July 8 (Thursday): I wake up, it’s all right.  I MSN with Sara for a bit but I am horribly snappy and she tells me that I “scare her sometimesâ€? with my sharp comments.  God I must be cranky.

What happens today in the daytime?  I can’t remember, I guess I need a new job.  Stevo probably dragged me out somewhere at lunchtime to talk bollocks.  Maybe it was to Sam’s Diner, the new place opposite the public toilets where the owner/manager thinks he knows Stevo and keeps calling him Richard.

I mention today that I am taking Phoebe to the Tate and Stevo snaps the great line “are you trying to make her think you are cultured?  Jason, The Simpsons and WWF wrestling are not high cultureâ€?.  Touché.  I probably retort “shuddap or I’ll slap the lips off your faceâ€?.

At home home, Dad is once more struggling to get to grips with the internet and this time his problem is/are online loan applications.  Mum and Dad want a new car like mine but with dad not working, their choices are limited to say the least and the ones that they are being offered are just horrific, their house (my inheritance) looks pretty vulnerable to me.  He asks me if I would mind going over to sort him out, seems he is having a problem just logging into the Cheltenham and Gloucester website.  Bless.  I agree to go over tomorrow night just as long as I don’t go to the cinema (Fahrenheit 9/11 comes out and I really want to see it).

Tonight is my first session with the good doctor for three weeks, so there is a lot of psychosis stored up to unburden.  Our sessions are supposed to be aimed at exorcising development incidents but all too often I find myself going over the events of the past week, which strictly are wrong if they are not helpful.  Tonight is a big time analysis of the Sarah incident.  It is pointed out that this is a recurring thing for me, communication problems leading to one almighty explosion of festering emotions taken the recipient by surprise.  I suppose so.  What I gotta though, is the way that I always seem/feel abstained from responsibility, only answerable for the consequences.  Basically to me this is some kind of exercise into “I’m all right, it’s all those othersâ€?.  No, seriously, by now things are over for me, I’m over it I just need to keep certain things and certain people OUT of my life.  Talk moves on/over to mine and Phoebe’s little meeting this Saturday.  I’m actually more concerned about this, she is down for it but I am having so much trouble pinning her down for a meeting time and place.  She’s city, she will know the best suggestions to make but actually I am the man and really, traditionally, it is down to me to sort this out, to take the reigns.  Here’s a good question though from the doctor: “which Tate is it?â€?.  What?  There are two?  I leave the session with a whole batch of new problems to sort out.

I spend the evening on the Tate Modern website and texting Phoebe trying to sort things out for Saturday.  I suggest a meet up for 1pm and I go ahead and book tickets online for 1pm without her confirming either way, now this does contain risk (everyone/anyone remember Lindsey and the Millwall tickets?).  At 23.07 Phoebe texts to say yay, suggesting a heads up meet for 12.30.  She is bang up for it, really enthusiastic which is frightening for me, enthusiasm for spending time with me, go figure (“am so looking forward to edward hooper!â€?).  And she seems impressed that I have taken the initiative and booked tickets in advance, yes I am Superman.  One thing though, all this enthusiasm and she still refers to Edward Hopper as Edward Hooper.  All is forgiven as she wishes me sweetdreams.  My future’s so bright I have to wear shades.

np:  Electric Six – Danger!  High Voltage

July 7 (Wednesday): This morning I wake up snug, emerging from a dream where I have a girlfriend and I don’t actually mess it up!  Champion!

Today starts great, Moyles is on form and plays DMX, Foo Fighters, Snow Patrol, Basement Jaxx and Kanye West.

In the office, Stevo is out yet again so I make great ground on my job (Brooks) basically through the fact that I and he are not hurling abuse at each other all day.  I tell my doctor that our little abuse sessions are done in jest but she fully believes that they mentally take their toll.  I suspect she is right.

At lunchtime I go into town with Louise again and she is so cool beans, right now she is the person in the office I can most identify with.  And I’m beginning to quite fancy her for it.  We go to Burger King and get Spider-man meals.  I try to talk her into getting a kids meal and therefore the toy but she is having none of it.  The BK Spider-man is ok, nothing to write home about and definitely not worth the extra expense.  Still, again it is just to be with someone cavalier and on the edge to buy a Burger King with me.

