolt by numbers. I’ve always also felt there is/was a real Oxes element to their music, which is ironic because most people seem to hate that band. Ultimately Kill Yourself seem to be trying too hard, with all the semi stripping off and silly gas mask gimmick. Again, this is a band I would probably have loved five years ago but now, viewed as an adult, its just fucking silly. Kudos.

Somehow, somewhere The Parnell Deception headline and this is about the fourth time I have seen them play this year. Again it sounds like Tool and looks like QOTSA. I spend the majority of the set at the bar talking to Emma, making her and her sister piss themselves with laughter. In between songs, all Parnell Deception can probably hear is their cackling and it must make them feel like Tenacious D. Before the close of their set, I stop being rude and take in at least some of the set and at least the old Colchester scenesters actually seem to put some welly into playing, a singer that actually can sing. I return to the DJ bit and Chris and Sofie have disappeared. I suspect they have gone outside to fuck in the cemetery and when they return back inside the venue sheepishly five minutes, I figure I was right. Towards the climax of the set Colchester’s own Fame Academy stereotype indie gimp can be seen rocking out to what generally can/should be considered an average white band.

After the show we find ourselves privy to some hassle as the guy who did the headliners (local band) sound finds himself arguing the toss over eating some chilli earlier in the evening. Its fucking impossible to see/tell what the actual argument is about because the Arts Centre staff (including Staff) seem really calm about the situation while the pseudo-soundman throws a wobbler. It’s a weird argument and only results in Mr Fiery Top being thrown out of the venue by security. Ho ho.

I give Chris and Sofie a lift home, with Chris wanting to sit in the back with her. Am I officially a chauffeur now? I only really kick up a minor stink because my study books are sprawled over the seat and I just know they’d only get sat on if he parked there. The evening ends with a thud and more Run Ronnie Run.

np: Shellac - This Is A Picture

September 8 (Wednesday): Dante. This morning I emerge from slumber shaken. That night contained a couple of really disturbing dreams, the main regarding my trip to Norwich. In this scenario Heddle decides to come with me, then announces a detour via London in order to drop off his personal car for a holiday trip and then he decides to bring Margaret along as his PA. And all the while he is rushing me along.

Surprisingly Sara is still speaking to me on MSN. Thought after yesterday those days might now be over. Just before leaving for work, I MSN with Phoebe, checking in on this and that, all forgettable stuff but a gesture with regards to keeping spinning plates spinning (if you know what I mean). I am however suggesting again that we meet up, this times suggestion being doing Camden. What exactly it is that we might do in Camden is a complete mystery but gotta do something.

I have the fear, my stomach is permanently twisting in knots. And I don’t know why.

When we get into work, all the drama getting the books back to Directflight remains until Seymour just cuts through all the bullshit (as he often does) and just says “we’ll get it couriered�.

For the remainder of the day I feel hyped at work and don’t really speak/talk. I receive a phonecall from Hays and get confirmation for my call back interview at Rose’s set for Friday morning at 8.30. Bonza.

When I return back over the road, there is the eternally hilarious sight of Heddle sat in/at Seymour’s desk larging it. Is he eyeing up jumping in his grave? It certainly looks that way when Mr H pumps out apparent additional authority.

Mid morning, I find myself talking to Chris Taylor about affairs in/on/about Great Holland that mum told me about the other day. And it is with reference to a family called the Gilberts that used to be the bad news family in my village when growing up and the current tales with regards are nothing less than what you would expect from them. I’ve found myself thinking about them a bit lately because the “Out My League Girl� who works in Wellington House looks like one of the daughters (is this the source of my perverse attraction to a girl who used to bully me?). Our conversation is lengthy and it makes me appear clued up as Mr Taylor tells me about what is planned for/with the close pub that the family lives in and how the community is getting involved in preventing one of villages prominent structures from being turned into residential flats. Taylor appears to knows all the legalities and ins and outs of the dispute, which sounds infinitely more interesting than the financial dealings of being a white bread accountant (such as I).

In the aftermath of the working day, I wait late to make a phonecall to Eva in Cambridge. Unfortunately however Stevo (all banged up and bandaged still) seems also intent on staying late. When I eventually get to call her up, her voice sounds insane and I sound like am a total pussy. She asks me if I can see her tomorrow in the daytime. Nope, so she tells me to call her back Monday.

When I get in I find Phoebe’s response to MSN to my suggestion of hooking up in Camden, her response being “yeah sure but are you sure?�. Oh dear, trouble in paradise.

Again, on a Wednesday night, there is thankfully no five-a-side and Ben calls me up and manages to talk me around, into going to the pub to watch England on telly. Initially I don’t really fancy but I am easily talked around and we head to the Wig & Pen in an attempt to relive Euro 2004 (would have gone to Yates but no football in there sadly). The Wig & Pen actually turns out to be shockingly quiet, I guess England v Poland isn’t the biggest of crowd pullers. It actually winds up being a real good night, Ben and I talk through the match and don’t really pay much attention as we win. During the game I phone home to check on how Dad did on his first day back at work (in over 18 months), OK it seems. The game plods on and England pull off the win while Ben points out Colchester United’s Steve Hunt in the pub stood behind us.

After the game we get chips and eat them like pikeys in my car (generally a real total no no by me). As we do so, James Warner wanders past and I really should have asked him how he/they did in their five-a-side league match tonight. Nevermind.

Once home, really really late I receive a text message from Staff asking me if I want to DJ at the Kill Yourself show tomorrow night. I can’t as I’m starting my English course tomorrow so instead I suggest that Chris do it. Nice.

I go to bed watching Run Ronnie Run.

np: Beastie Boys – Boomin’ Granny

September 7 (Tuesday): I awaken with a bump this morning. MSN with Sara is really short, really close and really curt. I get the impression she doesn’t appreciate my smart-ass comments and calling her boss Ronald McDonald.

This morning I actually manage to leave for work on time (albeit in a mood) and equally arrive for work on time, being first to arrive at Chernobyl. Emma is back in our office today but now things feel kinda awkward around her.

All in all, today is a complete nightmare/disaster. I arrive at working praying for abduction, either by aliens or kidnappers, I’m not fussy just eager to move/leave.

I get a nod in the right direction when Hays phones me up to ask me how the interview on Friday when. I talk my way through it quite well and cross my fingers.

Today is stressful, it appears everyone wants me to be their runaround. What am I, still a fucking office junior? First of all it is the latest balls up with regards to Colne Careforce, yup that’s a Heddle job. Pressure is applied to me to drive over to Mersea to get a back and/or information that can just as easily be emailed or faxed to the office, in a non-luddite office/environment/world. Sometimes I appear to be working in accountants office straight from Planet Of The Apes.

Lunchtime is lame. I wind up trailing around with Stevo, Stevo who is eager to buy Bob Dylan CDs. The poor bastard is grimacing all hour, he is still in real pain.

I hear some news about work today, apparently Heddle and Griggs have bought some of Barlow’s share and Drew reckons this additional vested interest is why Heddle is now acting with an added sore head, derived from additional investment which Drew believes has come from further financing. Personal opinion, the practise is not the best investment, its not going out of business but at the same time I doesn’t appear to be going anywhere else.

In the afternoon I become runaround boy part 2. Directflight, a client who has appeared to have done nothing but fuck us around as of late, telephones and requests that we return their books. They are based in Norwich and immediately it is decided that I am to drive all the way up there to drop off a box of records and drive back. I’m a fucking accountant not a courier lacky. Unfortunately this all comes off the back of Griggs handing me back a job to make weak adjustments on urgently. I know my nose is nowhere as big as his but it is kind of knocked out of joint anyways. The annoying thing here though is that it is Stevo who stitches me up on this one, running whining to the partner when I explain I am a bit busy to be a skivvy. He does that sometimes, especially to me because he knows he can get away with it.

Late afternoon Hays telephones again and I have been asked back to the place (Rose’s) for a second interview on Friday. Yes!

Five o’clock arrives and not before time. The end of today comes as a great relief. When I get in I want to MSN Phoebe but her status is set to “be right back�. I wait for her to “be right back� but instead she signs. Bye bye. Instead I bag up my clothes and head home via Tesco to buy some video tapes where I bump into Danny from football to whom I am accidentally/inadvertently rude. I suck.

At Tesco I use the shitty new self service checkout. Surely this isn’t going to catch on? Its fucking terrible. How lazy are the employees of Tesco going to get? I buy my videocassettes and the change shoots out like change at Clacton amusements. I can’t find however where my note change has come out and this little prick kid shouts at me “you’ve left your fiver behind mister� and his fat fucking oath bovine mother goes “I’ll have it if you don’t want/need it�. And people why wifebeating is on the rise? In the words of Sam Kinison “I don’t condone it but I understand it�.

The race home is a breeze but arrival at home is hard. Here’s the latest: Dad is going to work tomorrow. What the fuck? If Dad starts up work again full time at Sextons it is going to kill him. It seems he never actually expect to go back to work with Sextons, seems mum has thrown out all his work clothes, his hard hat, his boots, his lunchbox etc.

Mum then tells me that she has put a scratch in their brand new car. Bloody hell, its just one thing after another with our family, I don’t think they’ve even had that car a month yet! And she is being sneaky, not telling dad, not trying to give him a heartattack which is surely coming.

I escape into escapism. On Sky is GAEA wrestling on The Wrestling Channel which is Japanese women wrestling. I am so smit.

I actually fall asleep before the beginning of The Sopranos, which ultimately kind of defeats the purpose of coming all the way over to watch it (and put it on video), tonight’s episode being the fifth of the series.

I drive home, a late one, listening to Mark Radcliffe who has that crap crackpot Julian Cope on his show. It is a true pleasure to be listening to Radcliffe once more in the late night slot, it just means something to me, the ability to lazily slip back into reminiscing about a time supposedly so good for me (when it actually wasn’t).

When I get in, B is online and has tried to get in touch on MSN. I check-in and we labour on MSN until one in the morning, myself also writing in the process.

np: Led Zeppelin – Immigrant Song

September 6 (Monday): As per usual the day starts with some drizzle of MSN with Sara. I wake up with one hell of a headache and a real desire for a McFlurry. I procrastinate about MSNing Phoebe when she comes online but realise that it has to be done, we have not communicated since Thursday which is so bleak. A real bonus though, she actually emails me before I leave so I just jump in and MSN her. This is the first time I have had the latest version of MSN Messenger so I can see she has an Edward Hopper picture on her desktop still. Awesome. She comments on my photo, the one of me studying last November looking like a child, and says she likes the pic. Our exchange is a little laboured but at least it is touching base. I don’t think this is going anywhere but its not for want or desire, it just isn’t happening.

What it is/does though is makes me late for walking into work. A walk parallel to a beautiful woman I have never seen walking Butt Road before but what can I do about it? When I arrive at Chernobyl, the door is locked but someone has been home. Seconds after I arrive (about five minutes late) Seymour comes over and asks where everyone is, almost definitely clocking our combined lateness. I am aloof in responding to him, I am trying to catch a glimpse of the latest Butt Road babe. He mentions that Emma is working over the road, ok its now been noted by him and I suspect this will/can only rub off badly on us three. Oh well, nevermind.

In the evening BBC2 repeats The Office special from Christmas. It still is fantastic, Ricky Gervais is one of the great men of our times. Sort of. Beyond that is the usual showing of series five of The Sopranos, which I have already seen through too many times.

np: Oasis - Columbia

September 5 (Sunday): This morning I awaken still pissed off over last night. That can’t be good. Its Sunday morning so here comes the usual ritual of talking to Sara by MSN at work all morning. Here comes more dirt, it appears she has spent all weekend with her boss, which is exactly just what I do not want to hear. I tell her she’s headed to a Swimsuit Issue, which is actually me trying to be smart. She also whines to me that she still loves Jay Jay. Whatever. Time seems ripe however to enquire into that and just why it ended. She strings it out but ultimately it sounds like lies. In her words, “Leave it Jason�.

Today is utterly beautiful, perfection; there is still some life in Summer 2004 left. I text Mark to see if he is doing an “outdoor activities� today. He immediately phones and says he is headed to Walton with Jeremy. He invites me but they’re catching the train there which seems an utterly pointless waste of time to me and to be honest, I just used to live in Walton so it doesn’t really hold too much interest for me in earnest. I laugh it off but as soon as I do I suspect I should really have gone with. Nevermind.

Eventually I manage to get out, to do a newspaper run. I walk into town like a zombie, poorly dressed with semi bedhead. Oh yes, I’m a catch today. And a total car crash, part chav, part pikey and all parts being the bad parts. Enough self-depreciation already!

I try to face, re-arranging my house today (both mentally and physically) but it is all a bridge too far and when I manage to clear off my smaller sofa facing my big TV, all I achieve is curling up in/on it and sleeping for part of the afternoon.

At 5pm a real gust of energy captures me and I get caught in the wave of really pulling out a full on surge of tidy. This coincides with What About Bob on TV so maybe I find myself inspired by Bill Murray’s OCDs (obsessive compulsive disorders, dummy).

By the evening, I have made a pretty good dent in my flat and despite the fact it now looks more untidy than previously, I have at least filled up about five bin bags.

In the evening Rush Hour is on BBC1 and I spend the whole movie debating as to whether Jackie Chan is a genius or if he is a movie virtuoso. I also spend way too much of the film trying to work out whether the band guys are speaking Cantonese or Mandarin and waiting for the Henry Rollins version of War to come on. Have I forgotten how to have fun watching a movie?

From there I clean up my body but not my flat and hit a bath running hoping not to miss too much of Jerry Maguire (what the fuck is my problem, all I seem to do these days is watch movies on TV). I get to see the beginning of Jerry Maguire and for about the fourth time I fall asleep at the exact same point. What is wrong with me? No, really? Maybe I should have watched American History X on BBC2 instead and got me some cheesy Nazis.

I sleep, I really need sleep.

np: The Strokes - Someday

September 4 (Saturday): Blah. Despite not getting to sleep until 2 AM, I still manage to wake up at 7 AM. I hate my body clock. Early on MSN beeps and it is Greg Kitten of all people saying “hi�. Then Dad begins to chat on MSN and this morning it begins to prove a real nuisance. Eventually I get let out and am able to do the paper run. This morning I can’t be bothered to pay for all three newspapers so I slip The Sun and the Daily Star inside The Guardian and just pay for The Guardian because I feel like it. I pop into town and buy DVDs because I appear to have an addiction to it. I am currently on an oriental kick (for obvious reasons) and I buy Spirited Away (on Phoebe’s recommendation) and Akira (just because).

When I get back, soon I have B hitting me on MSN again. We begin chatting around 12.30 and don’t finish until around 4.30, it’s a good innings/session. She hooks up a webcam to her MSN and gets me to upgrade my copy of Messenger and about 45 minutes later there I am watching her over the internet. It is mind-blowing and fantastic. And B looks awesome, still so pretty. I get a real kick out of seeing her reaction everytime I make a funny and I genuinely make her laugh and smile. Her attention is good enough to stop me from watching Northern Ireland v Poland on TV. Right or wrongly, it feels like there is a spark there as before. The session goes a bit pear shaped when she attempts to make our conversation a three-way, bringing in some codger from London. No fun.

The main plan for today is to go see Dodgeball and arrangements get made so that me, Ben, Chris and Sofie go see the early evening showing (although no one actually bothers to pre-book tickets). I pick Ben up and head to Chris’ where things are lethargic as fuck while time is cutting fine, personally I feel we really should be getting moving instead of sitting on our arses drinking beer. Nevermind. And then when we finally get moving Sofie disappears, down the road to pick flowers. What’s going on?

Despite my flapping, we get to the film in time and get tickets easy. I would be red faced about this had I not internalised it anyway. We take our seats, next to a couple of pissheads (ha ha, Chris gets to be the lucky to sit next to them) and get to see the mandatory old duffer trip up on the steps and drop all her popcorn. I know its wrong to laugh but why else would they call it a pratfall?

The trailer watch features Anchorman not looking all that good, Collateral sounding/looking awesome due to its usage of a great Alice In Chains song during the trailer and the clip for Alien Vs Predator makes it look the greatest movie ever made. Once we are through those messages, Dodgeball actually turns out to be kind of disappointing. Its not that it is bad, it’s just that it is not really good either, the film can just be described with/in the term “it’s all right� and that’s about it. Vince Vaughan as usual is likeable, even if he has really let himself go, Ben Stiller is stupid and over the top but that is what he does and Rip Torn is his usual gruff self. And that’s about it sadly. Then again Old School bored the tits off me last time I watched it.

We emerge from the cinema and England have only just managed a 2-2 draw in Austria. All early reports blame errors on the part of David James and, with the benefit of hindsight; it is pretty obvious that someone at the Football Association has asked him to literally take to a dive with view to making life slightly sticky for Sven-Goran Erection. Bung.

After the film, it is time for the big hoo ha that is Chris introducing Sofie to Lucy and all the other Hole hags, something that has been turned into a really nauseating ceremony by now. By this prospect, Sofie is rather nervous to say the least and you can hardly blame the poor cow. At this point however Ben ditches us, resigning/relegating me to the position of gooseberry (oh great, that three person dynamic yet again). I desperately try to call Mark out to even up numbers but he has been up to London today, to the Tate Modern and the last day of the Edward Hopper exhibition. (stage of date 1 with Phoebe, ah good times). The three of us go to the Playhouse and I really don’t want to be there but for some reason I really feel obliged to show my face and do my part for the team. Why? The three of us sit downs for drinks (me Coke, off the booze just when I need it most) and the conversation is flat (not least from me). Quickly I become the spare wheel as Chris and Sofie go into their usual/general/OTT PDAs, which always is a recipe for awkwardness. This does however get noticed and I soon I am brought back into conversation but I just feel too alien tonight to fully participate with whole heart and I only flounder. Things however take a real dip when Sofie begins telling me where I am going wrong with girls/ladies/women and kind of accuses me of trying to manipulate the ones I try it on with. No, that’s game (which I am obviously not too hot on). It actually really fucking pisses me off that someone I have only ever spoken to twice, is telling me so much about me. The night seems to end for me here, mood ahoy.

We leave the Playhouse and head to the Hole In The Wall but I drop out at this point, very pissed off. Hungry, I speed to the kebab shop on North Station Road and get a good one, gobbling it up very quickly once I get home. When I get in, Bella is STILL on the fucking internet and I talk to her for a bit but ditch her to watch the John Travolta Scientology movie (Battlefield Earth?) on TV, which I only have on DVD anyways (does this make me a Scientologist? I definitely would be if I could afford it).

np: Enon – Leave It To Rust

September 3 (Friday): Das Bus. To begins with the morning moving very slowly. Why do I feel so low? I get ready and just about manage to leave by 8.00 in order to get the interview at Rose Calendars on time. I worry about the traffic but on the whole I am travelling against it, it going in the other direction. I manage to find the place on the business park pretty easily and I arrive almost ten minutes early. The company is opposite an old client I used to visit at W&D and do their annual stocktake on June 30 each year. It was in fact the client I visited the morning that B and I went to look at 16 Hollytree Court with the estate agent. And then I see Capita around the corner and just know that that is where Sarah from hell works. Small place Colchester.

I do the interview and again it is not one of my best, where on earth was my spark? I go in with my voice dry and find myself unable to speak, commanding an authorative (or even adult) voice/tone. The man interviewing me though is very likeable, physically he is a combination of Gerard Houllier and Elvis Costello and he talks the hind legs off a donkey about calendars. The interview seems to go well, I think I ask good (if not the right) questions but do fail to get my personality across (which Stevo later tells me is a good thing).

When I finally get into the office (9.45 without excuse) it turns out that Emma has chosen to move out of our office and sit over the road, in my own office. “What? The really nice office?� I hear you ask. Her apparent moving out of the office gets taken very personally by Stevo. Apparently she did say “it’s nothing personal� but Stevo does add, after my couple of months of smart comments in that direction “you are a good judge of character�. All in all though it disgruntles the office and makes us wonder just what is up, smart comments ahoy occur.

At lunchtime Stevo drags me and Sandip to Edwards when really I don’t want to eat out and can’t really afford. It’s a pointless exercise and I say next to nothing whilst macking some ladies from Wellington House.

In the afternoon I speak to Chris (who is now back in town with Sofie in tow) and he offers to cook tonight (Mexican) and suggests that I come over before we hit the town. Good call. I manage to talk Mark along also and get him in.

After work, I tear home and head to Chris’s. On the way I pick up Mark and his mum tells me I have lost weight (again). Word. We get to Chris’s and the food he has made/prepared is fantastic, enchiladas and more, it tastes fantastic, cooking is Chris’s real gift.

Eventually we pull out and head to town, leaving Sofie behind (her choice) and picking up Ben in the process. Initially we head to the Hogshead which is its normal heaving self on a Friday night. We bump into Mark’s brother Steve and knock about with him etc for a while. I find myself taken aback by an amazing looking Asian girl hanging out in Steve’s group but I never get an in (yeah right, as if I’d do anything). We sit outside and it is comfy but Chris seems kind of eager to go to the Hole In The Wall for reasons unknown to the rest of us. We do however all head over there for him (at this point we almost lose Mark to the evening but I manage to talk him into remaining because I know he will be able to talk me out of the Arts Centre later on). We get to the Hole In The Wall and it is pretty much empty, which for a Friday night is pretty inconceivable regardless of how doggy and horrible the place actually is. We wind up sitting outside (not too cold yet Mr Nature) and we run out the rest of the evening with yuks and (surprisingly) good conversation. Closing time occurs and crunch time arrives. All good things come to an end, I manage not to get talked into going to the Arts Centre with Ben and Chris (although immediately upon leaving for home I get pangs of guilt and feelings of missed out pleasure).

When I get in, there is an Oasis documentary on Channel Four about Definitely Maybe being ten years old. The documentary is awesome or at the very least manages to make early Oasis (look/sound) awesome. Which at the time, I remember them being.