By home time the rain is heavier than hell, heavier than heavy metal.  I walk home with Louise under an umbrella and it is a bit cosy.  The rain is fucking unbelievable and like a cheeky bastard I manage to blag a lift with Louise from Drury Road to Layer Road (Hollytree Court).  If you just knew how short a distance/walk that is you would pummel me for being lazy.  When she drops me off, she actually shows some interest as just to which apartment in the complex is mine.  Nice.

Football tonight is a strange one.  Again, unfortunately, I am not particularly on song, my performance reminding me of the game back in December I played after an exam and getting stoned at lunchtime and eating an entire box of dry cereal before turning up and turning out and letting in a hatful of goals.  Tonight I don’t let in a hatful, but I certainly let in enough.  It all begins with me turning up late anyway; because of Louise’s lift I managed to get home in time to catch Phoebe before she left work so I MSNed with her for a bit too long.  And of course, it was raining and travel it always crap when that happens.  I turn up late and they have already started with Kev in goal.  It is 0-0 but soon I manage to let a couple in.  That said, one of the first things I see tonight is Stevo scoring a blinder.  And then he goes and adds another soon afterwards, Stevo is on form!  He doesn’t complete his hat-trick though, Mike the Burkett’s keeper is having the game of his life tonight.  Stevo does manage a hat-trick of sorts when he scores an own goal against me, which I really should have saved and wrongly I manage to escape blameless for.  Tonight’s game is pretty much the Kev and Andrew, our Father and Son team-mates who hurl so much abuse at each other during the course of the game it is unheard of.  Remember the boxing family in Police Academy that kept punching each other?  This is kind of the soccer equivalent.  We make it to half time drawing 4-4.  The second half remains tight also.  At one point a shot is fired between Kev’s and then between mine and in straight in the goal.  Once more I am reprieved when Kev goes to me “close your legsâ€? (first time someone has said that to me) and Andrew snaps back at him “it went through your legs alsoâ€?.  The second half carries on and Mike continues to play a blinder, almost saving everything fired at him.  The game ends with us losing 10-8, perversely probably my best goals against score for a very long time (I’ll check the Excel spreadsheet sometime, ho ho).  It ends with me congratulating Mike and him telling me “it’ll be your turn next weekâ€?.  Maybe baby.

I get in and decide to listen to Carter USM MP3s for reasons unknown to me.  I text Nina to tell her I’ve “seen the lightâ€? (in her eyes).  She congratulates me and I end the night texting Nina until Big Brother comes on (I think I’m addicted).  All good things come to an end when I turn in for the night, beginning to watch Election but soon falling asleep in the process.  Dashing.

np: Carter USM – Alternative Alf Garnett

July 6 (Tuesday): Everyone wears suits eventually.  Today begins with a smile as opposed to a Pot Noodle and a wank.

Not long after getting into work Mr Seymour is hassling me for a latest on Brooks Transport.  This is kind of frustrating because they have really taken their time to get the base information to me so it is a bit unfair as I have only just been able to commence work on the job, although at least two days are already down to the job, two wasted days.  Disheartening.

Mid morning Chris texts me telling me he is back in a few weekends time and says we should hatch plans.  This is the first time we have been in contact since my little paddy at the end of the last Hirameka gig a few weeks back, whoops.  Glad things are cool though, really looking forward to hanging out.

The rest of today passes without incident, which in my book, equates to the fact that I manage to get through the day without upsetting anybody.  As I walk home I begin to text Phoebe to confirm that we are still on for Saturday and just as I am typing it she sends me a text to confirm her plans.  That’s esp.  That’s magic.  I end the night watching Blues Brothers on ITV, pretty much falling asleep immediately, Jake barely out of prison.  I’m rubbish me.
 np:  Afghan Whigs – Regret (live New Order cover)

July 5 (Monday): “Monday morning, got to settle downâ€? as the Butthole Surfers once sang.  I awaken to another text from Phoebe Luk Toronto and immediately upon adding her to my MSN list she hits me with speak.  She turns out to be just 16 and soon it occurs to be that I am seeking approval from a 16 year old, very unwise.  I envisage her to be a Ghost World type but when quizzed she tells me she has never seen the movie (“watch it, I wish I could have seen it at your ageâ€?).  Am I turning into Seymour from Ghost World?  This girl sounds too old to be just 16 and then she starts going on about sleeping with a 22 year old.  Don’t go there Graham.

It’s a bad Monday morning.  I am not in the office 30 minutes and I am receiving some flack.  I treat it (wrongly) like water off a duck’s back, displaying the wrong attitude in the process I believe.  Today there is no Stevo in the office and it is a bit quiet without him; dude, can’t live with him, can’t live without him.  I have a downbeat conversation with Louise about our futures.  With regards to work at BS she is echoing my sentiments twelve months ago and now, really mainly about the poor standard of work and a lack of opportunity to be working on better stuff.  However she is five years younger than me when I began saying this, making me feel rather over that there hill.

I lunch with Louise and we wind up having a Pizza Hut buffet.  This is bad for us but we don’t care, perhaps we are comfort eating.  That and fucking hungry, as per usual there has been nothing really to eat in my flat all weekend.  I impress Louise and make her laugh by doing my Bo Selecta bear at bedtime impression, shouting “verminâ€? a bit too loudly as this prompts a waitress to ask if everything is all right, how embarrassing, my tail almost pops out.

In the afternoon, at work, Ivan saves my ass.  I can’t remember how now but I did jot it down in my notes so it must have been important at the time.

At five it begins to rain just in time for home time.  Louise and I walk up Butt Road together and it’s a gas gas gas, I really like Louise she is cool beans.

I have no dinner, no need.  I have also officially run out of money for the month so…..

I spend my evening playing Playstation, really living life on the edge.  Coupling is then on BBC2 and when did the ginger bird on that programme become so fit?  I dunno and shouldn’t really care.  Bad tv turns into bad tv as Big Brother comes on and my day ends with me falling asleep watching In The Heat Of The Night and Phoebe sending in another late night text of “sweetdreamsâ€?.  Life is sweet.

np:  Butthole Surfers – Dust Devil

July 4 (American Independence Sunday): I could lie in today were it mentally or physically possible.  Today begins fantastically, out of the blue a random person emails me to tell me “love your blogâ€?.  Not so randomly though, its another Phoebe Luk, this one from Toronto.  It is frightening to think who is out there watching.  Still, this email is a much welcomed vote of confidence for my blogging misery.

Today is pretty yet another Sunday.  Sundays kill, I could be tempted to church just to have something to do on the Sabbath.  I do the newspaper run to Asda and actually manage to pump up my tyre without much drama but otherwise that’s pretty much it.  I’m sure I MSN Sara but I am just too bored by the day to remember any of it.

I am a shame based man and when I sleep from pretty much 1pm to 5pm, to me that is pretty lazy and pathetic.

Dad MSNs before the football and we get into an argument, again pretty much based on Millwall v Man Utd.

The Euro 2004 final is pretty pony.  I really dislike both teams, I feel they are beneath the spectacle and are not a measure on our English national team.  As I’ve said before, Greece winning the tournament is the worst thing to happen to European football in my lifetime.  When their inevitable goal goes in it is a really good goal but headed against the Portugal goalie, they’re lucky that it wasn’t disallowed.  The actual highlight of the final was the “intruderâ€?.  It always baffles me when the commentators go off on a rant about how much of an idiot these guys are.  NO THEY FUCKING AREN’T!  They’re brilliant!  Hey, as long as they don’t get on the pitch and stab someone, what is better than to see some guy throw a Barcelona flag and Figo before leading a chase of a dozen police and security before throwing himself like a proper hero into the back of the net like he is a human soccer ball.  Fantastic!  After about five minutes of injury time prompted by that, Greece win the match and football once more moves a step towards being completed ruined.  That said, it was so enjoyable to see Ronaldo crying like a little bitch, makes up for his taking the piss in the FA Cup final.

I don’t even bother to watch the Greeks collect the trophy, I flip channels to watch the latest Big Brother movements of Becki.  Tonight though the highlight is Ahmed going bonkers yet again, more Ahmania.  There is something wrong with Becki, she is almost professional and way too friendly to everybody.  She reminds me of a younger version of B’s aunt Nina so much, it is disturbing.  I seriously suspect she may be a plant.