B pops up on MSN and we wind up the evening talking bollocks until 2AM.

np: Oasis – Slide Away

September 2 (Thursday): Pinned. In general today is a slow start, I squeeze a little MSN with Sara but not much. This morning I come with a little gusto, to the point that I am singing Without Me by Eminem and emphasising the ME. I suffer some deflation though when Phoebe doesn’t bother to reply to my email.

Today I am scheduled to have an interview with some company on the business park at 5.30. I get dressed up in my bests (white shirt, bright tie) and get pumped for the ordeal in the evening. Unfortunately early on in the day, Andy from Hays telephones me to tell me that the interview can’t happen this evening. The interview gets rescheduled for tomorrow but now I can no longer wear my bests! That’s the problem with first impressions, you only get to make them once.

During the morning Heddle asks me how my last session last week went with the good doctor. I respond “not well� when I really I feel like rant and raving about how much I talked about work in, especially the detail in which I/we discussed our run in last week. Instead though, I’m a good guy, I whimper and do not rock the boat.

This is the morning though that I discover you can get Google on GPRS/WAP. Information ahoy. At lunchtime I wander around town aimlessly with Stevo, avoiding splashing out needlessly on eating out.

In the afternoon, I check my email for any sign of life from Phoebe and out of the blue, Bella randomly emails. We exchange a few emails and the old fluids get running. She asks me if I am ever on MSN (“am I ever!�). False hopes ahoy.

In the afternoon you find us chipping in for a present for Katy’s wedding, the wedding the majority of the company/firm has not been invited but that is ok. However the collection is being joyfully done by someone (Janine) that has been invited to the do, so you can kind of see why she has a vested interest in doing so.

On TV in the evening is a drama called The Hamburg Cell which is a fictionalised account of the story of one of the suicide bombers from September 11. It turns out to be really boring after promising so much and I eventually slip into distraction, with all my concentration going on MSN but really I cannot and do not see the point in trying to humanise such individuals. Regardless of their backgrounds and circumstances, these people still fucking hijacked and flew aeroplanes into the twin towers.

After a real evening, late on B pops up online and through MSN says “no time like the present�. We catch up for a bit and MSN well past midnight. Initially if feels fun but also laboured, this is walking on eggshells stuff. Nice to touch base though, even if it does feel like a complete waste of time and energy.

np: Eminem – Without Me

September 1 (Wednesday): Road Warrior. With the best of intentions, here goes with the latest set of new month resolutions. The morning begins lightly, I awaken shattered as per usual but optimistic. The hell period of summer that generally tends to turn me stir crazy has passed on it seems and now good times lie ahead. The first of September, the first day of the rest of my new year.

Routine remains in place as I MSN with Sara and we both reminisce about Christmas after I expound the virtues of entry in autumn. She tells me that she would like to come back to England for Christmas because it is just not the same in Dubai and we share memories and idealisms of why we both appear to love Christmas, it is a shared experience. And a shared experience that makes me late leaving for work and subsequently late arriving for work, my bad.

Just before I leave home I get an email and its from Phoebe, I don’t stop to read, I leave it to read it at work. I read it on my mobile and its all good. Stevo actually beats to work this morning (whoops) but I’m chilled on entry to Chernobyl anyways, today’s tedious link on Chris Moyles is Learn To Fly by Foo Fighters.

I only appear to work half the morning, the rest is spent trying to piece together my life from the past three years (the first half of 2002 is a complete and utter blank). Stevo is a one armed rabbit, rabbiting on all morning and occasionally coughing a cough that sounds like a billy goat. The guy is pure comedy.

Work wise I continue on South Park Brickwork and it whiles away the hours, getting the day out of the way.

Luckily, this week we have not been able to pull together enough people to play five-a-side so this week it has been called off due to Stevo’s shoulder problem and Ivan’s knee taking a knock so in the evening, it is a Wednesday snorer where I am able to do nothing and lap it up.

Thankfully again there is no football this week, so I settle into a snorer evening which ultimately does see me at a loss. Yes, I am bored. On TV is Raiders Of The Lost Ark which I half watch while I half sleep and half live my life.

np: Papo Vazquez – Baila Piena (Off World remix)

August 31 (Tuesday): Allnighter. A second night of horribly disrupted sleep comes to an end with my alarm rudely waking me up. I stagger out of bed and my back is absolutely caning, I’m a total raspberry. I have the best intentions to get to work early today but I fail to live up to my part as the morning occurs with a drag. I hear Phoebe log on MSN and am tempted to say “hi�, wondering why she has not been in touch all weekend. In the end I decide to not tempt fate, instead I end up tempting fate.

I walk into work listening to Moyles, getting back into routine again hits me hard. As I approach Chernobyl, walking opposite is Out My League girl. She looks at me with her usual contempt and it drives me wild.

The day in the office is another real snorer. I pick up South East Brickwork and I decide it should be really called South Park Brickwork. Actually, to be honest, a lot of the accounts work has been done its just the bank that has not been maintained, so I set about reconciling the bank, trying to incorporate their records meaning I am doing it the hard way. Oh, the exciting life of the accountant.

Stevo brings his laptop in today and spends a good portion of the day adding sound effects to our movements. For example, when we leave the office and shut the door: the sliding door noise from Star Trek.

At lunchtime I buy my course books for my upcoming English AS course. Surprisingly Waterstones has all three books: the text book, the Anita Shreve novel and the Christina Rossetti poetry book. I snap them up immediately and start/begin to build up enthusiasm for the upcoming classes.

In the evening I hope fairly swiftly, in time to speak to Phoebe on MSN. She tells me she is down and that she has some skin rash/allergy at the moment. I tell her it is just “a blot on perfection� which people later tell me is/was a very cheesy thing to say but I think it is actually a really nice thing to say. Still, I think I manage to cheer her up and make her laugh, telling her that it is probably nowhere near as noticeable as it feels.

I fly home to my parents and do my bit, eat their food and watch their Sky. My trip is fleeting, it is fun.

When I get home in the evening, it is still a beautiful summers night. Outside the air is still warm and I am able to sleep the night with my window open. I hear some shouting and wonder if it is (there are) herberts outside in the Hollytree car park Upon further investigation it is a proper domestic going, hell for leather. They are having a right go at eachother but I’ll be damned if I can make out what the domestic is about, although at one point I do hear a barrage of the word “her� and something about a mobile phone. Midnight hits and it doesn’t sound like they are going to quit any time soon, I actually begin to fear it may spill out into the car park.

All in all though, it doesn’t really bother me. I stand with my arms crossed leaning out of my window trying to eavesdrop and I look out on the Colchester night sky and all the lights flickering in the distance. I love this view and I love these moments, very rarely these days do I feel so alive that at midnight I am still full of life and energy. I settle down stuff and send an email to Phoebe telling her about the domestic and how great and cosy I feel within my apartment, on my own in the best of all worlds, I think maybe this is the contentment that Miller had all his life.

Eventually the Police actually turn up outside but it is a while after voices stop slinging and things have calmed down, with the witching hour arriving.

I sit down to the beginning of the month and on the TV is Hasselhoff acting out as Nick Fury in the crap adaptation of the Marvel comic. That man fucking sucks.

np: Wu Tang Clan – M.E.T.H.O.D. Man

August 30 (bank holiday Monday): The Last Laugh. What a nightmare, I wake up around 4 AM and find myself unable to get back to sleep, what a surprise. Attempts to get back to slumber I find are thwarted by over thinking, churning up my mind and resulting in worry. I sought external stimulation with which to distract my mind and send me to sleep. In the end I plum for Lost In Translation, probably the slowest movie known to man.

Around 5 AM Phoebe Canada hits me on MSN with “knock knock� and I give up on sleep. I tell Phoebe I am suffering from insomnia and she says she is likewise and we should have a “mutual bitchfest� with eachother. Seems I do a good job and manage to send her to sleep. So now here I am left in the early hours wide awake so I hit Sara on MSN, which is much appreciated on her part…..not. Outside the sun is rising and it is still silent. Very rarely am I ever awake at this hour, the rare exception being Christmas morning, so perversely there winds up being an air of Christmas morning to the day.

I spend most of the day on MSN with Sara. Always a pleasure, never a chore. And the rest of the day is intended to be spent putting my flat (read as life) straight. This does not however happen. Instead however I discover My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé. What a great show!

Today is also an exercise in getting my finances straight and I spend a lot of the morning (and some of the afternoon) trawling through invoices, receipts and credit card statements. It is really important that I get my finances straight now in the light of having to spend so much on revision courses. And I have fucked up and mis-recorded my Mint credit card balance at some point. Ouch, suddenly there is an additional £500 out of thin air to add to the £500 plus in revision fees to add to an already bulging credit card debt. Job done and ouch, my credit card debt has now flown over £7,000. More eye-opening though is that I total up my twelve credit cards and I find I have instant access to £30,000 less change. It is good that I am so responsible then (ha fucking ha).

And it being a bank holiday, it is movie heaven on TV with Disney’s Treasure Island, Bedknobs and Broomsticks and Breakfast At Tiffany’s all on during the daytime. How is anyone supposed to get up off their fat arses when TV is just so good? Likewise in the evening, who can be arsed to actually go out or anything when What’s Inside Frank Sinatra’s Coffin is on TV followed by The Sopranos.

Problem with square eyes coming my way.

np: Pavement – Carrot Rope

August 30 (bank holiday Monday): The Last Laugh. What a nightmare, I wake up around 4 AM and find myself unable to get back to sleep, what a surprise. Attempts to get back to slumber I find are thwarted by over thinking, churning up my mind and resulting in worry. I sought external stimulation with which to distract my mind and send me to sleep. In the end I plum for Lost In Translation, probably the slowest movie known to man.

Around 5 AM Phoebe Canada hits me on MSN with “knock knock� and I give up on sleep. I tell Phoebe I am suffering from insomnia and she says she is likewise and we should have a “mutual bitchfest� with eachother. Seems I do a good job and manage to send her to sleep. So now here I am left in the early hours wide awake so I hit Sara on MSN, which is much appreciated on her part…..not. Outside the sun is rising and it is still silent. Very rarely am I ever awake at this hour, the rare exception being Christmas morning, so perversely there winds up being an air of Christmas morning to the day.

I spend most of the day on MSN with Sara. Always a pleasure, never a chore. And the rest of the day is intended to be spent putting my flat (read as life) straight. This does not however happen. Instead however I discover My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé. What a great show!

Today is also an exercise in getting my finances straight and I spend a lot of the morning (and some of the afternoon) trawling through invoices, receipts and credit card statements. It is really important that I get my finances straight now in the light of having to spend so much on revision courses. And I have fucked up and mis-recorded my Mint credit card balance at some point. Ouch, suddenly there is an additional £500 out of thin air to add to the £500 plus in revision fees to add to an already bulging credit card debt. Job done and ouch, my credit card debt has now flown over £7,000. More eye-opening though is that I total up my twelve credit cards and I find I have instant access to £30,000 less change. It is good that I am so responsible then (ha fucking ha).

And it being a bank holiday, it is movie heaven on TV with Disney’s Treasure Island, Bedknobs and Broomsticks and Breakfast At Tiffany’s all on during the daytime. How is anyone supposed to get up off their fat arses when TV is just so good? Likewise in the evening, who can be arsed to actually go out or anything when What’s Inside Frank Sinatra’s Coffin is on TV followed by The Sopranos.

Problem with square eyes coming my way.

np: Pavement – Carrot Rope

August 29 (Sunday): Crisis In The Love Zone. Panic, my parents are coming to my flat today so it is emergency stations and a full makeover of my flat is required. Yeah, that will happen.

I begin the slog around 8 AM, luckily I awake without the headache (pre-hangover) I was struggling against last night. Soon enough though, Sara is hitting me on MSN from work in Dubai. Needless to say this disrupts my flow and soon after the usual telling me “how much more better it is in Dubai� she begins telling me how good she is at giving relationship counselling. Whatever, “give me some then� is my big mistake. For my sins I get: “my advice to you is this: you have no problem meeting women and establishing good friendships with them. You have no problems in being friends with a woman, its when you develop feelings for the woman that you cant handle. You do one of two things: 1. Become nasty and start being viscous about them. 2. Become obsessive about them. What you need to do is have more confidence in yourself, carry on being their friend but advance romantically lightly (as you have done with phoebe). BUT make it known that you have feeling for the person concerned. You also have to stop this "all women are bitches" at the end of the day thing. Its wrong. If you get rejected then dont bad-mouth the woman it will just give her more reasoning as to why she was right to reject you as she will find out what you have said. Dont get too drunk in the presence of a woman you like if you are in a bad mood you can be nasty.� And then she goes “listen, im going to text some thing ok� and I receive a multi text going “I slept with my boss on Thursday night, we didnt have sex or anything like that but i don’t know what to do, he is out of country for a week which is good but he said we should be each others ‘bootie call’ you can comment back on msn but i couldnt tell you story as it goes on our server�.

Grief, it is barely midday, my parents have not arrived and I feel exhausted and want to go back to bed. Ultimately though, at the end of the day it is easier for a fat girl to get laid than a fat bloke.

All things stop to watch Amir Khan in the Olympics boxing final. Unfortunately however my parents turn up pretty much on the crack of midday and I don’t even get to see the little bitch box his way to a silver medal (in other words, lose).

I find it one of the most stressful things going to have my parents around my apartment, around my home. On cue, mum will begin cleaning the bathroom and/or kitchen whilst dad will begin immediately making DIY suggestions and the pair of them will be criticising the whole while. About a minute after they arrive I suggest we go out for lunch, I really have not been able to sufficiently paper up the cracks with regards to sorting the flat. My fear of my parents making discoveries in my flat comes over as attitude from me to them making the whole visit and icy affair to say the least, I look at my father on my couch and he looks so fucking angry at me.

I manage to drag them to a place called Old King Coel which is part of the Hungry Horse chain, so it is far from the high brow chow I have recently become accustomed to. The meal (my treat) actually chills everyone out and we begin to enjoy ourselves, actually beginning to act like sociable adults to eachother. I have a really great lasagne and dad has a pretty good peppered steak and for a meal for three just over £20, it is really really good food. The meal ends up being thoroughly enjoyable and when we leave, we part on very good ways/terms.

The remainder of my day is a typical snorer Sunday. I mildly attempt to finish off tidying my flat but then I (probably) get looking at porno on the internet and Popbeach 2004 on T4 featuring all kinds of pop (which ultimately isn’t that different to porno either). Just before teatime, the movie The Swarm comes on and it was once the most frightening film I had ever seen. Today however, it is laughable, boring and sends me to sleep.

In the evening, I finally get my new TV set up and I re-acquaint myself with my VCR and Playstation 2, digging out PS2 games I have had for months and never actually played. The last thing in the evening is the movie Magnolia, which also sends me to sleep as soon as. Have I got narcolepsy or something?

np: Apples In Stereo – Tidal Wave

Millwall v Reading. West side! 

Millwall v Reading. North Stand. 

The Game! 

August 28 (Saturday): Dance Fever. This morning I wake up feeling pissed and/or stoned, I am completely light headed. My flat is horrible and I just cannot face doing/attempting it. Today I really do not want to stay in and be on my own, for one reason or another.

Indecision Graham, it takes an eternity for me to decide whether to go see Millwall or not but after sitting in Asda’s car park for about 20 minutes I just go “fuck it� and head to the train station. I board the train just after 12.30 and sit opposite a stunning woman who gets off at Marks Tey. She gets replaced by a really scummy, booze smelly skinhead who you would target as a football hooli. As the train trolls through Chelmsford, a number of Chelsea, West Ham and Spurs mockneys board at the station. Mockneys, I hate them! (Yes I do get the irony in this statement).

Lucky days, the train stops at Stratford where I get off and hit the Jubilee and head to Canada Water. This is the best route to Millwall from Essex but it does also involve riding the train through West Ham first. Never a pleasure. By Canada Water there are a number of Millwall supporters aboard and as I wait for the train from Canada Water to Surrey Quays, it is all Millwall supporters on the platform. Getting to the New Den via Surrey Quays is usually a nerve wracking experience as it involves taking the route as in Football Factory. Since then however, and indeed last time I took this route, they have now finished building the flats along here and the harsh walls have gone in place of bright new homes, although for the first part the rough as fuck estate tower blocks remain and for the walk just before the ground, the two power stations and nasty rail tunnels, where Tommy Johnson got it in the head, are obviously still there. Once I get to the ground phones me up and keeps asking me stupid questions about the ground/game. As I’m talking the fittest female fan I have ever seen walks past with her family. Back of the net, kiss my face.

The New Den remains the same and it is still fantastic. It’s a weird ground, officially it is rarely half full but generally the place usually looks packed. And faces are very recognisable, this is thug life. Today I have lucked out, I’ve got a really good seat right towards the back of the Upper East Stand (block 17). Firstly though, I do have to bump a couple of herberts out of my seat. A few blocks over and this is where you can get closest to the away fans, so therefore you get to experience some real sorts, not quite Bushwhackers but semi firms all the same.

Today Millwall are playing Reading and it is my first visit to see them this season. In the North stand, Reading have brought a pretty good following and all the Millwall fans are singing “we’re all going on a European tour�. Today the fans are so on song, not least the “firm� for thugs to my right singing Disney songs from Dumbo and The Jungle Book. What’s that about? Refereeing today is Keith Hill who has a disability with his arm and the sensitive crew that are Millwall fans only assist him in his game by singing “watch out, Beadle’s about� and calling him “raspberry�. I wonder if this is the reason why he appears to have a particularly bad game? Even, right at the end of the game, the Reading fans sing “the referee’s a wanker� to which Millwall only reply “WE KNOW!�. Adrian Williams of Reading also gets it in the neck with the fans continually shouting “sex case� at him.

Millwall actually look pretty good for their money today. Adrian Serioux has probably the longest throw in football and when he steps up to fling one into Reading’s penalty area, the whole crowd let off with a roar. And Dennis Wise looks fantastic, as good as ever, the player the whole team is really made around. You look at Jody Morris, who physically is his double but is nowhere up to his standard/quality, why on earth did he buy him? McCammon looks shit today and Josh Simpson isn’t so great either. The superstar of the team is Graham Stack, the keeper on loan from Arsenal, who makes three amazing saves, all above/beyond the call of duty. The say the old cliché that he keeps Millwall in the game is no understatement. Late on Millwall score and I think I am the first person in the ground to see it go in. At the time I have no idea who scored/put it in and it turns out to be the winner as Millwall beat Reading 1-0, which is a really good result and Millwall’s third win and clean sheet in a row, making things look/bode well for this season. Today is a good day.

I leave the ground via Surrey Quays and text Stevo, pathetically asking who had actually scored for Millwall. It was Dichio. I get on the Northern Line and head to the centre, Oxford Street and Fopp. In Fopp I buy all those Massive Attack CDs I nearly bought last week (I need chill out) and a book on Blue Note and a book by Bukowski, neither which I really want/need. Whilst in the basement I hear the greatest music and I ask the guy behind the counter who/what it is. It turns out to be someone called Earl Zinger. We’ll see. From there I enter Sportpages and nearly buy some Millwall books and wind up lingering in London not wanting to leave, I really wish Baldwin was about.

Eventually I chip and board a train home. As I get on I bump into one of the oldsters I play football with on a Friday, the one last looks like Maradonna. He is in first class, in his Chelsea shirt stuffing his face. I contemplate riding back with him but think better of it. Instead, I ride the train solo, the Saturday early evening train because, yes, once more I am returning from London on a Saturday night without the Sunday paper.

When I get back to Colchester I consider calling up Mark to see if he wants to do something but, as usual, London and football has only given me a headache, so instead I opt for chips from the chip shop (very healthy). TV tonight features the 100 Most Scariest Moments on Channel Four which is a TV show so good that I fall asleep around scary moment number 80. Saturday night in the fast lane!

np: Roy Green – Let ‘Em Come

August 27 (Friday): Splashdown. Today in general is a day at work I could do without.

Good morning good morning. This morning I drive the company bubble car into work and sheepishly work (hide) in Chernobyl to avoid question from partners as to why I have not gone to Colne Careforce for a third day of audit action. My plan is basically to go down to the client with Drew if needed because today Lindsey needs the bubble car, as she always does on Friday mornings. Early/mid-morning, Drew telephones me from the client and says “I take it you’re not coming here today then�. Whoops.

Today I have the fear, I probably shouldn’t be here. I hate the fear it’s a panic attack for no reason, generally brought on my doing/taking drugs or alcohol. This time around though, it comes from nothing other than needless work stress and pressure. Stevo isn’t at work today, so there is no person to set off angst onto.

Today is the morning of no work, as I am hiding from the partners, I am hardly like to approach them for work (ho ho). Stevo phones from home, he has the UEFA cup draw and Millwall have drawn some team from Hungary I have never heard off. Oh fantastic. A bit more optimistic though, if Millwall get through they will be in a group with Feyenoord. Nice.

It is a typical slow Friday, nobody wants to work and nobody really does. I get the FAD (Friday afternoon depression) but sail it out. Late on in the afternoon I begin talking to Seymour about stuff and he tells me that he’ll buy me a drink at the Dragoon. So from the space of fearing all partners in the morning, I end the working day sat in the pub on my todd with the main boss talking about religion and generally “fucking birds�. I actually really really like Seymour as a person, he is always interesting and is generally one of the most rounded and intelligent people going. We have to leave the pub fairly early however as Amir Khan is boxing in the Olympics for Great Britain (even though he is actually Pakistani).

I walk home, slightly staggering, a bit pissed from two pints (these days I sure am a lightweight). I do manage to get home in time to see Amir Khan in his semi final and he wins.

In the evening I have a saddo Friday night in. I go to Sitcom Ohio and soon pass out due to touching alcohol

I sleep with a butt plug in and have really vivid dreams as a result, all about being really filthy.

np: Pavement - Stereo

August 26 (Thursday): The Good, The Bad And The Lucky. This morning I have to get into work pretty early in order to get my ACCA courses booked up with the BPP. Big problem here, my company does not tend to pay for retake courses and now I have to find/pay over £500. Ouch. My only option really is to take it on the chin and put the fees on a credit card, which I do, getting the form faxed off before I head off to Colne Careforce. After I get this done, Heddle sees I’m still in the office and gives me grief/flack for still being in the office. I only respond “I know� when really it should be more along the lines of “get lost�. Hypocrisy is the greatest luxury.

I arrive at the client pretty jarred off but manage to get a lot done and have, in the end, a very proactive morning and lunchtime soon comes around, with lunchtime meaning my final session with the doctor. I originally intend to leave the client’s at 12.30 for my session but I get toilet troubles and have a wicked shit, meaning I do not manage to leave the office in Mersea until 12.45.

Getting from Mersea to Colchester proves an utter nightmare and by the time I finally get to my session, I am at least ten minutes late. My final session is a real horror show, everything seems to have hit me at once and instead of ending things on a high/positive, I just can’t see past my current woes and what they are doing to me, it really seems that I shouldn’t really be discontinuing these sessions. All signs point to all my problems being work related. I tell her about the fuss that was made about me doing a lunchtime session this week and the good doctor just looks in disbelief going “but its your lunchtime�. Its hard, I just can’t get around the feeling of currently being bullied at work and she ties this into experiences from my youth but I kind of see it as a problem I have with authority. Whatever, the resounding opinion is that I really would benefit from changing my place of work. Of course this is all coming off the back of my exam results and their failure equating to me feeling like a failure in general. And there is the fact that I have just had a birthday which is an occasion that will generally play on my senses. We discuss my meet up with Phoebe in London at the weekend and attempt to draw positivity from that but I resign myself to just saying “I’ll only fuck that up too�. For therapeutic purposes, today really is akin to flogging a dead horse. We look to the future and look to good things. I try to convince her that I will sail this out and once I get through this little spell, all will be semi-rosey again. My problem is that I can this but not necessarily believe this. Towards the end we get onto the subject of my parents and their woes which I seem to be taking on in equal measures as them. She asks me why and my response is “because I’m still earning�, arrogantly I tell people “I think they’re be on my payroll before long�. I tell her about the working credit recall/refund of £6,000 hanging over their heads and the good doctor has heard of this and suddenly it sounds more real than ever to me. I don’t really find it too comforting when she tells “well, maybe they will just have to downsize their home� (or something). The session ends with my telling her and pointing out dad’s advertisement stating “no job to small� and break down in front of her and can’t stop with the waterworks. That sign just seems/appears to encapsulate their situation and really triggers something and strikes a nerve in me. For the second time in a week I find myself having to take five and compose myself before letting myself back out on the streets. The good doctor hugs me and wishes me luck, telling me to “take care of yourself�. Oh my god, what kind of state have I got myself into. This really is not how either of us would have wanted our sessions to come to an end.

I take my time returning to work and when I get there and resume, I am very quiet for the longest time, I just do not want a re-run of what just happened in my session. Eventually I come around and have some nice chats with Emma, she is turning out to be a really really nice person. Ultimately it is a quiet afternoon though and I manage to get the majority of my work done/finished.

On the way home, I pop into Asda and buy Scooby Doo 2 on DVD to at least make me smile, if not cheer me up. Is this a sign of regression? Anyways, not long after I begin watching it, dad hits me on MSN. I say “hi� and talk to him for a bit when really I could do without any doom and gloom this evening. In the end our chat is only fleeting.

Scooby Doo 2 ends and ultimately it is only so so (not sure what I was expecting really). The bird from ER does end up looking better in it than SMG. Beyond that, I fall asleep listening to David Cross MP3s for yuks, managing to wake up around 11pm with Father Ted which proceeds to once more fuck up my sleep pattern.

I experience a nice dream but when I wake up, it is forgotten. All I have is a smile.

np: High Contrast – Racing Green

August 25 (Wednesday): The Trouble With Teddy. This more I brave up and MSN Phoebe. She is goodness, sounding happy to hear from me, which is always a good start to any day.

Today is the first day of the drama (for me) that has become of the Colne Carefore audit. I am also at the same time chockablock with work to finish off for Andy. The days is a balls up from the off, we have to wait until 11 AM for our mighty leader to get his shit together and his fat arse over to take us to the client’s. This gives me an unscheduled 2 hours to work on the jobs I have fallen behind, which perhaps had I been aware of ahead of time, I would have been able to get the jobs done and out of the way.

We trawl ourselves over to Mersea Island and due to things getting moving so slowly and the lateness of our arriving, Emma and I miss out on a lunchbreak. All in all, it breeds resentment and I find it very hard to get my heart into the job, especially while the stench of Heddle is lingering. After speaking to the client for about five minutes (did I say speak, I mean bumlick), he proceeds to spend a further 15 minutes in the back office on his own before disappearing leaving us to our own devices. Ironically, after my last audit experience where I was initially begging for more duties and got none, by now where I fail to really give a flying fuck about the job, I find myself with more duties than usual. Work that one out. After popping out for some food, in the afternoon I gradually get into the job. Fortunately, as per usual, on the whole I have been handed the no-brainer tasks.

When the day comes to a close, we find ourselves driving back to town in the company pool bubble car with the petrol light permanently pinging. I love the way these cars are neglected. For the best part, it genuinely looks as if we are going to run out of fuel on the way home, where the fuck are any petrol stations in Mersea? Whilst driving, Craig from Accountancy Additions phones me up with an interview in London. In the recent light of events I tell him I am putting London on the back burner in order to concentrate on my studies. He sounds disappointed but what has he done for me lately? All surprises (and relief) the bubble car gets back to the office without running out of fuel. I walk into the office and immediately I am getting it in the neck from all directions: Heddle asking me how the job is going, Griggs asking me if I have “had chance to look at those jobs?� and Seymour is asking me if I am ready for football. I point out to Seymour that the team we are putting out doesn’t actually have any goalscorers in it. And then it feels like pulling teeth getting any money out of the firm/him for petrol for the car. Eventually though, I get some and fill up.

Once I get home to change, my computer beeps and it is Phoebe on MSN once more asking how I am and how my day has been. Blinging.

Football tonight is bad news. We are playing Scrutton Bland or Bland And Son, whatever the fuck they are called these days, and they have pulled out the ringers. And the scrappy four eyed arsehole is padded up and playing in goal. Our team is pretty much injury wrecked, on our side we have: myself, Seymour, Kev, Kermit, Danny. On their side they have that guy Lamby, who is an ex-semi pro who religiously appears to wear a Leeds Utd whilst looking like John Scales and some kid who looks 13 year old and a gob to match. What’s the fucking deal, are this lot from Bland a bunch of groomers or something? So there it turns out they have a team of seven against our five. Immediately it goes horribly wrong and, as much as I don’t like to admit it, I was right when I said we have no goalscorers. In the meantime, with their semi-pro at the back and little kid up front no one wants to tackle for fear of breaking him, Bland drum up a horrific scoreline, which by halftime is 10-1 to them. The second half calms down slightly and the game ends officially with us losing 16-3 but in earnest it was a lot worse. At the end of the game hands are shaken, showers taken while our opposition stare at their thirteen year olds penis (joking!). This is the sort of game that makes you want to jack playing in.

I waste no time in getting out of their and when I get home, I am exhausted/fatigued. I run myself a bath but I am too tired to fucking get in it. Instead I listen to Henry Rollins MP3s and fall asleep. I wake up 1.30 and am fucked, unable to get back to sleep. I put the Ali G movie on the DVD and watch that, discovering that his real name is Allister Leslie Graham. Oh my god, that is my middle name and surname (and my Dad’s). All those years not knowing that, I could have so milked that, lunched off the fact and perhaps sued the filmmakers. And Me Julie in the movie is played by the actress that Sara always reminded me of. Go figure.

np: Ash - Orpheus

August 24 (Tuesday): 35 Hours. This morning I stroll into work a negative creep, this place really isn’t a very good place to be at the moment. Stevo hasn’t turned up, it seems his shoulder injury is after all pretty serious and I guess today he is rested up and maybe at a doctor or hospital getting it mended. I text him asking how is he doing and that it is “boring at work� without him. As soon as the text is sent, he turns up for work. How nuts is that?

Today the whole knock on effect of failing my exams hits home as I calculate how much I am going to have to pay for my retake courses and really I should be retaking the whole Advanced Tax course in its entirety again. I count up my courses and they come to around £900, which no stretch of the imagination can I afford. I really have to think this choice through but most likely I will have to plump/compromise at only the retake/revision courses which will still cost me over £500. Fucking hell, I could almost get a laptop for that money or at least an iPod and change. Life sucks.

At lunchtime we go to Edwards and I had forgotten just how good their food is. Stevo is comical, barely able to use his busted arm, he reminds me of Alex in A Clockwork Orange right at the end. And not least when Steve is spilling food down himself (ha ha). Needless to say, I don’t help him out.

Today I am so busy at work and it is mostly brought on by the impending Colne Careforce audit which I now have the arseholes over due to my little clash with Heddle on Friday, which in earnest now I probably doubt isn’t even crossing his mind. In the afternoon I find myself being hassled over Cammax, having the job bounced back to me to do some busy work on it such as minor adjustments, signing off and crossing Ts and dotting Is. This really is one day where I do not to be wasting my time. And the more hassle arrives in the form of grief with regards to clearing the Chernobyl basement. Lugging fucking bin bags out of the basement is grunt work and not what I am employed to do. As a result I miss two phonecalls from home in the process. Now I am officially royally fucking pissed off.

I pop over the road to do some Viztopia work and just fucking flip, accidentally spilling some work on the flat screen monitor of the computer. A couple of neon lines appear on its screen, whoops I’ve fucked it. I get my bit done as soon as possible and run away from the broken monitor, the monitor that I have just broken. Whoops. Come 5.40pm, I have failed to get my work/jobs done for Andy but I have to make moves home anyway.

The day is pretty much summed up by the fact that just as I set off home, it begins to rain and this morning I left my coat at home. All in all, it makes me late leaving my flat for mum and dad’s.

As I drive/tear down the A120, Sara phones me on my cellphone. I don’t think she is pissed but she is really pissed off. Seems her ex-Jay Jay has made one of those niggly comments that a person can make once they have got into someone’s head. We talk for the entirety of my drive home (hands free folks) and to be honest I really don’t want to hear it. I should probably feel honoured/privileged that she has come to me with her problems but right now a friend in need is a pain in the arse.

I get home and all is down. My exam results, Dad’s employers, the six grand tax credit looming over everyone’s head. I eat shitloads of their food, it appears that I am currently comfort eating. I watch Chelsea v Crystal Palace on Sky with dad and wind up falling asleep, I am so tired. I have success in getting the final few viruses wiped off their PC.

I remain around their house to watch Sopranos season 5 episode 3 while they go to bed. From within his bedroom I can hear dad coughing, he doesn’t sound very well. Once the episode is over, I drive home and it has been a late night.

np: The Strokes - Reptilia

August 23 (Results Monday): On Golden Jason. Results day. I should be nerve wracked but really I’m not. It is a pissy shitty morning and I walk in wearing my big coat (my “Mormon� coat) over my suit and I look absolutely huge. Bad news. I can’t believe this weather, I remember we had some summer at some point this year.

Stevo comes in strapped up and looks really terrible, really tender and totally/thoroughly beaten up. When he spoke to me on the phone yesterday I never imagined he would be this bad. I feel pretty bad for the poor sod. He doesn’t stay in the office too long, he has to go to Broomfield hospital to get his shoulder seen to.

As the day carries on I am a really mixed bag, sometimes nervous, sometimes not. I am however for sure under the cosh at work, very very busy at work, late last week Griggs gave me three jobs at the same time, which added to the two I have from Heddle and the impending Colne Careforce debacle coming later this week, I am pretty much working solid under the threat/pressure that it is the end of the month. This is absurd, all the times I don’t have enough work suddenly I am more snowed under than ever.

I spend all morning checking my AOL email on my phone for my results. No dice.

At lunchtime I wander into town with Louise, the pair of us getting nervous fast. In Culver Square a Costa coffee house has now opened up, Colchester is finally one step closer to get its own Starbucks.

In the afternoon I go to a pikey Irish client called South East Brickwork with Andy to arrange doing their books. Apparently there has been a falling out with their bookkeeper and she has gone and left it all in a big mess. In replacement for her, some young lad (vaguely related to her) has taken over the job and, not his fault, he does not appear to have the first idea of what/how to do. As I said, it is in one big mess. While Andy bullshits his way through it and I just watch in horror at all the work I can see ahead of me, my phone beeps. When I finally get chance to get my phone, it is Phoebe and she has failed Advanced Tax, coming close with a score of 46%. That’s a nightmare, the message reads: “Hi how r u? Am not gd, fail! 42! Kinda wish they lost this one instead! Haha.. Hope urs r gd! Will do retake course! Oh well, never mind. Got ta work! C ya�. This is very bad, on the revision course for Tax, Phoebe has a hell of a lot more on the ball than me, so things suddenly look a little bleak.

When I get back to the office, I still have not got my results. It turns out that Sandip has gone and got 49% in his finals retake. Oh my god, so close, that must be devastating to him. To get away from the bad vibes, I go over the road to the other office to see if Louise has had her results yet. She hasn’t. I check my phone yet another time and the email has arrived. My heart palpitates and I am almost shaking as I open the email. They are both fails, 45% in Advanced Audit and a frightening 23% in Advanced Tax! I knew I was struggling at that subject but I didn’t realise I was getting it so wrong. Oh dear, my plans are scuppered and now my career progression has had at least another six months added to it. This takes the mental equivalent toll of driving a car into a wall at 60mph, guess that that crash test dummy is. I feel like a loser as I text my results to Phoebe who replies “Oh dont worry! Is the stupid examiner fault! Shouldnt throw in the zoo ques! N its very sweet of u to fail just so we can take it again together! Haha..�.

I spend the remainder of the afternoon with my head down, devastated and concerned. I say pretty much nothing, there is nothing to be said. As the dust settles, a little later Louise comes over with her results and they are fantastic, in the seventies, the best being a 79% in Law. Bravo. At some point Drew states “tonight you either get your books out or you get pissed up�. Wanker.

When 5pm comes around, I’m ready to work late but Sandip actually suggests that we go to the pub! For some reason I jump to the opportunity and we go to the Hogshead to sit in the beer garden and drink Stella. This is so weird, going to the pub with Sandip/Sunny! Anyways, we shoot the shit and he is really down, almost contemplating jacking his studies. It is hard to discuss work and career with him because I know how much he earns and it equates to the firm taking the piss out of him. Whatever, we dig into Stellas and I really get into it and soon manage to cheer up and forget about my exam results/failures. When I go top off at the bar, still suited up, I get female attention and I like it. They commiserate with me over my exam failure and actually tell me “the best accountants fail first time�. I thought that old cliché was for driving tests. Verbally I hold my own and this is a lot more fun than talking to that downer Sandip (ho ho). I’m not so fond of the barfly though, telling me that I am overdressed and that I should be in Roberto’s, who is asking how many people (clients) I have “fucked over today�. I return to the comfort/shelter of Sunny.

By 6.30, it is times to make moves. By now, three Stellas in, I have a real good beer buzz on and after calling him up, I head to Mark’s for some more fun times. After the bout of drizzling earlier today, this is the most beautiful evening. When I turn up on Mark’s doorstep, I feel pretty wrong, I actually find myself pretending to not to be drunk. Not good. After musing over what to do, we walk to my place with view to getting my Old School DVD and driving (driving!) to Asda to get some dinner. We do the half hour walk, get to my flat and when we get/go inside, Mark’s reactions (gut) is “oh my good!�. I steer us out of there immediately and handle the difficulty of driving to Asda.

Back at Mark’s he cooks us dinner as we listen to Zane Lowe on the radio. This is the night Mark makes homemade beef burgers. They taste ace but take about 90 minutes to prepare, as opposed to the 90 seconds it takes Mickey D’s to prepare theirs. You do the math. He makes me give him £2, McDonalds charge 99p.

Eventually we settle to watching Old School and tonight I really don’t enjoy it much, it just doesn’t seem funny and even bores me. What’s that about? I love Will Ferrell and this is HIS moment in time. Mark however surprisingly seems to enjoy it, laughing loads. Wow. Before the end however I fall asleep sitting up on his sofa prompting him to shout at me! I take my cue and leave.

When I get in, Sopranos is on TV and it is the second episode of series five. I fall asleep within moments of starting to watch it. We I re-awaken around midnight I begin watching my moody Pete And Pete DVDs and they send me asleep almost immediately also. What is it about my favourite films and TV shows sending me to sleep?

np: Goldie Lookin Chain – You Knows I Loves You

August 22 (birthday Sunday): X=Why? It’s my birthday! And I am officially old! I feel like I have resigned to being 28 for the past six months now but now it is officially here. I am also at the age now where birthdays are now as welcome as a vegan at a barbecue.

I wake up feeling low, I don’t know exactly why there are really many reasons that could/might be contributing to this. For me, birthdays are nearly always black tie days and, with the exception of last year, generally are 100% sombre affairs.

At 8.56 Mark texts and it officially the first person to wish me happy birthday (yes, I am fickle enough to notice and note this down. Points scored by Mark!). At 9.42, while I am watching my Relic Hunter DVD before heading off home Stevo phones up and wishes me a happy birthday. He then proceeds to tell me how he was jumped on and beaten up by three youths in Chelmsford last night on his way back from football. He keeps saying that it was unprovoked but I know and he even provokes me when he is pissed, mainly down to his behaviour. Still, he sounds pretty shaken up and badly done. That said though, when the phonecall ends and he has obviously run out of credit on his mobile, I am in insensitive prick enough to not bother to phone him back and double check that he is all right. Hey, its my birthday and I’ll act like a cunt if I want to. I do however get a couple of pangs guilt for five minutes as I wonder would it have happened had I hung out with him in London last night after Phoebe? Would it have happened had I told him about the set up with Rachel Friday and he would not have felt the desire/need to do his ritual of going to football and drink all day and get pissed?

Fortunately my train of thought gets disrupted when Phoebe texts at 10.33 with "Happy birthday to u, happy birthday to u, happy birthday dear jason! Happy birthday to u! Wishing u the best bday! Luv Phoebe". I really DO like this girl.

I spend the remainder of the morning on MSN with Sara. She fakes forgetting its my birthday but a convincing amount of time but eventually comes through with the goods for me. Love ya babe. While talking to her I watch the new Championship Sunday morning football show on ITV. It is SO much better than MOTD and not just because it has Millwall on it. I do however see Danny Dichio’s winner against Coventry and it warms my heart, its seems Millwall were unlikely not to have won by 2 or 3.

Before leaving for my parents I am determined to finally find the ownership documents for my ratty old red Escort (the WOW mobile) which is still dumped at my parents’ house being an eyesore, yes Jason Graham is still a two car man. Joy of joys, I actually do manage to find the log book for the car. I also find my old butt plug but that is beside the point. Good news, I can now scrap that old fucking heap legally. Anyone wanna buy a 1994 Escort for nothing? Its been on tour with Idlewild!

The day runs eternally slow but eventually I manage to get home to my olds. For my birthday they have bought me a big television as a present but they can’t afford this! Especially in the light of this six grand hanging over their heads. Still, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth……I am so flawed. Oh the joys/benefits of being an only child, hey kids get my ethics.

As I come to the computer, I come across a shop advert dad has made for himself, advertising himself as a handyman but it says “No Job To Small�. I read it and it felt like someone had punched me. Dire straits? The grammar killed me, how does go about correcting the spelling of their Father?

My parents procrastinate about going out for dinner/lunch. One says they want to when they don’t really want to while the other says they don’t want to while they really do want to. And I’m stuck in the middle, the bottom rung on the three person dynamic that appears to be dictating my life (according to the good doctor). As soon as I sway the answer to “yes� to going out for lunch, our next problem is choosing where to go. Personally I don’t care, I am fucking starving and will eat anything, it just needs to be fast and a large portion. We wind up going to the Brewsters in Weeley which is a thoroughly horrible place to eat in honesty. It seems I have been eating out too much as of late and I may have become a little snobby with it meaning eating out in a place like this is no longer some kind of treat or event (especially when compared to the Dim Sum yesterday). In one way or another, all three of us have chicken in different forms. I tear through my food really quickly, this was not the large portion I was hoping for. Meanwhile however, mum is barely picking at her dinner and dad is moaning like fuck about the blandness of his roast. I sigh, pity them and proceed to dig in, probably eating a half each of their respective dishes; no wonder I am fat! We drag lunch out with some conversation but currently with all their woes hanging over their heads, mum and dad are very bleak about things. And bleak enough not to even bother with desert (dad does have a Stella though, the ultimate sign that we are related). While we are eating I swear blind that I see Peter Rogers, my old best friend from school who I turned on like a heal wrestler, leaving after lunching with his parents also. He looks a pretty pathetic sight and I wonder if I look that sad also. Fortunately, I doubt it, my disposition is too sneering to be so cheesy. We leave Brewsters not before time and promptly head to the McDonalds next door to get McFlurry’s for desert. If anyone saw us leaving Brewsters and going straight to McDonalds, they would think we were utter pigs. Actually, one of our Brewster’s waitresses does. Oh my, the Weeley McDonalds is also horrific, this must be the most neglected “restaurant� of the chain in England. We start out eating our McFlurrys outside but promptly get attacked by a hundred wasps coming over from the super spilled bin outside. The three of us wind up sitting in my car eating our McFlurrys like losers watching the Clacton Chavs come and go, getting their own Mickey D’s. Once we are done, dad is still moaning like the grumpy old fucker that he is. McDonalds disgusts him and in his ultimate goober moment he takes pleasure in just throwing the empty McFlurry cartons all over the McDonalds car park.

For the record, apparently it turns out that I was born at 4.20 on 22 August 1976.