At 22.47 my phone beeps and it is Phoebe asking me how my weekend has been, the best possible way to end the day.  That and to fall asleep watching Predator 2, a timely scary reminder of Sarah (it being one of her favourite films, pondlife).

np:  The Blitters – Eating Your Brains

July 3 (Saturday): Today could kick off.  I awaken foul, slightly hard headed from drinking too much with Stevo…..again!  However, if I don’t accomplish anything else today, I do have to retrieve my car from Creffield Road (Mark’s) by 12.30. 

So where does today begin?  Enter the usual ritual of BBC news on a Saturday morning before as much kid’s telly as I can stomach before physically vomiting.  This morning I see Girls Aloud and spend all my viewing trying to work out which one it is that beats up blacks.  And this is followed by Sabrina The Teenage Witch not looking very teenage anymore.  I turn to the safety of my Stone Cold Steve Austin autobiography and then Sara hits me on MSN.  And the day officially begins proper…..

Today was the day I was supposed to go out with Phoebe.  As I view Video Nasty websites, I also get into one with Sara telling her, like a lot of girls, she is “just a player, acting out her Sex And The City fantasy.  She turns on me a decides to me home truths about me and here we have yet another person telling me that I need a change of scenery and that I need to go travelling.  It seems to me that that is the answer to everybody’s problems, which I kind of see as escapism.  To be honest I can’t see how people are able just to up and go travelling for six months.  I guess they don’t have the restraints off mortgages or financing but how on earth do people afford it in the first place?  Beats me.  So when Sara is selling the idea to my for the tenth time I really am not too interested and rather bullish about it.

I go to collect my car for midday with all these thoughts racing in my mind, ultimately other people’s lifestyles,  they’re just not for me.  I MSN some more with Sara and she is a bit apologetic.  I am quiet because I am thinking/considering what she has been saying to me however she takes this as me being pissed off at her.

Eventually in late afternoon I go home to see the olds and do my bit and get my washing done for another week.  I copy my new Nick Cave CDs onto their PC and that’s about it.  I probably over stay my welcome but two episodes of Malcolm In The Middle followed by two episodes of the Simpsons I have never seen before ensures I want to stay home until 9pm.

I get home in time to watch a tv program on Channel Four about gay people in comedy.  For some reason this interests me.  Tom MSNs me for a bit but then I get a text message from Sara saying: “One last thing.  If in 10 years time we are still in the same predicament that we are both still in shall we get married and have children…..id hate 2 leave this world with no devil spawn of my own!  Im serious in a joke friends kinda way…..and you are the only non family man i actually show my true self with!  Besides your ma and pa love me already ha heâ€?.  Scared.

My night ends in hilarity.  I catch the repeat of Bo Selecta and this show just gets funnier, Kat Slater with trotters getting hit on by Pete Beale.  Genius.  The best though, the Bear At Bedtime transported to The Bear’s Celebrity Tails and him being in Jamie Oliver’s kitchen doing a spot on impression of Gordon Ramsey and Steven the squirrel making a salad (“what kind of fucking kitchen is this with a squirrel cutting lettuce, he’s fucking verminâ€?).  Love it, like I love you.

np:  Nick Cave – Do You Love Me?

the floodlight exploded and there was a pitch invasion at the end 

this ain't baseball 

cricket under clouds 

July 2 (Friday): I don’t really wake up this morning, instead I endure a restless night of very little sleep and my alarm clock just provides a boundary with which to abide by.  This morning, looking in the mirror is frightening: this is the face that is out to win over London City?  Ouch.

I sneak off into London.  As I drive to the station I take a little paranoid detour past Butt Road so as not to be seen passing the office dressed in my suit.  Like I said, paranoid.  I manage to get the first train to London after nine and I am surrounded by differents, amateur commuters I guess.  They’re weird looking and I feel over dressed.