We get back home to my olds where me and dad watch Arsenal vs Middlesbrough on Sky. Arsenal do take the lead but fantastically, the ultimate birthday treat, Middlesbrough take the lead and at one point are winning 3-1. Arsenal are and have always been utter scum and to see them suffering so badly is a treat beyond treat. And a lot of it is to blame for their atrocious goalkeeper Lehman. This is odd, as at the same time Millwall have one of Arsenal’s reserve keepers Graham Stack on loan playing really well. I suspect he may be returning to the Gunners soon. Spoken too soon though as Arsenal come back amazingly and win 5-3. They may be shits full stop but they are also a phenomenal team.

While at home, I check my parents’ computer and do one of my regular Panda online virus checks. It discovers over 60 viruses on their computer! And it is having a hard time in wiping them off. Originally I had planned to get home this evening to hang out with Mark for a bit but I end up staying around my parents until past ten trying to remove all the viruses off their computer, which I manage to do at the third go.

At nearly 9pm I receive a text message from Phoebe “Hey hope u r still enjoying ur bday! I had the most fun in weeks yesterday! U r just great! Nite nite�. Nice.

When I finally get home, Chris hits me on MSN wishing me a happy birthday. He the man, I really thought he had forgotten. It turns out to be the first time in weeks I have spoke to him and its really nice to catch up (birthday treat almost). Halfway through, Tom turns up drunk (on a Sunday night!) grumbling to Chris “he didn’t fucking remember my birthday�. Nice.

The night ends.

What’s the deal with my birthday? Last year it was the day that Wesley Willis died and now this year it is the day that the famous painting The Scream gets stolen. Bad news.

np: MC5 – Kick Out The Jams

August 21 (Saturday): Yellow Fever. Today’s episode title was random and not intentional. Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?

I awaken on time, worried about not waking up on time. Basically, I wake up in a hurry, so much to do, so little time to do it. I run a bath and go that extra mile hygiene wise that you go when out to impress. I bath but not a normal bath, a bath of champions, of all the good pong thrown in at once. If I don’t do anything today, I am going to smell good.

There is a thump at my door and a package arrives through the post from America. I open it and my Adventures Of Pete And Pete moody DVDs have arrive from America. I had started to worry about how kosher the discs were and even started to question their existence. I slip a disc (of the four) into my player just to check that they work. The discs do, nice work Antipromotions! The discs are pretty lo-fi but they have put a lot of effort into menus etc and it looks like the episodes have been downloaded from the same source I was taking them last year (Kazaa) as there is an annoying station logo in the corner (Canadian station The N?). All 39 episodes are present, where else are you going to see them now? Nickelodeon sure as fuck do not look likely to re-air or release them. I take receiving these discs today as the beginning of great things for Jason today.

Early morning I get a text message from Azmei wishing me a happy birthday for tomorrow and telling me that she is currently on her way to the airport. Bon voyage.

For the remainder of my morning, I tear around the flat trying to pull myself together, into the best me, the Super Jason! And to be honest, I scrub up quite well sometimes. With only minutes to spare, I finally crack the Queer Eye Straight Guy book open. Phoebe Toronto has already told me that I far from need this book but I guess it all helps. Except, one minute later after flipping through the book I find myself only more confused than ever. Time to bite the bullet and leave (make like a tree).

After annoying amounts of traffic I finally get to the train station, get my ticket and get on a train. On my way I receive a text message from Sarah asking if I went to the Hippodrome last night after all (“no way!�). Today I don’t feel as enthused as ideally I would/should, basically I am just shattered. The plan is to meet at Leicester Square station at 1.00, so I catch the train as near as to 11.00 as possible. The ride up is eventless save for the amazing looking black lady sat opposite me. I find myself staring at her, at her amazing smooth and beautiful dark skin. Elsewhere on the train, it is busy with kids on their way to Chelmsford to the V2004 festival and I wish I were joining them. Your V kids are a strange breed and generally you have to regard it as a real oddball festival, there seems no cohesion to the lineups ever picked and never quite enough in the lineup to make a music fan (myself) to go along. Personally I think it is a poor show that I have never been to a V festival and this year is no different, I am regretting not going as this year there are the Pixies and the Strokes tugging at my attention. I look however at the kind of kids that go to V and they’re a strange breed, they really are not the type of people I associate with festivals, they’re the students types that go off to university on their parents bankroll and are not your traditional pikey students types as hard as they might dress scruffy and plead poverty, they remain somewhat air brushed.

I arrive in London in really good time, it barely being 12.00. For (personal) security reasons I head straight to Leicester Square, what if the Taliban blow up the underground system and I have to walk across from Liverpool Street to Leicester Square and I don’t have enough time to get there for 1.00. Yes I’m fucked up. Anyways, I get there well ahead of time, no fear and wander around the Charing Cross end of Leicester Square for a while. I take out £50 from the cash machine on my MBNA Virgin credit card, how wise this move proves will have to be judged at a later date. I find myself standing in a queue behind four guys obviously on their way to Old Compton Street, gotta love London. I actually find myself nervous and pushing in the wrong pin code into the machine. Finally when I am asked how much money I want to take out, I type “50� and wait. A prompter comes on the screen “you will be charged for this transaction, do you want to continue?� and I’m not sure which button I press. The card shoots out and no money, so I guess I pressed the “cancel� button. Anyway, I hope so otherwise I walked away from the machine to find another, leaving £50 for the next punter to pocket.

I re-enter the confines of Leicester Square station and wait at the top of the stairs for Phoebe for 1.00. I watch so many people arrive and pretty quickly, people watching is fast becoming one of my favourite activities, especially when it is in London. I stand around waiting patiently but uncomfortably. I watch the police and I begin to get paranoid that might suggest me as a terrorist threat if I wait too long and that they might begin to question or usher me on. I also watch all the people get off the their trains and I see literally hundreds of Orientals passing by and suddenly I begin to wonder what Phoebe looks like, it has been about six weeks since I last saw her. Am I fickle?

Almost on the dot, at 1.00pm, there she is looking amazing. I spot her immediately even though for the first time I have ever seen, she is wearing her hair up. We exchange an awkward greeting but we seem happy to see eachother all the same. Immediately she begins marching us out of the station, towards the restaurant she has chosen to take us. This is good. She asks me how I am and anyone who knows me knows that I just can’t answer that question with a “good� or “fine�, I also have to go into some kind of detail. I tell her I am tired and she says she is also and that she didn’t really want to come today because she is so tired. Oh great, that sounds good, she hardly sounds enthusiastic about things but what am I to say, its pretty much my attitude also except she has the honesty to say it. And it is not necessarily a slight on me (is it?). She also adds that she has to be back by 6pm, is this some kind of ancient Chinese curfew?

We fly over to Chinatown and I am recognising the city better than ever. The restaurant she chooses for us is upstairs, above a food store, the kind of restaurant you would probably miss if you did not know about it beforehand. Already I feel I am benefiting from her Chinese/Cantonese insider knowledge. We sit down and act very adult. Phoebe wastes not time in pulling out and giving me a birthday card for tomorrow which makes me unbelievably happy. Phoebe immediately disguards one menu with “that’s for tourists� and leads me through the list of fantastic dishes including crab meat. She also picks custard doughballs. Nice! Dim Sum is fantastic, personally I have the best time talking to Phoebe over dinner and she appears to be/feel likewise. We discuss all sorts of recent developments (mainly her lost ACCA exam paper) and she tells me that my Cantonese is good (which it isn’t). I act as if when in rome and use chopsticks but she tells me that I am doing it wrong, I am definitely using them differently to her. The custard doughballs create something of an issue when the waiter only manages to bring out three (all other food being brought out in fours). As much as I really enjoy my doughball and want a second, I am a gentleman and make sure Phoebe has it because she tells me how much she likes them. We eat and talk for an hour and a half before calling for the bill. The bill arrives and it is just £13! That sounds like mates rates to me (this is a local restaurant for local people?).

We emerge back onto the streets of Chinatown with the afternoon young and things going well. We walk through the arches and I attempt to find/point out the restaurant we went on during Drew’s stag do, the restaurant where I got coked up, blew up a rubber glove with my mouth and was setting fire to chopsticks. Maybe if they saw me return they would chop me, so perhaps it is for the best when I am unable to find it. Instead Phoebe points out to me, establishments where she has seen/heard of Triad altercations (and by altercations, I mean killings!). Phoebe tells me that it is too hot and tiring to go around the shops today so that we should catch a movie and us being on Leicester Square makes this prime. We stagger around the many cinemas and begin bouncing ideas off eachother. Dodgeball is just out and I really want to see that but Phoebe lets me know that she thinks that looks like the most moronic film ever made. She suggests King Arthur. I guess it does have my main man Ray Winstone in it but at the end of the day, no way! We find a cinema with Before Sunset on. Yes! I tell her all about it and she sounds keen but then ends it all with “but no�. Phoebe is not much of a romantic it seems. An eleven hour attempt/suggestion is made for the Stepford Wives (which does look good) but it doesn’t finish until close to 6pm so we find ourselves unable to reach an agreement. I begin delicately asking about the 6pm and she tells me that she “goes mad and turns into a werewolf in the evenings�. Ha ha, no really you’re freaking me out. No dice.

In the end we wind up heading towards Covent Garden to check out the market and anything that is going on there. As we walk there we talk about things and Phoebe sounds heavy, telling me about her ill Grandmother in Hong Kong. On the way we come across a photograph gallery and check it out. There is always something to do in London. She then shows me the new cellphone that she is getting, one with a camera. Cool! We wind up in Covent Garden and its not so hot snot. I tell her about Forbidden Planet and attempt to steer us out of Covent Garden. I proceed to only manage in getting us horribly lost, which surprises me as I would have thought Phoebe would know central London like the back of her hand. We eventually wind up on The Strand (yes, going completely in the wrong direction) and we pass Stanley Gibbons (the stamp shop!) and for some reason I drag her in there to see the autographed pictures. We look around the boring shop like a scene out of Before Sunrise or something. This is the point Phoebe chooses to tell me that she is having a really good/nice time. I’m surprised and overjoyed by this gesture. We leave the shop trying wring the stench of stamp collecting from our clothes and I resume leading the blind towards Forbidden Planet. As we pass Hays Covent Garden and it begins to become obvious that I am just leading us towards Trafalgar Square I turn us back towards the general direction of Covent Garden. We walk down some street I doubt I will ever see again and Phoebe steers us inside to show me a book she wants to read about shopping. In there we/she finds some Garfield books and she tells me that this will cheer her up. I don’t really find the Garfield too weird (well I do) but Stevo thinks it is really weird. I dunno what to think. We eventually manage to get back to Covent Garden (recognisable) as she tells me more tales of The Triad. By accident we happen across the office building in which Seymour used to work in London and then we pass Neal’s Yard and opt out of going into Rough Trade (remember my bad experience there a few weeks ago everybody?).

Finally! We make it to Forbidden Planet and Phoebe says to me “you were looking for Shaftsbury Avenue?� like I am some kind of idiot. Whoops. We go inside and finally it seems I have found a girl that I can drag into Forbidden Planet who likes it (or at least placates me and pretends to like it). This shop turns Jason into a kid in a sweet shop, I just love the Simpsons action figures. Phoebe likes Manga so it is set up/made up for her fortunately. We find the City Hunter book that she was telling me was her favourite and being that lunch was so cheap I buy it. She really seems to get into all the books on offer and I genuinely feel like I hit a home run and have managed to find something she genuinely likes/enjoys. I pop to the checkout to purchase my book and when I look across the shop at her we shoot/swop/exchange smiles in a way that I have not seen/felt since I did with Bella. This is pure stuff, 100%. Phoebe also pulls out Spirited Away and recommends that but getting that will be for another time. I take her round and show her American Splendor, trying desperately (and failing) to explain why the book is so good. We makes moves to leave and as we pass the Eros section Phoebe thinks she has found more Manga and picks up a book. She immediately slams the book down in disgust/embarrassment when she realises that it is a porno comic. God love a prude.

We waddle up Shaftsbury Avenue joyfully, me continuing to try and explain my apparent drinking problem she appears to think I have (“the bosses keep getting me drunk, I do it to further my career!�). We wind up in my usual haunt, Fopp. We check out all the shit in there. Oh my, the entire Massive Attack catalogue all for a fiver each! Instead I get Evol by Sonic Youth and try SO hard to get her to buy Ghost World on DVD. I fail in my attempts. I show her the Sopranos DVD and she shows some interest but little enthusiasm. From there we peak in Magma but that’s a pretty poor shop, too fucking hip by far (hip meaning expensive). Now is the point she says she has to go home to Mill Hill. It is only 4.45, oh dear what a poor showing. I walk with her up Charing Cross Road towards Leicester Square station. She asks me what I am doing and I decide to stay in the City around Oxford Street. I should really be going to see Marceline’s band Uter in Highbury or hooking up with Stevo but really I don’t want to ruin what has been a good day so far. We reach the station and it becomes that awkward moment to say goodbye. Last time, this moment was not deal with very effectively so this time I just grab her for a huge, just for some kind of gesture/feeling. I huge her and there is little there. It ends and she skips down the steps of the station shouting “bye� to me in Cantonese. I yell back “lets do this again soon!�. The end.

I stagger back up Charing Cross Road with real heartattack, even more than ever I now like this girl and still it just not seem to be happening. I really did not want it all to end so soon and it really should not have been so brief. At the current rate of seeing her only every six weeks, this really is something of a poor return for all I spend on her emotionally. Here is a fantastic girl who takes a hell of a lot of effort and now it needs to be weighed up whether the efforts justify the returns. I really should not be so clinical about things.

Pulling myself together, I wind up in Borders looking for books. I find myself looking for Billy Budd by Harold Melville, a book that might hold some personal answers in my current bout of self exploration/soul searching. I buy up the book and head elsewhere.

Since I have started seeing Phoebe, I know see and notice more Orientals than ever. Asians truly are a set apart, the most beautiful ladies on earth, darker toned and with more facial expressions and characteristics than any Caucasian female could ever pray for. I am so judgemental.

Whilst in Borders I check my phone WAP/GPRS for the football results and Millwall have won 1-0 at Coventry. Yes! First goal and first win of the season, today is officially a good day and perhaps the turning point in my fortunes? Here’s hoping.

I find myself in Sportspages and then heading up Old Compton Street (through the yellow comic store) turning into Soho. I hit Berwick Street and all the record shops. These shops always have and always will play the greatest music. Maybe its because their stereo set up is so good, so professional but everything just sounds on! In Record And Music Exchange some shagged out old Joy Division record is on and the thundering bass and clarity of everything involved just manages in making a grown man almost weep. When I arrive at Selectadisc, it is about ten minutes away from closing up and they are still flying and pumping out of the PA is Throwing Things by Superchunk which immediately transports me back to my personal ground zero for music in the early to mid nineties. Following that track, Sugar comes flying on and it begins to dawn on my that alt/indie/college rock never did manage to pick itself up after its peak in the nineties and manage to come through with a really REALLY good crop of new tuneful bands/acts, instead it became more dirge like and elitist than ever. And that probably adds up to why I stopped loving music.

I wind up on Oxford Street like some pikey tourist and the night is still young but with options of places to see and people to do, I contradict myself by wanting to remain in the City but not around anyone. Curiosity gets the better of me and I head to Goodge Street to check out the church that Phoebe tells me that she goes to every Sunday, the American church where she worships her Lutheran beliefs. I guess now going on such a sightseeing tour is being a bit stalker-esqe but I got money to spend and time to waste. I find the building easy as pie, its not that far after the Church Of Scientology office. I make all apologies but I still cannot lift my guard where organised religion is involved, I guess it will always make me suspicious.

To be honest, there really isn’t much to see, the American Church is just a closed building, it could be any kind of city monument/building really. I pause and find myself in a Starbucks sipping on the largest cup of coffee I can find/buy, costing me about £3.50. This is my first opportunity to get off my legs in hours. I sit in the shop window drinking, the perfect metaphor for my life. I pull out the birthday card that Phoebe gave me and I open it looking for clues, no dice. Do not let television lie to you, coffee houses are not like Central Perk. I drink caffeine like an alcoholic and I knock the brew in minutes, it does taste just so good but also at the same time it is/was the same price as a Happy Meal, equally unhealthy but ultimately more filling/fulfilling.

I board the Goodge Street tube and listen to two hipsters talking about the Adam And Joe DVD (note to self, must get that). Ten minutes later, I find myself on/at Liverpool Street throwing the towel in on the day. Oh yes, once more after a “date� with Phoebe, I find myself catching the Loser Train home. In my opinion, if you travel to London on a Saturday and fail to return home on the train without the Sunday newspaper, you have failed to have a worthwhile time in the capital. Before boarding the train I get a McDonalds, doing the 99p deal. I go up to the ethnic gentleman and ask for a double cheeseburger and he replies “how many would you like?�. “One!?�. Oh my, being asked such a question is surely a definitive sign of putting on weight.

I ride the loser train home and it is a bittersweet experience. I begin reading Billy Budd whilst sat opposite and middle-aged, middle class woman with no visible faults or frailties appears to be enjoying life and the train ride home. I envy her existence. And then sat opposite, in the seats to my left is the most beautiful Oriental family of the two parents and a little girl mischievously barking with curiosity and counting aloud to impress her mother. I don’t know, these things just seem to stand out more prominently sometimes.

When I get back to Colchester I consider calling Mark out (it is only around 9pm) but I am just too shattered after my day. Instead I turn in at home and dive into my Saturdays newspapers I am yet to read and need to pick up before Saturday is over and it is too late. I watch the Borat Television Programme re-run on TV and fall asleep. I awaken a little later, it still Saturday night stuck at home and Phoebe Toronto comes online and begins chatting to me. I tell her about my past few days and I make a good attempt/effort at sounding like the most interesting/fun person in history (I am so full of shit). While I am talking to her, all the while Channel Four is showing highlights from this weekends V Festival in Chelmsford and it really doesn’t look so hot. The nights crosses over midnight and Phoebe Toronto is able to be the first person in 2004 to wish me happy birthday. Soon afterwards she leaves to go to her own bed and I fall asleep watching the V Festival on TV. All life ends.

np: Superchunk – Throwing Things

August 20 (Friday): Sickday. Today at work is rough stuff. The bodge job that is the organisation of the Colne Carefore LLP audit reaches new heights of incompetence and personal attacks as Heddle has quite a big pop at yours truly. In general, Stevo has quite the cob on over the job being so rushed and last minute, apparently due to Mr Heddle’s disorganisation, and he is complaining/griping about the situation at every given opportunity. Today when I casually mention that next Thursday I will be having a lunchtime appointment with the good doctor, he pretty much immediately goes running to Heddle to bemoan it. Almost immediately after Stevo comes back from over the road I get Heddle on the phone fairly viciously laying into me, telling me that he cannot believe my mentality in arranging a doctor’s appointment for next Thursday and he is insistent that I move the appointment. I tell him I cannot and when he asks me why, in order to explain this requires I say over the phone, a phone shared by four people, something very personal and embarrassing within earshot of said colleagues. Being forced to say this in front of people is pretty humiliating. I fob Heddle off on the phone and immediately head over to his office to…….I don’t know what! When I get there, the door is shut. I bang on it pounding and enter. I begin talking seriously and then notice he is on the phone. I stop and take five, waiting in Ivan’s office until he sorts himself out (gets off the phone). Ivan comments that I look stressed out and I tell him Heddle has had a pop at me and he goes “yeah, he’s been doing that lately�. A few minutes later he emerges and we go into Seymour’s room where we discuss/I tell him what the deal is. I don’t lose it but do take him down a peg and feel totally humiliated in the process. This incident isn’t something that will pass quickly and be forgotten.

From here, the rest of the day is the worst. I return to Chernobyl and take my seat. I don’t say a word, I just lull/dwell and think about what has just happened. Why/how on earth does/do people think they can get away with treating me in such a way? And why do I allow it? Why do I allow people go so far in belittling and upsetting me. Sometimes I really get bullied and in the process really let myself down. The record label is RIP for me the same reason, its all just a combination of communication problems and being a soft touch I guess. I think hard about this and it has a knock on effect, my process takes a domino direction and it all falls down. I look at my desk, my workspace and wonder “why the fuck do I bother when I just get treated so shit and spoken down to like I am……�. I well up and the floodgates begin to open. Oh my god, what the fucking hell is wrong with me? I spend the next the ten minutes sat in the toilet basically hiding and regrouping myself, pulling myself together. Jesus Christ I am almost 28, I am supposed to be an adult. Whoops.

When I emerge, I am pretty much “fuck everybody� in my attitude. Luckily it is late morning, so soon I can get out and go to lunch with Azmei. And I really feel that Stevo has let me down as a friend by just reacting the way he did and stirring up Heddle to the point that he had a pop at me in the form he did. For the rest of the day, I decide it is best not to talk to anyone in the office again today.

At 12.39, Steph (Margaret’s daughter) texts me to see if we are going out with her and her friend Rachel tonight. This has been a prospect long looming over my/our head(s). Basically, Steph has got a friend who she is trying to set up with Stevo and I am the go-between it seems. And said friend is some 31 year old that lives at home looking after her mother who enjoys socialising at the Hippodrome nightclub in Colchester. This girl is not a cancer cure. I knew this was coming, that Steph would want to try and get us out tonight to pair her friend up with Stevo and I really really never ever wanted to go the Hippodrome. As a result of today’s incident, I do Stevo a dis-service and ignore the text and do not give him the option of doing the do, as it would only involve dragging me out to even numbers. Why doesn’t anyone ever try to set me up? Maybe because I’m a cry-baby bastard. Anyways, the last thing I want/need is to be hung-over for tomorrow in London and to have Stevo crash over mine and me having to endure getting him up and kicking him out in the morning.

Fortunately too much thinking is averted when Azmei turns up and I am completely relieved to be getting away from the office and my treacherous work colleagues for an hour. A lack of ideas sees us heading to Yates and ordering the usual. Or at least attempting to order the usual, the Yates fryer is up the spout. I wind up eating lasagne with mash potato! Lunch with Azmei is a bit laboured to be honest. She tells me all about her mum falling ill and all about life in Leicester. As per my prediction, she is bored stuck at home all day playing mummy, which lends weight to the theory that work for her was “playtime� and her entire social life. Today I really don’t fancy her, she has lost a fair bit of weight but doesn’t look good for it. And she is dressed very very casually (badly). From my end, I tell her this and tell her that but for some reason I make it sound like I have little report and have done little since she left in June, which definitely isn’t necessarily true. Phoebe gets mentioned briefly but the subject does not get addressed much. I pull out my Cantonese phrase book to much hilarity and sadly our lunch benefits greatly from the prop (has our mere conversation skill exhausted and now deserted us?). Today’s lunch feels flat, like our spark has now long left us. I tell her how her sister flipped at me and unsurprisingly (and rightly) Azmei gets defensive for her sister but she does say “Sarah didn’t fly off the handle yesterday�. Bollocks. I show Azmei the nutzoid text of Sarah proclaiming her hatred for me. Azmei laughs at it but still looks at me (my claims) with scepticism. There is nothing I can in my defence is there? We leave Yates and walk around town for a bit. She asks me if I am serious about Phoebe and I tell her that the distance thing makes it not possible and that if I lived/worked in London I would feel that it would at least have a chance. We part ways.

As I walk back to the office I bump into Ben. Ben is looking healthy and he is now wearing glasses and therefore is looking smart, sexy and intelligent. Thanks to Col U’s great start to the season, he is bouncing! He asks me if I want to go out tonight and I tell him about the suggested Stevo rendezvous but say “no� because I want/need to be in full health for tomorrow! We leave on terms, him telling me to call him about going out tonight but adding “you won’t will you�. Nope. Ha ha.

After lunch I bump into Heddle and now he is nice nice. Whatever, I’m curt and bordering on rude, I don’t want to speak (or be spoken) to him today.

Today ends not before time, this has definitely been one of my work days at BS ever. When I get home I discover I have finally received my "Important Information From HM Government" envelope/booklet/leaflet. What happened Tony Blair? I know people who have had their booklets for weeks! Is my life not as important as theirs?

From there I slip into bed and watch Wayne’s World on DVD, almost in preparation for tomorrow, the mock cack handed way of learning conversational Cantonese ever known in the history of man. Hey, halfway through they even get bored of speaking it and just allow the subtitles to run on on their own. I fall asleep before the ending of the movie, I really should not be watching such a film from so far back in my past, this is nostalgia and its what makes a person old (amongst other things).

A much better televisual experience rears its held early evening in the form of Queer Eye For A Straight Guy. Oh shit, I bought the book and still have not taken it out of the carrier bag, let alone read any of it. Self improvement seems slow for Jason Graham. And tonight’s plans are scuppered further when Dad hits me on MSN early evening and I miss the majority of the show. Tonight Dad is all gloom and doom. Work is messing him about, he is bored, the dog is old, he doesn’t feel well and now it looks like the social services may be about to claim back £6,000 that they have given my parents in “error�. No normal people can just come up with that kind of bread in a whim as I am lead to believe the SS are expecting. So generally, the tone of our conversation is sombre to say the least. Words of spoken of them maybe having to sell up and I begin to wonder how this will effect me. Ouch, this really is not a very good day.

Around 9pm my cellphone begins ringing and it is Steph, obviously ringing to see if Stevo and I have come out to play. Like a true, royal shit I ignore it and do not answer. Tonight there is/are going to be two really disappointed girls out there on the streets, pubs and clubs of Colchester.

Once dad is gone, I take in the usual feast of Friday night TV comedy, which I have always thought was aimed at the single and lonely in order to make them laugh and to prevent them from being depressed and committing suicide. Tonight’s menu includes Will & Grace (guest starring a very hot Minnie Driver) and Borat Television Programme. These shows are good but they’re not great, they don’t make me forget my life and my shitty, they’re not cathartic and the least of my daily grind. In other words, I am missing Bo Selecta.

Too early on a Friday night, I put myself out of misery and face the music for tomorrow.

np: Lemonheads – Into Your Arms

The Show 

August 19 (Thursday): Farewell My Little Viking. Not much to report from work today, Andy gets me working on a job called RP Installations which is pretty much a bog standard job/client for this office/practise.

This morning however finds itself filled with drama when Sarah, Azmei’s nutty sister, decides to send a host of abusive text messages my way due to something Drew said to her Friday night that is apparently down to me, some jokey comment from him about her living at home and having a revolving door for men coming in and out of the house and her (ha ha). Apparently this is from my working/imagination but ultimately it just too creative for something for me to make up, I can’t be arsed to make up stories. Also add to this that Sarah far from actually puts out (her big failing) and she gave me all this shit about her being indecently assaulted last year. Still, Sarah goes absolutely bollo at me and it culminates when at 11.36 AM I receive a three part text message stating: “i really hate ppl who feel the need 2 slag me off u dnt knw me how dare u lie and tell drew i have dif men at my house on wot grounds did u say it?none i hate u u knw wot hap 2 me how dare u good bye have a good lifd maybe if u stoped feelin sorry 4urself u wud enjoy life and stop tryin 2 defame me�. Oh my, insane in the membrane. I ask around the office, mainly Drew, just what she is exactly on about and all responses are blank and disbelieving. Amazingly though, within a few texts I manage to turn her around and calm her down but my god the girl is mixed pickles. Leave it alone Jason.

At lunchtime I fancy a Zentral Chinese buffet and me and Stevo go get some. Lunch is really stunted, rather dull and definitely not flowing in conversation. Not to worry though, the food is pretty good and the service is beautiful and pretty.

When I finally get home I rush around to burn a CD for tonight’s, a CD now including tracks by Decahedron, Tortoise, Sonic Youth, Charlotte Hatherley, the Catheters, the Liars, Rapeman, Big Black etc etc.

In the evening I go into this weeks session telling the good doctor that I have now booked up for the English A-level class and that this will be one of our final sessions. She adds to this that she is off on holiday at the end of next week and that our session, our last, will now have to be moved to lunchtime (1pm). That is fine by me. Our penultimate session is seen to be full of optimism….. We discuss Friday and my crazy life. She is impressed I went to see David Cross by myself and thinks all the drama of my workplace will make for a good subject to write about. This is cool This is encouragement.

With that all out of the way, I proceed to Marks and head straight to the Arts Centre to kick off. When we arrive a band is already in action. As a result of the noise, I have to shout at the door boy my name on the guestlist. Now, I do not have the best of shouting voices and for one reason or another the minus intellectual manning the door asks me my age. So on the eve of my 28th birthday, I am being asked by some whether I have reached the age of the 18 yet, a prospect which poses definite pros and cons with it. I react by just looking at the simpleton with amusement (whereas a few years ago I may well have wanted blood). Instead today, I laugh and lie and say “I’m 28!�. Fucking hell this nation is going to the dogs.

The first band on are the Edmund Fitzgerald. They’re a late addition to the bill I believe and do that whole hardcore instrumental thing (not unlike Cove) that seems rife these days. I used to hear it at almost every gig a few years ago as/while Reynolds were doing their thing. Basically it is caffeine free Shellac-lite, a bit like the Oxes, everyone’s least favourite band I believe. That said though, when done by rhythm it often can surround surprisingly powerful/effective and tonight the Edmund Fitzgerald pull it off.

I begin my DJ set to a next to empty hall and so early in the evening, no-one wants fast/loud music, as per the majority of tracks on my CDs. Whoops. In a way I feel I am scraping the barrel with the set I play initially but who can fault Ry Cooder by Tortoise, the most fantastic of songs. Also Sixtoo sounds grand and slowly things begin to pick, even though all evening my set feels flat, not least due to the balance on the decks (I mean CD players) being pretty out of whack (although it does/did take me half the evening to realise this). One shocker song though: Butterfly Potion by Gumball (the Foetus cover) went down fantastically well.

Band two is/was One Unique Signal (One Certain Moment) (I think). Firstly, what a terrible name. Surely that name is way too close to the band name One True Voice to be comfortable? I actually saw the band once before but that was during the Paper Chase gig at the Arts Centre earlier this year when I got in the drunkest state I have ever gotten at during a gig (even drunker than Fear And Loathing ATP). On that night I could swear blind they were Blonde Redhead copyists and at the time I was deffo going to buy one of their CD-Rs. However that night, that never happened. Instead on that night, I just fell over on the dancefloor and puked. Tonight however is a whole different moment. Like China Drum (ho ho), One Unique Signal (One Certain Moment) have a singing drummer, which is an occurrence not dis-similar to a dancing bear in my opinion. Oh the torture that everyone must go through, first the drummer having to sing and concentrate on rhythms at the same time and then the aftermath of people (both band and listener alike) talking about the fact the drummer sings for hours upon end. Truly, here is a gimmick more speech worthy than Slipknot. Well, maybe not. Tonight the band sound like Joy Division and not much else. And at the end of the day, that means: you gotta LOVE the bass sound. Also though, bare in mind you can’t spell the name Joy Division with the word “div�.

Them out the, the night begins swinging. Disco wise, I chuck on Colchester’s finest: DJ So Clear and Rup The Cunt with “King Cnut� and of course The Blitters and “Eating Your Brains�. This is the stuff of culture star.

The third band on the bill are Colchester’s own *Teevo. Sometime, somewhere there was some hype surrounding them at the beginning of the year (well, in our little poxy circle). They wind up being a lot less alternative and inventive that we had hoped/prayed for. Here is/was a band with a lite singer, a boy sounding like a girl which draws obvious comparisons to Placebo after initial spells of Ash and Hurricane #1 references. On they go with a very long set and the best moments almost feel directly lifted from Hole and so sound aces as a result but very unsatisfying/unfulfilling resulting in the musical equivalent of a nil-nil draw.

As the end of the night beckons I play as many loud tunes as possible: Sonic Youth, Blonde Redhead, Free Kitten, Fugazi all lovely. When I drag out Mistakes And Regrets by Trail Of Dead it is very satisfying to see Steve Cat On Form onstage airdrumming as they get prepared for their set. My only disappointment is that I never get around to playing Huggy Bear and Nation Ulysses (note to self: this is 2004 not 1992!).

And Cat On Form turn out to be a real treat. I have heard SO much shit said about Cat On Form that I have avoided them like the plague to date. And what a waste that has been as Cat On Form churn out the kind of passion that is so devoid from nearly all new bands that I have seen in the past two/three years. Who cares if they look like Fugazi-lite done by a manual, it is fast, heavy and loud and alive! Their touring schedule as always reads relentless and baring in mind that this is their last (or penultimate) set of this tour, they are still amazingly visibly putting so much into their art and craft. Of course it looks a bit silly when the shirts come off and people make concentration camp comments but what do people do about? They stand still and take it while Cat On Form carry on regardless/relentless. A real blot on the landscape occurs when the singer announces that “this song is about the commodification of the female body�, the problem being no adult will ever be able to listen to a singer use the “commodification� without smirking/scoffing. Whatever though, the show ends on a high with a set far surpassing all expectations and making a huge new fan out of me. The end.

After the show, I attempt to squeeze out a final few tunes but the soundmen, wanting to get home, are rightly having none of it. Mark and myself chip after saying “thank yous� and “goodbyes� and getting some dirt on Colchester’s own Peter Brame (Fame Academy fag) and then it is back to Mark’s freehouse. After a long day, Mark cooks up some super pasta for the hungry DJ Gram. He rules and I rules.

np: Gumball – Butterfly Potion

David Cross live in London. Just like watching a Mr Show DVD 

he is SO the man 

August 18 (Wednesday): Inspector 34. This morning I wake up panicking as I am not wearing my watch: did I get drunk and leave it somewhere? Have I been robbed? I awaken from a dream set in Ipswich (looking like Norwich) where I have been shopping, for part with Louise, searching out Wayne’s World on DVD. I also go into some poor bookshop, where in the sex/erotic section I find an illustrated Bettie Page and when I open it up, it is a complete illustrated history of professional wrestling.

I see the news and its kicking off in Viet-Iraq as usual. A gentleman called Moqtada Sadr is causing trouble and everytime his name is mentioned, it sounds as if some mad Scotsman has taken over.

We get some more early morning MSN with Sara this morning and she is giving me shit for the X consecutive day running it seems/feels to me. I also receive an angry Ebay related email and my piss poor start to the day is complete.

As I walk into work Sarah from Hays tells me about the firm that I am going to have an interview at this morning, I am kind of suspicious of the place because it does not have a website, which these days is now unbelievable for a company/firm not to have.

For another day running, I turn up into work slightly late. I finish the lesbian garden centre accounts and blank Lindsey. I have a few words with Louise about things, not least “what happened with Janine?�. Lousie says she is keeping tight lipped, so that means everyone is now able to make up their own minds as to just what happened and to just how bad it/I was. Mean.

After the incident though, and now that people are coming back round to me, I have learned that you can get away with next to murder providing you move on, acting as if possessing a clear conscience and the courage of your convictions. You just have to ride through storms and rise above and this is how BASTARDS get through life. Kudos.

I leave work at lunchtime, just basically announcing to everybody that I am taking the afternoon off work holiday. Like a coward I do not approach any partners about this, instead I just write it in the diary.

When I arrive home there is a letter from my new property management, Pier Management group. They are kicking off because I have not paid them the ground rent. I don’t usually pay the ground rent to them so I have waiting for some kind of confirmation that they are the correct people to pay but now I receive a demand letter from them, adding charges and threatening all sorts of legal actions towards including the ultimate threat: forfeiture of leasehold (ie my being evicted). I get on the phone and ask them what’s going on. It takes an eternity to get through to them and this holds me up on leaving for London. When I finally speak to someone at Pier Management, the woman is fucking useless and not giving me any leeway on the admin charge they have added to the bill. And not only this, when I resign myself to paying the full amount over the phone, the scamming cunts go and add a £2.50 credit card transaction charge to the bill payment. And what can I do about all this? Sweet FA.

Oh dear, so this all puts me in the wrong frame of mind for going up to London and the interview on Marylebone High Street. I board a train around 3pm and this means I get into town around 4pm, managing to avoid a rush hour hold up. My interview is set for 5pm so this gives/lends me plenty of time to head to Dean Street and the Soho Theatre on a whim and to see whether I am able to get any tickets for David Cross (this is such a hot ticket now). Joy of joys, perhaps indicating a change in fortunes, I manage to get a returned ticket and soon I am set/made up for an evening in London watching the apparent heir to Bill Hicks. Yes! As I walk triumphantly up Oxford Street towards Oxford Circus to catch a train I find myself passing Mutya from the Sugababes on the footpath/pavement. My god, she is so small and koala bear like. I love her so!

From there, semi elated, I hop aboard a train to Baker Street. Today is the best of all interviews so far in The City, I am really blasé about things and completely on time, early almost. I arrive at Baker Street, map in hand and hop off to my destination. This is now Sherlock Holmes territory and by it I am more than impressed, this really is not a part of London I ever come to. I head towards Marylebone High Street and in the process I pass Madame Tussards and instantly I know that I am on the map! Personally I think there cannot be any city anywhere else in the world as exciting as here. Eventually I find Marylebone High Street and it looks a very posh part of town, full of strange fashion “shops� that look like galleries. As I walk up the high street I pass a café and sat outside it is DJ Gary Crowley and by spotting this Z-list celebrity I am turned on, how fickle can Graham get? I check my phone for texts and emails and there I find an email from Azmei. Apparently she popped into the office today to see if I wanted to go for lunch. Fantastic! She wishes much luck in my interview and its gives me a warm feeling to think that she still cares. As the time soon approaches the interview hour, the clouds come over London and it is inevitable things are about to rain. I however have my own minor crisis when I reach the end of Marylebone High Street and cannot find my office destination. I eventually find a door and the tiniest of address panels for the office, I guess they don’t want to advertise the fact that they’re there too much. At this point the heavens open and drench everything insight. I stand beneath a shop cover next to the office and wait for the final five minutes to die before my interview. As I stand, I have a lady come up to me asking where Maida Vale is. For once I am able to help out a stranger as I pull out a map from my pocket.

Eventually I bite the bullet and go for the interview, search and destroy (ho ho!). The office building is strange, proper old style London but modernised at the very same time. Sneaking into such a building, so invisible from outside, I feel privileged as if let into some kind of hidden bunker secret. The building looks like Cadogan House all over until I actually enter the office floor where it is ultra modern, looking like something out of Boiler Room. I have to admit I find it unnervingly quiet as no one appears to be still at work in the office, with the company seeming so new without a website suddenly there is something really REALLY Boiler Room about the whole operation. The receptionist leads me into the meeting/board room where sat in the centre is a bottle of Evian. She asks me if I would like a drink and I say “I’ll just help myself to some water�. I choose the Evian, is this a psychological test and/or faux pas? And then next comes the other headtrip, where to sit? In interviews, body language I am lead to believe screams almost equally as much as speech and knowledge. So, in choosing where to sit you need to consider such factors as: which is my best side? Where will I be best lit? How will I be facing my interviewer? Blah blah blah, this is all ridiculous psychobabble of course.

After a mighty wait (weight) my interviewer eventually turns up, just as I am fidgeting with the inside pocket of my jacket of course. In the room steps a very lively man. This man looks like the singer from Black Lace gone fat, retired and become an accountant. He actually turns out to be a really interesting person that I feel I click with. Interestingly he has never qualified as an accountant and here he is looking to take on someone like me, someone eagerly trying to make it but baggaged by being unqualified. Go figure. The job sounds primarily like assisting him, him who comes over like a younger version of Seymour with city versions of Heddle’s shitty income and expenditure jobs. It pretty much sounds like a job I can do easily although the man comes over as if being what I would imagine to be a real arsehole to work. He is also kind of amusing, letting slip that he is more in place for his marketing/promotional expertise rather than his actual accounting ability/knowledge. And what makes me think this? Its when he tells me “I’ve been pissed with about 20% of my clients� and “they’re always saying to me, are you sure you are an accountant?�. This is a comical individual. During the course of the interview I do feel I give a few answers that do let me down slightly, I guess my knowledge is not as vast as I thought it was. The interview runs quickly and is pretty much over just past the thirty minute point. Once more, my interviewer heavily pushes the commuting angle, seriously questioning whether I am up to it. Personally, I think so. The interview ends and I get led out, the pair of us continuing to bullshit eachother royally. He asks me if I’m “off back to Colchester now� and I am able to say that I am staying in town which I think/expect impresses him most about me in this interview. He asks me what I’m doing and I tell him that I am going to see “an American comedian called David Cross� and he starts telling me how he has a couple of comedians on his books who are currently doing the Edinburgh Festival. He throws some names at me and I pretend to recognise them, actually convincing myself that one of them is the lady that I heard on Mark Radcliffe’s show from Edinburgh last night. I then go on to add that I once considered taking a stand up comedy course in Soho at the beginning of last year. Maybe this was a dumb move.

I emerge from the interview semi-elated, the closing exchange seemed to be a winner, basically tonight felt like rapport! As I stagger back out onto the streets of Marylebone I find myself texting everyone I know with jollies and good vibes. Surprisingly however, no one answers my texts. Outside, once more the environment has turned again and the weather has turned nice, blooming into an August summer evening. As I walk back to Baker Street I discover an Oxfam book shop and find myself going inside. What is wrong with me? I never go into second hand/charity shops, they are for the poor and the pikeys and the pikey students and the general lamestains that are from rich families but don’t work and are pseudo poor/broke. Yes, I fucking hate you! I am here however finding myself looking for a novel called Billy Budd by Harold Melville. No dice. I do instead find a Woody Allen script book of four of his movies including Annie Hall, Manhattan and Interiors. Four pounds, a bargain! I then also discover the book Eddie from Frasier wrote (honestly!). I guess it must have been ghost written. This typifies the city, this is most definitely a charity shop several levels/notches above those I experience at home.

Once back on Baker Street I find myself in the middle of a bustling gotham. The evening is young and promising, it just post work and everyone has been let out to play. And everyone is from everywhere. A lot of people have me down as close-minded, to the pointed of bigoted but here the whole multiculturalism of this place just fills me with excitement, unlike home where a coloured face is the exception, a hundred different textures/tones is the norm. I opt out of taking the easy route, just hopping aboard a train to my given destination and I decide to just get lost on purpose. I walk streets in London that I have never before and see buildings and sights I previously never knew existed and now I get a buzz on. In an act of ultimate irony, I find myself passing a building called Seymour House as I contemplate my career. This point in my life is perfect, if only I wasn’t flying solo.

I do indeed lost and it doesn’t feel very clever. I now see why some people compare London to New York, wherever you go and whatever they have done to them, tall buildings remain tall buildings. I look up, looking for some kind of beacon, some kind of monument of recognition and there I see Centrepoint in the distance. I turn a corner and find myself walking side by side with some loud Italians. And they appear as lost as me, one of them evening asking me the way/direction to Edgeware Road. Hey, I must pass for regular, a London inhabitant. Apologetically I tell him I don’t know and prey he does not pull a knife on me out of anger. Nope, instead he asks a real townie. I stagger on, losing and just as I think I am arriving on New Oxford Street, it appears that I am nowhere of the sort, I am still very much far from home.

Finally I arrive on somewhere I know, as I find myself back in the midst of humanity and the thriving retail Armageddon, here I am on Bond Street, all by accident and not design. I walk up the streets macking all the people around me, compared to Colchester this feels like another country, maybe another planet. On the streets random people are handing out bibles and I wonder what their angle is whilst also being too scared to ask. I continue up the road and I pass the street where my original interview occurred, the one with Slaven Jeffcote where I fought above my weight, held my own and only got criticised for being bedraggled. Would I still succumb to such a fate right now, tonight in a rematch? This evening the world is my oyster.

I have a real failing when I am in a good mood, my worries seem to exit me. And with worries, I mean financial concern/care/sensibilities. After hitting not one but two HMVs I find myself eagerly purchasing Wayne’s World on DVD just for the scene where Wayne speaks to Cassandra in Cantonese. Loser! What do I expect/hope to repeat the scene with Phoebe or something? Well, yes. I also snap up two Relic Hunter DVDs and unconsciously make my purchase a hat-trick of Tia Carrere DVDs. Oh my, that is what you call obsession. Still in the same shop, I find myself being hounded/stalked by security and almost not realising it until it is too late. And does he find myself doing? I am scrutinising and looking at the latest seven inch single the record label I used to run has put out. It costs £4 and looks really shitty. I put it back in the wrong section and turn around to find myself being macked by a security guard thinking/expecting me to put it into my carrier bag. Hate you!

As I walk up Oxford Street towards Centrepoint (and more importantly Virgin Megastore) my phone beeps and it is Mark asking me if I am DJing at the Cat On Form show tomorrow night. Whoops, haven’t asked. I immediately text Staff to ask and gives it a-go-go and I am set for the decks.

By now, retail begins to wail and when I find myself in Virgin on Oxford Street, I find myself rather bored and now wasting time before David Cross begins at 9pm, the time now being just 7pm. Initially I stagger into the basement Costa but the Ukrainian bean merchant behind the counter (Steve Boyle © 2004) tells me that he is shutting up shop. I still head over and use their bathroom though and when I see my reflection in the mirror I feel I have never looked more adult or more magnificent in my whole life, this is my time, I have arrived (ha ha ha ha ha!).

As I plod around the comedy DVDs looking for In Sickness And In Health DVDs my phone beeps again and suddenly out of the blue it is Sarah asking if we are friends? My world, my god! This is the most unexpected text ever received by man I suspect. And sadly she finds myself buzzing on good vibes so I only reply with like, being kind saying “its all gravy�. Bad Jason, this is an insane girl I need to CUT out of my life. For tonight however, she is my latest friend.

From Virgin I stagger back out onto the seat finding the time only just hitting 8pm and me waiting forever for 9pm. Not really hungry, I weigh up my options. Number one is to go to a stinky pub to watch England v Ukraine with a bunch of strange/stranger pissheads and get my suit filthy, stinky and in dire requirement of a dry clean (yeah, like it isn’t already). Or two, get a Burger King. To me, the latter options seems/feels the least humiliating of the two and I plump for a chicken sandwich jobby with one of their McFluffy, only this is BK so its probably a King Flurry or something. I take my feast downstairs into the eating area and it is empty save for a sole man on his own. Initially this is fine, the man is scruffy and probably just some pikey student slumming it. That’s the bad thing with first impressions, you only get to make them once. As I look via my SAS peripheral vision it turns out the guy has no food and not only this, he begins to root around the plastic pot plant looking for something, like a dire cross between David Bellamy and Indiana Jones with AIDS. I much nervously as it occurs to me that this guy is obviously probably a homeless smackhead, out to smack heads. And in my suit, I look like I have money because, let’s face it, I am SO money. Fortunately my sphincter loosens as fellow patrons come into the eatery/establishment and Mr Wino disappears back off to his box home. This home however is full of chit chat tourists and soon it is apparent that I am the only English speaking person that frequents this hole. Our languages however are universal when some poor girl falls down the stairs/steps. Ordinarily I’d laugh my arse at the girl but today I am nice and her fall looks fucking painful, I am basically astonished that she can even fucking walk beyond it (I guess I gained some ankle empathy when I almost broke drunkenly broke the pair of mine this year). As I leave the fine BK establishment I find myself reunited with smackhead (smackdown) friend who is now comfortably sat/propped upstairs.

I walk over to the Soho Theatre in the full knowledge that England are beating Ukraine 1-0. This is Soho on a school night and to me it is terrifying, I don’t think I have ever really been here before. And unfortunately I have time to kill just as it starts/begins to rain yet again. As I walk up Dean Street a police car stops right in front of me. Are they out to get me or just put me in their back seat and drive me home to safety? Neither, they’re doing their routines probably on their way to Tesco Metro to get some doughnuts. It goes without saying that I get to Soho Theatre really early and stand outside alone for too long a time, looking like a stood up date (a look, with life, I have now managed to master).

Finally after convincing staff I am not some crazed stalker, they let me in. Or rather, the open doors to the public. I take my seat in the third row and sit awkwardly in my suit while hipster kids and indie rockstars gather around me. To them, do I represent selling out and being the MAN? Intimidation for the nation. Around 9.30, after a PA soundtrack of uber-college/indie rock, David Cross hits the stage. But this isn’t just David Cross, it is DAVID CROSS! And it is the old cliché of “he looks a lot smaller person�. He opens his mouth and this is not Ronnie Dobbs. He starts out by pacing and doing a lap/circle of the audience before launching into his righteous set of stories. And of course this being a hip audience, the utter Americanisms do translate comfortably even if they only garner nervous “that was clever� laughs instead of gut wrenching belly laughs. As a person used to listening to and hearing jokes of my favourite comedians mainly via CDs and TV, it is really weird taking in a set from a person and already knowing the punch lines to half the jokes. But still, fuck it, stood there right in front of me performing like a chimp is Ronnie Dobbs, the guy from Mr Show and the guy who tried to hit on Rebecca in Ghost World, this event has a really sense of timing attached to it, a real sense of now, like this month long stay at the Soho Theatre will go down in comedy history. This guy ain’t Lenny Bruce. In David Cross, certain quarter will have you believe we an apparent heir to Bill Hicks but this just is not true, in comparison Cross’s style seems to lack composure, spite and downright nastiness that Bill Hicks had. I actually think David Cross’s rambling style of performance is more akin to Henry Rollins, a lot of tame venom aimed very high and a lot of “I like you, you like me� audience interaction. Cross takes aim and fires at the obvious such as Bush and although not getting bogged down by being too specific with targets (like Michael Moore) but never really manages to get a clean/clear balance between PC and un-PC targets. Halfway through the set, after a top heavy blast at his and our president, he does some visual impressions of first a smack baby, followed by Stephen Hawking having sex and ending with an impression of a drummer with stump arms. Either way, he had to be feeling dirty at this point. Ultimately I feel the performance is/was all about being intelligent rather than being funny. And such performances do feel like a meeting of some secret society with this week’s guest speaker from out of town. I adore Mr Show and love Ronnie Dobbs but the man David Cross on his own is little more than a TV comedy writer/performer stretching too far. All that said, I have a fantastic watching a man in motion who you feel is on your side and doing all his best to make it happen. His set ends with a thud rather than thunder but I still leave having had a fantastic time, if for most his off colour sex and abortion and if for least to namedrop. One last opportunity/chance of redemption is offered when some beautiful girls with beautiful voices yell helplessly “do Ronnie Dobbs� which either Cross doesn’t hear or care for.

As I leave, his new CD is being hawked in the foyer, his new CD signed! I’m always a sucker for a souvenir (especially considering I have already downloaded the album off/from Soulseek). For the record, my CD says “sorry for America�.

I saunter out onto Dean Street in a rush to get the last intercity train back to Colchester (on its way to Norwich) but I also emerge from the show dryer/more thirsty than a Desert Rat. I get me some liquid in the Tesco Metro and as I storm towards Oxford Street, out of the sick hands of Soho, an unmarked cab shouts out to me, asking me if I want a ride. I have finally arrived!

I get my train without problem, even having time to stop for a coffee. My night ends on a high as I listen to old stylee Mark Radcliffe on the radio on my cellphone and exchange text messages with Phoebe and continues to compliment me on my Cantonese, asking me who is teaching me “all this�. All in all, it makes my hour plus train ride from Liverpool Street to Colchester feel like ten minutes.

I get home shattered but with one of the biggest smiles possible on my face. And if that is the aftermath of going to a David Cross show, I only want to do it again.

np: The Kinks - Lola

August 17 (Tuesday): Halloweenie. Weird dream last night, I’m walking up Butt Road near the police station and Colchester seems to be clamping down and having an amnesty on baseball bats. I find myself getting stopped and being ordered to surrender the little baseball bat I bought in Sacramento last year, as if it could do any damage…. When I wake up, I wonder where the bat is and where it has gone.

Regardless of that freaky mind trip warp, I wake up early as is the way for me currently with it being summer etc. I MSN with Sara some and it feels like an argument although she denies this. Basically she is giving me more grief over my anger management. What, does she think I’m fucking Ronnie Dobbs or something?

I walk into work maxing/macking on Chris Moyles who has Ben Stiller with him on his radio show. It is a nice leisurely stroll into work along Layer Road into Butt Road and all in all, it sees me arriving late to work. I am too laid back.

At work I put Gatehouse to semi-bed and put adjustments through on Viztopia and Louise is still very offish. Forgetting that though, I get a semi-panicked Mark on the phone asking me if I can download an email for him in Japanese script/font on Word for a translation job for him (turns out his version of Word is a little out of date). I run around the office, getting the document off the office internet and looking all over for an XP computer that will work it. None do and I have to telephone Mark back with failure. Fortunately however Mark chooses to take it to the library where they are equipped to the hills (apparently).

I text Azmei once more asking how things are, mainly with her mum. Once more she does not respond.

I go back upstairs to the office where Louise and Janine are and they remain frosty and very offish. Janine makes a few smart comments aimed in my direction, not least the arrogant one “you have a lot to learn about treating women/ladies�. I ask “have you got a cob on?� and she goes “yes, in the future you ought to keep your mouth shut and you should keep your hands to yourself�. What the fuck? Oh my, it sounds like I tried it on with her Friday which is really freaky because she next to repulses me by her general phoniness. By this I am very embarrassed and soon make myself scarce and basically hide in Chernobyl for the remainder of the day.

Back in Chernobyl the whole affair is greeted with hilarity by Stevo and Sandip while I go through a kind of personal crisis, feeling like I am being made to feel like Mike Tyson. Grief. Stevo calls for calm. I text Sara who replies with equal hilarity. The world is a vampire.

At lunchtime, Stevo, Sandip and myself all lunch in Richard’s while outside the weather turns on a spin of a coin and pisses down a storm.

In the afternoon I text Azmei again, now that I feel even more guilty about things than ever and this time she actually replies and it seems things are now all better and there had been a general overreaction/drama to incidents over the past few days. It is disheartening to get a boring response from Azmei, I feel I go into texting her almost wanting fireworks and abuse, almost looking for an opportunity to sound off. While all this drama uncurls itself, Purple Haired Girl walks past the office. There is one reliable lady who would/will never let me down.

Another bad day ends and I am relieved to the max to be out of there and on my way home to see the olds. Tonight is England U-21 vs Ukraine U-21 on Sky Sports followed by episode 2 of season 5 of the Sopranos on E4. This is pretty much (wrongly) the extent of my visit to my parents, to watch some Sky. The evening is a bit of a downer, Dad goes to bed early seeming to be in a hump/mood over something. And just as the Sopranos begins on E4 mum starts telling me how she thinks dad is ill again as he is showing similar signs to those he did when he first got cancer last year. I really do not want to hear this, I do not want to go through all this shit again (yeah right, as if I went through anything compared to them last year). We talk our way through most of the episode of the Sopranos, mum doing most of the talking.

When I leave, I drive home listening to Mark Radcliffe on Radio 2 and I return home in time to watch Haunted Honeymoon on late BBC1. Its so weird to think that when we first got Sky back in 1989, this movie was one of the big selling points/promotional pushes to get the movie channel over. Why? Phoebe Toronto comes online and we talk until past 1AM, with my trying to explain the brilliance of Tortoise to her. She has problems of her own though, a big operation on its way. Staying up last is such a bad move considering how early I was up this morning and now I will only awaken completely shattered tomorrow, tomorrow for my third job interview in London.

np: Manic Street Preachers – Archives Of Pain

August 16 (Monday): Time Tunnel. Another day, another headache. Here comes the first day back in work after Friday the 13th. I begin with the heaviest of headaches which is not assisted by an MSN session with Sara asking: who is the real Jason Graham?

I go into work sheepishly and everyone is buzzing from the cricket. There is some gossip/word spoken about the evening but not too much, mainly Sandip and Stevo are interested because they were not there and barely even know the basics. I wander around the office feeling an atmosphere in my general direction. The main person to be giving me the cold shoulder is Louise, who isn’t totally off with me but somewhat frosty. I wonder what is up and just what I did Friday night during the blanks and missing scenes. Louise doesn’t go into specifics, instead just tells me that I am horrible/nasty sometimes. Other than that though, there appears to be not lasting bad.

I text Azmei asking what happened on Friday night and she replies “you said the F word and evils�. That’s as vague as can be. I later find out that she also phones Louise this morning wanting to know what happened Friday, wanting to speak to Andy. It turns out that her mum fell ill on Friday night and suddenly all drunken shenanigans seem unimportant. I text her with concern but she doesn’t reply.

Hays telephone me about a job interview opportunity and I jump at it. Will see you Wednesday.

At lunchtime I get dragged to the Wig & Pen with Stevo to get some lunch. I’m really trying to cut eating out at lunchtimes down (out) but he is generally able to talk (whine) me around. Today is good though, Wig & Pen has got free John Smith hacky sacks for regulars. Result! The Wig & Pen during the daytime is a funny place, generally you get a couple of fucked up people in wheelchairs drinking a pint with their wobbly head through a straw. It is site and surely they shouldn’t’ be allowed to drive their mechanic wheelchairs a bit pissed? Isn’t that over the limit? I guess they don’t buy RFLs.

In the afternoon, with Louise still very VERY frosty with me, I turn to Phoebe to cheer me up swapping text messages. At least she doesn’t hate me.

After work I head to the library with Stevo where we get a Cantonese phrase book and tape out. I guess to the one I got off the internet (Pimsleur) didn’t cut it for Steve. He drops me off home when really we should be popping to the pub on a glorious night like this one and as soon as I get in my phone beeps. I hope it is Azmei replying to my text but it is Mark asking if I am going to Asda “in the near future�. Strangely I was about to, so I call him and we hook up.

We go food shopping at Asda (me mainly for bog roll) and in return he cooks for both of us back at his (his parents are away on holiday at the moment) while his brother runs around getting his shit together for his holiday in Mallorca. Mark’s food tastes SO good; I wish I could cook so well. We settle in for the high cultural experience of watching Hot Shots on Channel Five. I remember seeing this movie in Colchester cinema and thinking it was ok but what happened, tonight I barely smile and only snigger when they do a joke a kind of off colour. Mark meanwhile seems to love it, laughing his arse off. My bad.

Hot Shots tires me out royally but tonight is the start of Sopranos series 5 on Channel Four, which I genuinely have the belief that everybody should watch this show as there is something in it for everyone (not least, just to gain a better understanding of the likes and loves of Jason Graham). Mark however cannot be persuading into staying up and watching it and I chip off, racing home to watch it on my own TV, leaving with the hardest/heaviest headache known to man. Needless to say when I get in I fall asleep watching it. Oh well, nevermind.

np: L7 - Monster

August 15 (Sunday): The Big Quiet. It could have been better. This morning I wake up sore and depressed. I spend most of the morning on MSN to Sara, procrastinating, not wanting to play cricket. I ask her if she senses a certain reluctance on my part to play/attend and she says she does. Around midday Stevo phones me from a train on his way back from London and Wimbledon football somewhere. He tells me that he’s still a bit ill and he might not play. I don’t give a god damn.

Eventually I motion out with reluctance, really not in the mood to be around my bosses today and fearing fall out from my antics on Friday night. On the way I stop off at Asda and check out their delicious quick treats, opting for a kids Dairylea meal. Me purchasing that must appear pathetic.

I have little problem finding the venue, there can’t be that many places around Stanway where you can squeeze a cricket oval in. Finding the venue is easy but finding the car park, not so good. I end up parking in a kid’s school playground. Our venue for today is basically some private rich kids’ school and it is other worldly to me, the sort of place of opportunity that make my old eyes go green.

As I search for the correct car park, Griggs is turning up also and having the exact same problem. As I pass him, on my way to correction, I gesture to him and he appears to ignore me. Oh fucking great, it appears he is still pissed at me from Friday night.

When I finally show my face around the cricket box, Seymour is there greeting me and seems oblivious to my acts of carnage from Friday night. In fact, in general no one around is mentioning it much, seems life goes on. I get bought a Stella and I get ready to roll.

Initially today I don’t intend to play in white, I have an attitude and minor cob on so white really isn’t for me, no enforced attire is. Gradually though I mellow and I wind up wearing a white t-shirt over Millwall’s green and white away shirt.

Against what he said, Stevo turns up on time and we begin with our team fielding. The weather today is mixed at best, earlier it looked like storms almost but gradually the sun comes out periodically. Last year, Sunday cricket was my best point of catching a tan but it doesn’t look as if that will be the case this year.

This year our team is far superior to last, we have more match practise and more practise in general and soon wickets begin to tumble as our basic b-side bowlers take care of the early overs. I take my general stance of mid leg (or something) and stand bored waiting for my inevitable half a dozen ball action to be hit in my direction. 30 overs later and we have taken care of the girls team for barely over a hundred.

At tea we feast on caffeine and cake. After initial suggestions of putting me in to open (“no fucking way mate�), I am down to bat third. We begin our innings and I practise batting like a madman, determined not to be out for a duck for a third time! Brian is good to me and bowls me a number of balls out back, giving me pointers and telling me where I am going wrong. Personally I feel I really need to get my defensive strokes down because I am swinging at the ball like a madman, like I am playing baseball! After a good showing, Kevin gets bowled out and suddenly I am in, in a partnership with Stevo. I walk in tentatively and I get it pointed out to me that I look terrified. Very astute. I face the closing ball of the over and manage a defensive stroke and get through my first ball (wow, major accomplishment). As the second over starts out, Stevo grabs and single and suddenly I am in bat once more. I face the next ball and (accidentally) slice it behind me to where Sunny’s cousin Min is and I get my run and then Stevo calls me on the grab a second. I manage to get through the remainder of the inning. As I begin to get settled Stevo makes contact and begins to call me to run but I shout “no!� and in the process almost run him out. Luckily it doesn’t happen but it does come close and I feel really bad for such a close shave. Not long afterwards I get bowled out and my innings is over but I manage get on the scoreboard this time and for now I am more than happy to settle for my two runs (what a fucking failure).

With the pressure now off, the sphincter begins to loosen and as the day improves weather wise, it becomes more fun and fun. I settle into drinking a Stella and larking about with my team-mates, including Seymour. A wasp chooses to buzz around us, particularly me, and when it lands on my chest (on the Millwall badge on my shirt), Seymour takes the good opportunity to pound me there. Cheeky mofo. I grab my phone and begin texting Phoebe and people ask me about her, so I show them my Cantonese phrase book and show them some of my new learned language. The girls/ladies act really impressed while the partners make crude comments a many, not least Barlow who asks if her woo woo is horizontal like her eyes. Ha fucking ha. Jesus Christ, what an arsehole, I don’t go around making jokes about his wife’s cunt do I! I talk to Rachel, Andy’s girlfriend, and the subject of us going out Friday comes into play. Once more I am a good guy and don’t even hint at a mention of Sarah although she claims she caught him out (“really?�). I tell her I feel he bullies me when we are out getting pissed but she disagrees, telling me how much he likes me (apparently). It’s good to know, even if I don’t feel it.

In the meantime on the field of play, a few wickets fall and a few people retire on 25 runs but all in all our team is in the strongest position by far, this year our team is very hot and the poor girls are taking a battering. There is one girl on the team that I recognise from last year who I thought was really pretty but this year however she has super butched up and now kinda makes me feel a bit funny.

A few people turn up from the carnage that was Friday night, those being Janine and her odd husband and Ivan with Jackie and his dogs. Janine acts particularly cold to me and I am likewise to her. I speak to Ivan about Friday and more memories and accusations come flooding back and once more I feel ill about things. With him he has brought his dogs Billy and Charlie and they are now huge compared to when I saw them as pups (they’re some kind of hunting dog). Stevo grabs and walks it around, he looks so at home with a dog it is sweet.

On the field now, our team really have taken control and run up a good score, at a rate that it is only a matter of time before we have won. And it is still early in the afternoon. Eventually we win with the partners in bat and Heddle scoring the winning run I believe. Was it fixed so that the game would end that way?

With time on our hands we proceed to have another quick game, a little 5 over match with mainly the b-team players taking more centre roles. And this means me. I get into bat once more but this time I fuck up, after almost going out there with no pads, and get bowled my first or second ball whilst batting opposite Barlow in his silly hat. Whoops. Once our overs are done, Seymour grabs me and tells me to bowl. He obviously doesn’t think I am up to it, getting me to throw a few practise balls (“dude! I can fucking bowl!�). I get to bowl the fourth over of the spoon game and with my first ball I go straight through the batter and bowl them out. Unfortunately however I was not within the wicket when I bowl the ball, whoops I really do not know the rules do I. I have a really strange over bowling. I keep plugging away very inaccurately and don’t actually get any runs hit off me but still run up about five extras. Confused, I almost the umpire if the over is a maiden. I get to bowl again in the sixth over and bowl the same batter again but this time it counts and I am ecstatic. I also get a bowl hit by the batter which loops and hangs over my head and were my feet a bit quicker, I could have caught the ball and in honesty I should have moved and caught the ball. For my efforts, I royally get the piss ripped out of me for that one. As the over ends, it is down to me to close the (mini) match. I feel like a pitcher in baseball going for the save. My probably basically though is accuracy and I struggle to put the ball right up the batter, as opposed to getting any pace on it, which I am actually pretty good at doing naturally. In the end though I keep my nerve and we win with Seymour really congratulating me.

At this point Emma has now arrived with her boyfriend to watch and participate in a works social. Poor cow. By now the barbecue has kicked off and slowly we dig into tucker grub, always a bit sheepish to take those great second helpings we desire. Hilariously after we are done, the women from the cricket league come around asking for a £2.50 to chip. Whoops, I only have £2. Stevo to the rescue yet again. As we line up for our group photos, Heddle gives me grief comparing our performances, like its some kind of competition. Why do people feel they have the need to compete against me, do I really pose some kind of threat to them? And Heddle especially has been going a bit OTT recently. For the group photo I hide at the back with Griggs, don’t want my ugly going down in this history.

Around 5pm we call it quits, with Seymour wishing me on my way very enthusiastically in the highest of spirits. Seems I have done something right for a change, result!

I get in and it’s Sunday evening, what a drag. I do nothing other than bath my ass off and listen to Bill Hicks and David Cross MP3s. At 22.14 I receive a text from Phoebe “Hiya super sport dude! Lets just say I learnt not to text you Friday or Saturday nite! My day was gd thnks hope ur evening is gd too�. Good night.
np: Jeff Buckley – I Woke Up In A Strange Place

August 14 (Saturday): The Call. This morning I find myself awake at 5 AM puking up into my bathroom toilet, more than once. Last night was regrettable, a wasting evening now well on its way to forming a wasted weekend day. I have no idea at what time I got in but it could only have been a matter of hours ago so at this early hour of the morning I can only still be drunk. I return to my bed but sporadically I have to run back to my toilet to bring more poison up. It appears I got home on a homing signal/beacon again, I am still clothed, wearing my contact lenses and on top of crap on my bed. I wet my flannel and put it over my forehead as a homemade ice pack. Who am I kidding?

Around eight there is a knock at my door. I heard a van stop outside and footsteps enter our communal hall (so much for the security door) and come up the stairs. Is it a raid? Nope, its just a postman. However by this point I have managed to get myself naked, out of alcohol stained clothes, and I am scrapping around for cover. When I answer the door, I must be the illest state. Postman Pat is very apologetic. I take the parcel from Amazon and I can’t even be bothered to open it, instead I curl up back in bed hoping to fall asleep and awaken all recovered, a brand new me.

Eventually, around 1pm I awaken and feel somewhat recovered but not really fully. This level of recovery however is enough to make a normal man function on the most testing of days. If nothing else, having a weekly routine set aside for days will allow a person to at least function on autopilot and get through a day even if it is at the mental level of a zombie. And with that in mind, I head out and buy the days newspapers.

Today is the first full day proper of the Olympics. Could I care less? I doubt it.

Lunchtime comes and goes and this was when I should have been out in town functioning like an average human being. Outside today is the most beautiful of days but inside my head feels like it is dripping blood. By 2 pm I feel almost recovered, my head pains pass but the stomach trouble kicks in and I need food/subsistence, I really could have done with going out to lunch today. At this time it also occurs to me that had Azmei told me earlier that she couldn’t go to lunch then I could have gone to Millwall to see them play Leicester.

The afternoon happens and Millwall beat Leicester 2-0, scoring their first goals of the season. And it sounds like I missed out on a genuinely great game.

In early evening I call up Mark and go around there for 7pm. He tells me that the message that I left on his voicemail last night sounded caveman-esqe, 100% neanderthal. Wow, I bet that means I was a catch last night. Aces, his brother is about when I thought he was long gone to London. He is in his basement making tunes but weirdly all we can hear is this wanky post rock music shit, its like Mogwai had never happened. Unlike the usual heavy raw beats, now Steve has gone horribly worryingly mellow. Mark and I find myself monging in front of the TV, for reasons unknown to us we find ourselves watching Olympic diving for no reason known to man. We pick up the Playstation 2 and have a few games of Pro Evolution 3 before Steve comes up from the basement to watch the new version of Match Of The Day with us. He also gets me stoned, to which I am eternally grateful. Once more, after a horrendous night out previously I am able to come home to Mark’s house and spend a fucking normal chilled night in and feel like part of the human race again. The new Match Of The Day turns out to be fucking wank, completely flat and utterly stuffy. What’s the deal with dragging out the 1986 FA Cup Final to host Premiership football? We leave it early, Steve disappearing to bed and me being politely asked (hinted at) to leave. I am happy to comply. When I get in, I sleep the good sleep, clear of conscience once again.

np: Van Morrison – Glad Tidings

August 13 (Friday the 13th): Field Of Jason. Another day, another headache. No strange dreams though, so that’s a bonus. Strange thing this morning: Scrubs plays On Fire by Sebadoh on its soundtrack. I don’t why but this morning I wake up with the hump. What’s going on? What’s going wrong? I am really so unable to find good in anything?

Today at work is a real drag, my office environment annoys me, my work annoys me and my fellow workers annoy me.

Par for the course, when Azmei turns up to go to lunch with the others, needless to say she does not bother to come over and say “hello� or anything. Once an ignorant cunt, always an ignorant cunt I guess. I don’t bother to go over and say “hello� either, I’m immature like that, I exercise tit for tat. Eventually Louise calls our office (Chernobyl), calling me over the road. As soon as I get over the road, the first thing Azmei says is “I’m really sorry but I can’t make it for lunch tomorrow�. Ever notice when people add the word “really� to an apology, it makes it sound less than sincere. If I’m honest, I have to say this upsets me, I had really been looking forward to the lunch and being that she was the one suggesting it and pushing it, it looked like she was more keen than myself. I tell her “I’m used to you letting me down by now� and as conversation veers off to her prattling on to Louise or Brian about something I go back over the road. Five minutes later she comes over the road to say “hello� to the others in Chernobyl, with the pair of us saying nothing to eachother. As she leaves for lunch with the Happy Pants gang she says to me “we’ll do lunch when I get back from holiday� and I calmly and enthusiastically snap back “don’t bother� to which she responds “grow up�. F U.

From her the day takes an official crash. Who knows why and who knows how but Azmei’s rejection really really upsets me and my already grumpy mood becomes full blown fucked off. All afternoon I probably barely say a dozen words. I do have words with Azmei when she pops into the office on the way back to her car but by now, for me, the damage has already done and there is really no going back from the facts. Afterwards I speak to Louise for a bit about it all and I tell her “I’m not in the mood for going out tonight, I’ll get pissed and abusive�. She goes “well don’t go then� but I know that if I drop out, Drew drops out and the evening doesn’t happen and as a result it will all be down to me. Welcome to responsibility Graham. Tonight might be a complete disaster; I’m on a rocky road again.

In the afternoon I phone up Mark at his house but only get to speak to his brother, the intention of calling Mark being for him to call me later on this evening and to get me out of the social event of the season.


For the evening’s kick off, a meet up time gets set for 6.30, with me meeting Drew at Smiths. Seymour says he’ll be back in town around 7.00 and then the “scrounging skanks� (the girls) will be joining us around 8.00 after plastering coats of make up on their faces to make them look pullable even though half of them are in relationships. Oh yes, here comes prick tease nation. Stevo isn’t coming out tonight, I genuinely believe tonight he prefers to stay in and watch the opening ceremony of the Greece Olympics.

The evening starts out grim and I walk into town knowing I am going to get pissed tonight so I had better not take the car because if I had the car, regardless of my state and sobriety, I would only drive it home. Originally I was not going to drink tonight, I was going to be the new me, the new me that begins pints but puts them down before they are finished and does not drink himself into the ground. Tonight however, if it’s going to be just me and Drew for an elongated space of time, I really require a little something to get me through.

I start out walking to town just past 6.00, knowing that Drew is likely to turn up late for the 6.30 rendezvous. As I walk into town, the clouds get darker than ever and it’s inevitable that before I reach my destination, I am going to get rained on. Halfway on my walk, as expected Drew begins telephoning me to make sure that I am on my way.

When I arrive, it is about 6.35 and he is already there. I have a real phobia and thing about being in a pub on my own, looking like I am alone and that I don’t have any friends. Unlike the world of endless barflies taking their posts in any public house you wish, I cannot possibly be seen to be deserted. We start out drinking and tear into a couple of bottles of Budweiser. Phoebe texts me and I deal with that (yeah, like that is a real chore). First beer out of the way, I basically go “fuck it� and tear into Stellas with view to becoming Stella Monster on a Stella Riot. Not longer after we get going, Andy phones me and says he might join us out. Oh joy. In the meantime, I’m talking shit with Drew and its fine, he gives good head and at least keeps things semi interesting.

Eventually support arrives when Seymour turns up, rescuing me from Drew. Along with him is Kev (his son) and some guy in a Sloth (from Goonies) shirt. The shirt is the coolest but unfortunately I am already too drunk to mention this without sounding like a sap. Gradually people more and more people turn up as I get drunker and drunker. Firstly Andy does turn up, then Ivan and then Janine and her vacant looking friend. When Andy phoned the second time asking where we were, I told him we were at Smiths and I ask him to bring some chips as I haven’t had a dinner. Needless to say he arrives without chips and I ask him where they are and he starts going off on one to me being fat this and fat that so I grab his big honk yid nose and playfully go “beep!�. He responds “you do that again and I’ll fucking kill you�. What a great example my “boss� is setting. It goes without saying that I do do it again and he does not kill me.


Around 8 pm the slosh puppies arrive, here comes Louise, Lindsey and Emma (all my favourites) and along with them comes Azmei, that last person I want to see today/tonight, hasn’t my day already been bad enough? No wait, scratch that, the second last person I want to see out, turns out Azmei’s sister Sarah is coming out later on also. Hey, they don’t work for our poxy firm, who on earth invited them! And I know I am acting like a prick but so what, I’m pissed up on Stella which is pretty much a licence to act like an arsehole.

Tonight Andy has dragged out with him some guy from the Goat and Boot called Chris. He is a mate of Ivan’s and is wearing a red England shirt and looks ready to go off at any second. I talk to him for a bit but I’m slurring all over the show and generally acting like a prick. He tells me how “Stella knocks my head off� while I’m doing my impression of Alexei Sayle.

There is a major issue tonight with regards to spends. Generally when the girls come out it is their privilege that they don’t buy drinks. What? This is where the unflattering term “scrounging skanks� comes from my little black heart. We have an initial whip round of ten pounds notes and as soon as a round has been bought for the drinks, a second whip round is being ask for from the men. I go off on one, refusing to put in if the girls don’t. Generally, I act like a complete proper bastard, going off at the girls over this issue. I find myself ranting “what’s the point in buying them drinks all night, its not as if we’re going to get to fuck any of them�. Ouch. And when they suggest moving onto Edwards, off I go saying “typical there you go, we buy them drinks and then they fuck off elsewhere� which prompts defensive words from Lindsey. I begin downing bottles of booze in one and we soon move on but not before I get some shouts off on/with Lindsey as I point out the ridiculousness of our group trying to get into Edwards when Ivan/Andy’s friend Chris is wearing a fucking red England replica shirt. And as per expected/me, the bouncers at Edwards will not let him but then I see something I haven’t seen in a long long time, Lindsey sweet talks the bouncer! Andy slips off his suit jacket and Chris puts it on over his England shirt and this is satisfactory. Oh my. So, where do we go now?

All chance of semblance of normality for the evening goes to the wall as Azmei’s fucking sister Sarah turns up which is pretty much a red rag to a bull as far as I am concerned. My mentality, right or wrong, is “how fucking dare she show her face at one of my work socials?�. Ha ha, I’m a ranter. And the skank suddenly/immediately makes a b-line for Andy. Good, he can fucking have her. Somehow I find myself in a little group with Ivan and Chris and it’s a bit spikey to say the least. Someone, somewhere gets me a pint of Stella and I get egged on by someone (Drew I think) to down it in one and I fucking do it, I am such a lout sometimes. As soon as it goes down I (apparently) begin mouthing at Ivan “Stellah!!! Buy me another one!�. Around this point Chris says something to Ivan which cracks him up 100%. I want in on the joke but Chris is staying tight-lipped. Ivan tells Chris its ok to tell me and he goes “its like the fucking Kumars around here tonight�. And off I go, running with the ball saying “kumar this� and “kumar that�. And I suspect I may even have said the P word a number of times also. Like a twat, I keep finding myself bucked to one side by people and keep winding up in the face of Sarah and Andy and the only thing I can muster to say to her face all evening is “bog off� and laugh (it being the MSN insult she threw at me the other week). Whatever, I may be pissed but she is worthless.

I go to the bar and buy myself drinks, no whip action for me now it seems. I order a Stella and a blue WKD and down the WKD at the bar in one, maybe at this point the bouncers should really be steering me out the establishment in a friendly manner. Surprisingly/shockingly though, it all goes down well not least the Stella. I do however need to make a pee break and when I return to our area in Edwards everyone has gone! Oh fucko, I think I have been ditched and rightfully so. I stagger out onto the streets of Colchester and through luck beyond luck I see Louise outside Hub who beckons me in but not before telling me to go home. Inside Hub I get reunited with old faces, friends reunited all the way. By now the night appears to be flagging but maybe the appearance is equally down to my lack of ability to see straight as it is people not having a good time. By now the males appear to be outnumbering the females, have the girls already moved on? Did they exhaust our beverage funds and run to the hills? No time to consider this too much, the night has reached a pinnacle for me and now I require the bathroom. As I head for toilet I basically fall into some poor poser punter. I am eternally lucky that he is cool with/to me because so many could get so ratty over a thing like that. Or maybe I was focused enough to fly by him in seconds. With the world spinning at a much faster rate/rape than generally I plod down inside the Hub commode and attempt to reassemble my mind. I dial up on my mobile and attempt to speak to Mark. He is not answering/home so I just leave a message on his voicemail. I next attempt Tom and dice, I get through. Apparently I tell him just what a bad time I am having and how I don’t like any of my workmates. And then he passes me onto Chris and Sofie without me even noticing any change in voice patterns. Sounds about right but in the aftermath I remember saying none of this. As impatient people are heard outside the Hub toilet (which by the way is clean beyond clean, health and safety should come here and give them one hundred gold stars) I get out and let them in. I return to the bar area where we now appear to be the bare bones of our unit. Chris who appeared to be hitting on Lindsey now stands alone, depressed looking while the bosses are alternating between hitting on old nags and sweet talking Janine and her friend. Myself, I find myself nowhere nearer to being any clearer headed and soon sprinting back to the toilet for some refuge. Once more I get the WC and as I stand over it pissing a sudden charge of puke comes flying out Linda Blair stylee, letting rip with thunder chunks. I slump, this is where it has come to and always does whenever my workmates poison me with alcohol. That said, I am always considerate enough to get toilet paper and wipe up my mess after me. Would Bukowski have done that?

When I return to my group after leaving the toilet WC before passing out I stand by the bar, it propping me up and I almost falling asleep on it. The music is funky and so am I. I remember at this point Janine coming over to me but really really I did not want to speak to anyone at this point, not least her because she fucking annoys me. I have no idea what happened at this point but a few days later (Tuesday) I get given a rough idea. Not long afterwards, the night and us all are put out of our misery. By now most people appear to have moved on and we are down to the remaining hardcore. Who knows where everyone else goes but I wind up with Seymour and Griggs. Seymour keeps checking that I am all right to get home but I appear to still want to hang and get some food. For this, Andy is generally really good and we (no Seymour) go to Burger King, so it being still open must mean the midnight hour had yet to hit. Andy got served much quicker than me, so when I sit down with my chicken burger he was almost done and asking me for my chips. Again, apparently, at this point I call him, my boss, “a cunt� and to “fuck off�. Whoops, seems I really want my chips. We leave the establishment however on good terms, shaking hands and grunting “wahey!�. Wrongly I begin texting Phoebe and the next morning I discover a text from 00.02 saying “Go kfc and get a mini fillet! Haha..�.

I stagger home and it’s obvious that my homing device is as spot on as ever as I do not remember any of the walk other than taking a piss on the Drury Road corner and failing to walk straight across that green. Once home I pass out clothed and know nothing of it all.

np: Sebadoh – On Fire

August 12 (Thursday): Grounded For Life. I wake up with a headache again! Another semi eventless day at work. With Cammax out of the way, Ivan gives me the option of picking up Gatehouse Industrial, an opportunity which I jump at. Tonight is another cricket practise but as per usual its not looking likely that I will be able to attend from the beginning, so I have to fob people off by telling them that I am going to the doctors, which is true (kind of).

When the day is done and I get home, I find my landline is beeping and that I have a message left on 1571. I listen in and it is a very ill sounding Iris cancelling/postponing tonight’s session and it really feels like a let off.

With the session out of the way, I am freed up to go and join the others in Abberton at the cricket practise. When I arrive, there is: JH, John S, his son Kev, Brian and Sandip. I don’t really bother with bowling but I am really anxious about getting some batting practise in. Unfortunately there are no stumps put out for us so when I finally get my turn at bat, it is hard to get a good practise on. And add to this that tonight I am just plain atrocious. To make things worse, Heddle now seems intent on turning our pair of poor performances into a personal competition, almost offering money between who does the better out of us. Grief.

Practise ends and I feel more worried now than I did beforehand, prospects for Sunday do not look too good. We do the usual ritual of popping into the Swan for a drink but Seymour soon flits off with Kevin to town for something to eat leaving us unfuns behind.

When I get in I check my phone and Mark is back from Sheffield and back in Colchester. Excellent, best news all day.

I get home and there is nothing on telly, just Little Britain. I go to bed.

np: L7 – Pretend We’re Dead (live Maneater bootleg 1992)

August 11 (Wednesday): Hard Day’s Jason. I comfortably wake up, like a jumbo jet coming into a smooth landing. Phoebe Toronto has answered my email, telling me what “ng hia tho� means. I MSN Sara this morning and we manage to go without having an argument, I am nice nice, I can be a good guy sometimes after all.

On my PC I attempt to download the Cantonese dictionary in order to put it on my computer at work but currently my PC isn’t having it, there is something horribly wrong in my cyberspace.

At work at the moment I think I am working better. And I genuinely think this may be due/down to the fact that I have switched from black ink to blue ink. Yes I am aware that that sounds totally fucking stupid but “it’s all right if it makes you feel better�.

Oh what a day to be unemployed or a layabout student, at 11.00 this the morning the awesome Disney movie The Ugly Dachshund is on BBC2. It’s all right for some.

At lunchtime I go to town on my own and I buy the Queer Eye For A Straight Guy book with view to total self improvement. Maybe the book will help/work, maybe it won’t but it’s all good. When I get back to the office I book my place on the English AS course, if nothing else, just to have something to talk about in my/our session tomorrow. My fellow co-workers over hear me booking the course and show interest and enthusiasm for it so maybe it is a good move after all. Onwards and upwards.

The afternoon is a bit of a stinker, the sun is shining too hard and I cannot see my computer screen through the reflection of the sun out of the window, all I can see is a reflection of me. Not nice.

Thankfully, tonight we have not got five-a-side which is a real let off, instead I am able to stay at home and chill out. Bonus. I have a bath to complete the relaxation circle and not long after I get in, just after 10pm, I hear my phone beep and it is a text. I suspect its Stevo fucking about but secretly I do wish it to be somebody else. I get out of the bath especially to check the text and it is from Phoebe! Oh my, it reads “Hi! Am really piss! got a letter from acca telling me they fucking lost my paper! A wk before result! N is the audit one! Cant be the tax which i know i fail!�. Oh my, this is the first time I have ever heard her swear in any form, her being a devout Lutheran and all. She adds “I am SO Fucking mad! I will have to sit it again in september! I cannot believe it! I am going have a heart attack soon! This is unbelievable! argh………�. In the words of Marco, “drama!�. I respond considerately and caring, making some funnies and trying to make her feel better. Eventually she seems to calm down with “I am so mad! Argh……Luckily i went to kick boxing today otherwise i might not sleep at all! Ps my cold is NOW cured! I have been yelling so loud! Argh…�. All in all, this is a new side to Phoebe I have never seen/heard and I like it, gotta love someone so visceral. I know I shouldn’t but I do kind of find the whole episode funny, not so much her situation more her reaction and I go to bed in good spirits, feeling honoured that she comes to me over something as important as this.

I go to bed/sleep watching Kevin Costner’s JFK, maybe he (Jim Garrison) could sort out the mystery of Phoebe’s missing exam paper and Kevin Costner could make a movie about the conspiracy of it all. I fall asleep before I see the ending of the film but I believe JFK gets shot.

np: Offspring - Americana

Snowy bored as fuck by watching West Ham Utd on Sky Sports 

Snowy has gone skinny like the cat in Austin Powers 

August 10 (Tuesday): Don’t Tread On Jason. First thing today again as usual, MSN with Sara. She starts out slightly ratty, accusing me of still ignoring her. Then again she is harping on about her ex-fiancée hitting her with a tax bill for their villa in Spain. A conversation subject that would send the best of us to sleep. I can’t really be bothered with her though, my computer is clogged up to shit creek and could crash at any moment anyway.

Today turns out to be a real snorer; I really need to get more into my life than this. Still I bounce about the office/Chernobyl with annoying energy; I have that fucking old R Kelly song in my head. In the afternoon I text Phoebe telling her that “my manager� (aka Stevo) is a “Haam sup lo� which in Cantonese means a “salty wet man� which means pervert. She replies “Ha ha ha.. Who’s teaching you all this! Ha ha.. Thnks for making me laugh. today is ok. Hope ur is too. My manager ‘ng hia tho’ ha ha c if u know what i mean�.

The remainder of the day passes and in the evening I shoot home to my parents to catch the first showing of the first episode of the fifth season of the Sopranos on British TV (on E4). Sometimes I am so anal.

I get home and the dog (Snowy) has had his hair clipped and now he looks ridiculous, like Dr Evil’s cat Mr Biggleswade in the Austin Powers movies. Rubbish dog. On Sky is West Ham but they are boring and crap. Elsewhere in the football league (the Coca Cola Championship, ho ho) Millwall are playing at home and losing 2-0 to Wigan. Oh great, two games into the season and they are still yet to score.

Whilst at my parents I find a website that has a downloadable Cantonese dictionary. Back of the net.

I leave my olds house around 11.05 and have a wonderful midnight-esqe drive home in the dark from Clacton to Colchester which sometimes can be the most relaxing ride on earth. I listen to Peel and nothing ever changes there. When I get in, Vanishing Point is on TV, a film neither worthy of my time nor effort.

np: R Kelly – Ignition (remix)

August 9 (Monday): When Jasons Collide. I wake up tired; it most definitely is Monday morning. What a way to begin the week, Sara pounding me on MSN. I am curt but not aggro, I test her patience.

For work, I am late leaving thus late arriving but still I stroll into work, determined that this will be a good week for me. As I walk to the office the weather is just frightening, between leaving and arriving it gradually darkens to scary proportions. Above us all, the sky is end of the worldly. Just moments after I stagger into the office with Steve, the heavens open and Colchester gets drenched.

The working day begins with me telling everybody about my weekend away and my numerous apparent faux pas committed but gracious about the great break all the same. My first encounter with/of Seymour for the week sees him barely grunt at me. Oh my, is this a sign of the week to come? Louise is not in, so that sucks meaning all conversation for the day will be male biased. Work is pretty light, to the point that I find myself able to speak to dad on the telephone when I get bored.

At lunchtime, it is more spends. I’m trying to cut out lunching and eating out during the week but if you don’t do that, the only other option appears to be to shop. Today, when we stagger into HMV, myself searching for the autographed Charlotte Haverley seven inch (for some reason), I also find myself impulse buying the second Selfish Cunt seven inch (as recommended by Allen Zuk) and a Three Stooges DVD (why???). Stevo however goes one step better/further and FINALLY buys himself a brand new phone and he gets a decent phone for a change meaning that he can now get/use WAP/GPRS.

The afternoon slips past without event and when it comes time to go home, thankfully it is dry.

I spend the evening on the internet, wasting my life away. Tonight I am looking at Cantonese websites with view to piecing together enough pigeon with which to impress Phoebe. I don’t know, I just like the idea of speaking another language and Cantonese is really fun (but very difficult).

On nightime TV tonight is a really interesting programme called Who You Callin’ A Nigger in which Darcus Howe reveals how black and Asians communities are more detached/tense than their white counterparts these days. Oh my.

np: Screaming Trees – Nearly Lost You

August 8 (Sunday): Rangeboy. I awaken on Ross’s unfolded out sofa bed feeling fine! Result! I am wearing my Millwall shirt and I am ready to go. In a smart move, yesterday beforehand I bought Hotdog and Q magazine and brought them with me, so I am able to read them until the rest of the house begins murmuring.

Eventually there is a knock on the door and it is Ross, pretty hungover, up and out to early morning party. We watch TV feeling frazzled. Popworld is on T4 and these days the boy and the girl are outdoing themselves, they really are genuinely funny and truly act like they could not give a shit. And not least today, the Sugababes are on there and proper Mutya looks fantastic as ever.

The other guy (Matthew) emerges a little later and he truly is in a bad state, much worse than Ross. He is wearing a Norwich City shirt, so now you have me in my Millwall shirt vs him in his Norwich shirt. And I don’t wish to be arrogant but I win. These days there are very feel real moments when/where I feel alpha male but this morning is most definitely one of them, I look a fucking thug in my team’s shirt whereas he just looks…..wrong! I really wish we had gotten a photo of the pair of us together.

As a lifesaving exercise/gesture Ross makes us bacon sandwiches and they taste like the best food ever made by man. We eat them outside in the garden on a wonderfully beautiful summer’s Sunday morning. The liberal but not liberal girls (Becki and friend) from the party last night return from their hotel, having antagonised the locals and obviously egging on Norwich boy for some kind of attention/action (why???). They turn up with The Observer (obviously) and tell tales of how they pretended to be lesbians at the hotel they stayed at and how they would like become March’s token lesbians. I know all this is all said somewhat in jest but why do people have to be like this, out to antagonise people who in actuality probably don’t give a flying fuck. I pick up the Review section of the Observer and there is a Woody Allen interview. I comment about how much I like his films and Miss Mutya comments “he’s good but he’s very male�. Of course he’s fucking male!

Soon everyone leaves and I am eventually left as the sole survivor of the party and not wishing to outstay my welcome, around midday I hit the road back to Essex. I thank Ross genuinely grateful for the invite and the opportunity to get away for the weekend.

The drive home is a bit of a nightmare compared to the drive to March. As per the first trip, the majority of the journey is spent getting from March back onto the A14. As I get stuck in stereotypical Sunday traffic I notice a Ford garage that is called Harrison Ford. Now, that has to have been done on purpose, with tongue firmly in cheek. That or Han Solo has started selling (excellent) Ford motor vehicles in Cambridgeshire. Once on the A14 I pass Cambridge around 1.20 and I do Cambridge to Essex again in record time, albeit this time the trip is thoroughly enjoy and fast paced in a laid back manner.

As the A14 ends and I turn off for Colchester, I stop off at the out of town Tesco to get the day’s News Of The World (hey, already flicked through the Observer). I stroll round Tesco fronting in my Millwall shirt, basically egging on comment/abuse. I get nothing. When I get back to Colchester, I go to the Asda expecting some of the same. Nothing. Instead, I get the new collectors edition of Blazing Saddles on DVD and I whimper home.

In the afternoon my weekend catches up with me and I false asleep watching said DVD (Blazing Saddles) not really enjoying it in the process. When I awaken Smokey And The Bandit is on TV and like an underdeveloped sad case, I actually sit and watch it. I deserve to go blind.

Sunday evening hits the most depressing time/part of the week that it is. People laugh at me when I say that traditionally that this is “bath night� but what else is a person to do in preparation to dragging their hollow arsed souls to work for another week? On TV is She’s All That followed by Rocky V and depression is completed by viewing of parts of these movies.

np: Kostars – Never So Lonely

August 7 (Saturday): Tool And Die. No dreams, I wake up this morning feeling optimistic about the future (chipper, happy, excited). I’m not really sure why but outside it is a beautiful summers day and it makes me feel young again. I’m listening to The Weekend Never Starts Here by Arab Strap and it reminds me of “better� times. My god, today would be a great day to take somebody out in London or to go see Millwall play.

I get started with the day properly, I got into town to do the newspaper run and get Ross a birthday present. Not really quite aware as to what to get him, by luck I come across what I feel is the perfect gift: the book Our Band Could Be Your Life by Michael Azzerard which is now out in paperback. Back of the net! I also manage to luck out and get a pretty good birthday card also although it isn’t one of the noise/sound cards featuring Bo Selecta characters (“happy birthday you shat pank!�).

When I return home to the flat dad has turned up and is mad away plugging into mending my toilet (again!). And he doesn’t appear to be making a very good job of it. I don’t wish to be looking ungrateful and looking a gift horse in the mouth, as it Dad is doing me a great favour but I really do need to get on doing things before I leave to party, the main thing of which is have a bath. And that is a pretty difficult concept when half your toilet appears to be currently sat in your bath.

I put dad under the cosh, I feel bad for doing this but also I really want to do my own thing. Additionally in the meantime I find myself feeling like a complete tool as I am unable to help him, all I can do is stand over him useless and offer moral support (yeah right). As time spins on I begin to feel further inconvenienced but unable to ask Dad to budge. I begin to hyperventilate and get the usual psychosomatic reaction to either of my parents being in my flat, invading my space. It seems my parents, as good as their intentions are, cannot just come around my flat and be, they have to fidget, adjust and make suggestions as to how I should change/improve my home. It is MY home. And any reaction on my part other than being passive feels as if I am being ungrateful.

Poor old Dad leaves around 3pm with me seething apologetically but seething all the same. As I said above, there is something horribly psychosomatic applied to my parents being in/around my flat, pissing on my patch. As soon as he’s gone I have a childish paddy/strop, smashing shit in my flat. With the toilet not being repaired I have been told to turn off the water at the mains, meaning I can’t even flush my toilet (have a piss) let alone have a bath. This is too much for me, I throw the plastic jug we have been using into the toilet bowl and it snaps in two and it splashes piss all over my face. If anyone saw me, they would think I was insane. In order to relax/calm down I watch the Sopranos, which really isn’t on the chillout session tracklisting.

Eventually I calm down and get a move on, leaving my flat and Colchester at 5pm, two hours later than originally planned and roughly the time I was hoping to be getting to Cambridgeshire. The origin plan was to have a nice relaxing drive to March, to get some headspace and relax. Instead I find myself tearing up the A14, racing against the clock passing 115 mph in my Focus on the way to speeding at 120 mph. Fortunately though, common sense does prevail but were it not for the many speed cameras on the A14, I would probably have averaged 100 mph all the way.

Today is the first day of the football season and it turns out that Millwall can only manage a 0-0 away to Plymouth. That hardly fills me with confidence for the upcoming season but at least they didn’t lose and they did keep a clean sheet. Bad bad news though, Paul Ifill was taken off early with a pretty serious injury it sounds.

I suspect I do make good time getting to Cambridgeshire and March but the journey does feel never ending. I arrive in March at around 6.30 and make a lucky find, discovering Ross’s road first time.

I was not prepared for his new homestead, it is enormous, almost a mansion! It turns out that it doubles up as a surgery for Sarah Jane. When I arrive I am amazed when I stroll up and her brother (Justin) remembers me from Ross’s birthday two years ago. I hook up with the Rosster and catch up briefly but he is centre stage and in demand. I give him his gift (the perfect gift book) and it turns out he already has it. Fuck it.

The party is hard work, I know nobody at it other than Ross and some of his family. I immediately get introduced (paired off) with some posh guy from Chelmsford who is heavily involved in politics whose job is to put a legitimate anti-stance on the Euro (vs the pound). He is pretty much from a different world to me with an office in Whitehall and a hell of a lot of responsibility that I envy him. Ross introduces me as a mob figure from Colchester, maybe I can pull that impression off, until I open my mouth that is. The guy is a bit geeky and not a lot of fun. I find myself soon asking Ross if he has any pot before digging into someone’s stash of booze. I think the guy’s name is Matthew and we get talking further and it turns out he is a Norwich fan in the vein of how Dave (Mitchell) used to be an Ipswich fan. The inevitable comes out that I am a Millwall fan and that rarely goes down well.

I talk to the guy forever until two more lefties (ladies) turn up who all know each other. Imagine Mutya from the Sugababes, Caucasian, fat and with facial hair. One of them is from Clacton and went to school in Colchester, so surely I should be able to spark up some conversation there? I do for a bit but soon they go off into their little political world and get talking shop, boy sometimes I regret being so ill-educated. I begin to feel left out, so I drink. Two more of their friends then turn up, one of which went to Essex Uni and again I fail to spark up a conversation about that. Grief, I thought my social skills were getting better.

Fortunately I eventually find someone interested in music and I get going with him, not least because he used to go to school with Chris Reynolds (I think). We wind up talking shit though; this guy plays in cover bands I believe. Never talk about music to people who play in cover bands.

The prize moment of the evening for me occurs when Justin, Ross’s future brother-in-law (ho ho), does the greatest Marlon Brando/Don Corleone/Godfather impression I have ever seen/heard in my life. And it is just in order to tell Ross that he has enjoyed his birthday party and is now off to go clubbing and pull some birds. I only wish my impression skills were so money.

By now bear is off the menu and we are all tearing into minging cocktails/concoctions involving Cuban or Columbian rum and salt, sugar, mixer and mint leaves. I down the fucker quickly, if only to get the horrible taste sensation out of the way. No wonder communists are so miserable if this is what they enjoy drinking.

Over the kitchen table I observe (but don’t participate in) conversation. These people are very opinionated and very extreme. They discuss an old Neanderthal friend of Ross’s who was very offensive and I just know that that is a mantel waiting for me to take if I make the mistake of opening my mouth. Miss Mutya is Little Miss Women’s Lib and very strict and harsh about her beliefs and other people’s attitudes. To me though, it just feels like a way/tool for her to judge people and shut them out. Maybe it has something to do with her moustache. I’m not sure who it was (maybe me) but Kitten from Big Brother gets brought up. It’s a hoot. I don’t know, this evening has no right balance for me, in my opinion they are overeducated and I am undereducated. So there is only one route left for me……

We regroup outside at the black end of a beautiful summer’s evening/night. The party does appear to have splintered into two groups: the politicals and the adults. When there are only a few of us left over, we all finally become one group. At this point Miss Mutya is going on about Nationality and identity, about not wishing to be labelled English as she is part Dutch. It also turns out she is Catholic. Personally I feel she is going off on one whilst her friend is attempting to hit on the Norwich fan on her behalf. Why? Eventually the argument reaches absurd proportions (in my opinion) and when it gets heavy on the Catholicism I find myself saying “all nuns are scrubbers and priests fuck little boys�. The old argumentative in me has come out again it seems.

Slowly, gradually people filter home. Justin and his mates return home from clubbing and his is fucking pissed and totally on form. Earlier on his was running/doing the barbecue and burning so much stuff, mainly the 26 black sausages that no one touched. He returns home from clubbing with an appetite and when it turns out that his sausages have been thrown out, he is on the verge of comedy tears. And I can share in his pain.

The night ends with myself, Ross and Norwich watching Alan Partridge series one DVDs and falling asleep.

np: The Vines – Get Free


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August 6 (Friday): King Of The Road. I awaken after a disturbed night due to the heat, emerging from the most disturbing of dreams. Where Chernobyl is situated in town is a very rough area. There is a weird couple that lives along one of the roads nearby (Alexandra Road) and they are just strange, I call them the Colchester Ian Huntley and Maxine Carr, hey something’s due to happen sooner or later. The guy’s name is “Carlos� and last summer I nearly came to blows with him in Smiths in town and ever since he has said “hello� to me for some crazed reason which is anything but let bygones be bygones. To be honest, I fucking hate the guy and yes he does scare, he is visibly. Anyways, recent rumour is that he had been dragged (unsurprisingly) away by the men in white coats to the laughing academy. He went missing for a few days (i.e. did not walk past our office half a dozen times a days) but unfortunately he re-emerged the other. His other half (who looks exactly like Valerie from HATE comic) has not been seen since he disappeared briefly. In my dream I find myself teaching her how to do bookkeeping and she is really nice and nervous and she is telling me how he does terrible things to her sexually and I’m like “grief�. I find myself moving some of my clothes in their wardrobe in their flat above the sex shop on Alexandra Road and inside there are no carpets and it is just a minor step up on the house from Trainspotting. When I go into the flat I find him in bed instead of at work almost as if he is waiting for me and he explains to me the situation, about putting his woman in her place and he comes over as a bigger nut than imaginable. I sense I am in danger. Dream over thankfully.

I spend the morning pre-work frantically tidying my flat, dad is coming round to mend the leaking pipe on my toilet again today and I just know the state of my home will be under judgement and scrutiny once more. I tear through the crib and wind up hiding the rubbish on the floor of my bedroom on my bed under the duvet. Pathetic. All in all though, time is of the essence and soon it is 8.20 and I really need to get ready for work. For a third day running, I am almost late.

Stevo doesn’t turn up for work; we all guess that he is still ill. In Chernobyl it is sweltering but I manage to work hard as a kind of catch up for yesterday afternoon. Ivan calls over the office and Sandip tells me that my “boss� wants me to go over and see him. That really rankles. Ultimately though I win, one of the bigger jobs in the firm has been brought and I did it last year and I’m getting to do it this year, this is a good job, the kind of job I wish I were working on all the time, it is rewarding and profitable. And if I can do an even better job this year, which is likely due to my familiarity with the client this year, it will score me points big time. Good stuff.

One downer on the day though, Phoebe does not reply to my email today. Tom however texts, asking me what I am doing tonight: “nothing planned�. Ross emails back though confirming there is room at the inn for me tomorrow night. His party is so perfectly timed; I think it is just what I want to be doing this weekend and just what I need. He deserves an extra special gift. There is also now a girl from Wellington House that looks into our office (at me?) daily. It’s a pleasure not a chore, looking/smiling back. Also another blot on the landscape is Heddle giving me grief again (I’m becoming a whipping it seems) when he goes and points out I haven’t shaved today. Hey, I don’t go round pointing out he’s a “fucking cunt� so why does he feel permitted to do so to me.

At lunch I go round town with Louise again. She is my new work bitch and she rules. We almost go for a sit down lunch together but I opt out, money worries. Louise rules, she is everything and a lot of fun to be around. Today is the day I finally get my Relic Hunter DVD. I rule! We get dinner at Bounders/Bouncers and I get a Thai chicken panini with mango chutney and peppers. The shop heats it and we return to the office to eat lunch and this sandwich is the greatest thing I’ve had for lunch in months, it is utterly fantastic and I feel the desire to tell everyone and share. In a perfect world, all sandwiches would taste this good.

The afternoon is a complete grind, Chernobyl is the hottest hot house and I do fuck all in the way of work, although I do work a little on my dream job, instead I read this months Uncut and write up some of my Blog at work. One downer, Hotdog magazine is taking forever to come out this month; I fear/suspect it may be history. I find myself singing Drive By Shooting by Henry Rollins and First Big Weekend by Arab Strap to the annoyance of my workmates. I sit in Stevo’s desk and do a bad impression of him which cracks up Sunny. Eventually the afternoon ends and I am dying for a drink, in a way I really wish I were going out but that’s not really an option. This is the day in which I wished we still went to the Dragoon after work Fridays.

I stagger home and the (old) tunes on the radio are the greatest sounding things on earth, Degrees In Motion and Skee Lo, how old are they but how good do they sound? Half way up Layer Road a car stops and my neighbour (name unknown) picks me up and gives me a lift back to Hollytree Court. He’s cool and on the move out but it’s going slow. I hold my own but feel like a git, I could have lived without a lift.

I get into my flat to see just what damage dad has done. Not much and in the light of day my flat actually looks like it was left in ok nick by myself this morning. Dad has visibly been in but forgotten to take my washing. Nevermind. Hopefully now my pisser won’t be leaking and ruining my bathroom carpet.

Question: how the hell did I get on the NRA emailing list?

Tonight is a magnificent evening, nothing can get me down, I almost feel free and somehow there is nothing out there that can ruin in. Tonight is about being oneself in a style almost similar to Henry Miller. Freedom.

Dad gets in touch on MSN while I’m having a quick play on Playstation. Seems he hasn’t been successful in mending my toilet, he’ll be back tomorrow. My god my flat looks good, a little tidying and it’s a whole new world for Jason.

Tonight I see Queer Eye For A Straight Guy for the very first time. Top show, its like Would Like To Me for attached people without the patronising experts, instead the gay dudes are the funniest and seem to have more of a clue and better advice that I feel more inclined to listen to/take on board. Feel good TV, pretty moronic but feel good all the same.

Tonight is the final of Big Brother and sadly it is stay-in-for TV in my world, come Monday my whole circle will be talking about it. It’s horrible and weird but when this toilet tv is over there will be a gap in our routines, thankfully! First person to be voted out of the four tonight Shell. Nevermind. Second person out: Dan. Semi a surprise but good riddance. I would really like Jason to win just because the stock in the name Jason will go through the roof (and I realise how ridiculous that does sound) but realistically he doesn’t stand a fucking chance of winning. And he doesn’t. However in the post eviction interview he does display some degree of psychosis, avoiding eye contact with the camera and/or Davina. It is sweet that Nadia wins Big Brother but there is something really special needs about the whole thing/spectacle.

Fuck or bugger?

np: Arab Strap – The First Big Weekend

August 5 (Thursday): Nightcrawlers. I wake up shattered. I am late to touch my computer, partly to avoid to Sara on MSN, there is method in my madness. Basically I avoid her because all I seem to do these days is argue with her. And today it spills out into a text message argument regarding Phoebe of all things. And its costly too, each text message I send to her, her in Dubai, costs me 25p.

Today, during the daytime, Dad comes around my flat to repair my toilet. I live in dread at the prospect of my parents (either one) running around my flat unsupervised. Why? Many reasons but basically they already seem to think I am weird enough and that is without discovering the porn and other personal items highlighting my stunted growth and arrested development. When I get in from work I am safe, I have not be investigated by the International Adult Conspiracy but I do still however have a toilet leaking all over my bathroom floor. I panic again.

Unfortunately I have to quickly get a move on for my session this week with the good doctor. This week’s session sees a welcomed trip back in time when it once more gets suggested that I am not really putting into our sessions what I should be. We discuss my suggestion last week at doing an English course and the problem I now have is that the course is being held in a building that I have some history with, the Wilson Marriage Centre. When I left school I had this little period that I had post-school and it gets raised this evening and I/we discuss the YT college I found myself at in September 1993 called SEAX Training. During the period I was coming out of my agoraphobic stage and I was subjected to some of the most terrifying and intimidating company of my life. It turns out the good doctor had some experience of this particular organisation also, not surprising as some of the thugs who used to go there with me really seemed to require some counselling/help. She points out that some of the people attending this college were real bottom of the barrel drop outs, people who could barely read, let alone thrive in the work place. Ultimately this gives birth to the question “what the fuck was I doing being there?� This weeks session ends I feel better for my acknowledgement that I was better than that. and I felt out of place there for good reason.

When I get home, via a visit to Asda, on the Channel Four is Celebrity Place In The Sun and it is featuring Anthea Turner in Dubai looking for a holiday crib (it’s all right for some). It is great so see Dubai on TV though, the entirety of my thought pattern through the show being “oh, so this is where Sara lives�. It is the first time I have seen Dubai on TV and it looks pretty nice whilst also looking like Tenerife or somewhere. This is the real deal on the country and it is frightening to see just how much development is going on over, tonnes of horrible new modern white housing just like those tourist dives in the Canary Islands. As Sara is regularly asking me to go and visit her out there, this is food for thought. The place looks (and is) incredibly pricy, all the celebrities are purchasing places there. The main eye catcher is a resort/created community called Palm Island which is a set of homes placed on a man made bedding shaped like a palm tree. Nice.

The remainder of the evening is a zero; I watch Little Britain and play where is my mind?

np: Tortoise – Swung From The Gutters