Today I really do feel nervous: what on earth am I going into, welcome to the jungle and all that.  The train journey is schmoove and I get into London by ten and hop a weary train to The Strand.  Like a fool I notice my station is on the Northern line, so when the Liverpool Street Central train turns out to be too much for me, I hop off at Bank to get a Northern line.  This is a fuck up, it don’t work like that Jason, so there I go having to get back on the Central line and wasting so much time in the process it is horrible.  Eventually I get to the Strand and with time ticking away I emerge from the station having no idea in which direction to go, I need a compass!  I do start off going down the wrong direction along the Strand but manage to turn that around to get to Hays within seconds of my appointment.  Today seems to be the hottest day of the year and inside the Hays offices it is unendurable.  This isn’t helped by being met by two stereotype receptionists chatting amongst themselves who give me grief for interrupting them from their conversation.  I sit in the waiting form filling out another idiot form which feels aimed at illegal immigrants looking for work.  Sat with me in the waiting room is the token black (maybe he is an employee of Hays, paid to sit there all day to keep up race figures and race relations) and of course the ever present nervous young who you know chauvinistic employers just chomp at the opportunity in seconds.  I fill out my form, one up on black dude who doesn’t realise there are more pages after the front one, and wait in the hella heat feeling over dressed for the occasion.  Remember, this is no big deal, this is an employment agency, they are used to dealing with a hundred chavs and pikeys a day, of course a man in a suit is overdressing.  Wearing a suit to an employment agency I guess is akin to wearing a suit, you feel obliged but its unnecessary and your chances balance on much more substantive elements/factors.

I finally get my interview, this after they take a photocopy of my passport making me feel like I’m entering customs, suspected of terrorist activities (hey, I do a blog).  The interview is a bash.  The girl interviewing me knows substantially less about the accounting profession than me, she is personnel all the way.  Still, she has me on my toes immediately, asking me my GCSE grades.  I also go “what the real ones or the ones I’ve made up?â€?, only joking kids.  The interview actually pans out very encouragingly though.  Once it is established I can do my job, my interviewer begins telling me about the current openings and opportunities going at Hays and they sound like dream jobs to me: a practise on Bond Street, another dealing primarily with art dealers, another with media types and fashion houses.  These jobs actually sound interesting!  One downside though, the salaries are kinda poor but for a foot in the door and the opportunity to work at such organisations, I’m willing to live with that.  She then also adds that the big four are beginning to hire more.  This is music to my ears, I am so encouraged and excited, feeling I have discovered a real shot in the arm for my stationary career.  One thing however, this is Hays telling me these things.  Hays have a history for me of being unreliable, so all this euphoria may all be for nothing, before I reach for the sky my feet must remain on the ground.  I leave at 11.45, the woman making comment about my cough (“it’s a chest infectionâ€?) and how she is about to go on holiday so she will be away for the next couple of weeks (how unprofessional).  Whatever though, I leave a happy bunny.

I re-emerge onto the Strand looking at the Savoy (which to Hays office is opposite).  This really is somewhere on the map.  I am now left with a lot of time to kill until my second appointment at 2.30 with Accountancy Additions.  I decide to go for a wander, to purposely get lost and take in the City at a slow pace and do something I have never really had the opportunity to do before.  First though I spot a Boots and buy some Strepsils with the idea/notion that that will cure my chest infection in time for my next interview (delirious).  I walk down the Strand and wind up on Fleet Street checking out the buildings around me like never before and texting people enthusiastically in the process.  I text Phoebe to see if she would like to meet up for lunch.  When I reach St Paul’s she texts me back and says unfortunately she can’t, that had I “texted earlier…….â€?.  Nevermind.  At St Paul’s I decide to turn around head back towards the centre of things.  In the process I text Azmei an apology, attempting to explain myself in the process.  This little stunt couldn’t possibly go any worse and soon, after clichés and patronisation, that ends with her discouraged at me and my high spirits crashing back to earth.  Kudos.

Soon I have wound up back in Holborn and I looking for the offices of Accountancy Additions in preparation.  Job done.  And still with a hell of a lot of time still to waste.  I end up in Covent Garden, Oxford Street way.  I go into Forbidden Planet, something I am doing much too much these days in London (but in there I do find the most interesting book about eights Video Nasties, I remember watching some of them pre-cert, which wouldn’t have been very healthy for a boy around the age of ten to be doing).  I also end up in Fopp, spying more mysterious bargains (how do they knock those things out so cheap, are they Eastern Europe or Asian off cuts?).  Next is Borders and it soon occurs to me that I am chain shopping, this still does not stop me checking Virgin Megastore but this might have a little more to do with that fact that the hot as hell day is now torrential rain.

It probably best shows what kind of mind frame I am in when I actually go into Burger King and eat by myself, I have one of these little things/rules that I will/do not eat in public on my own.  This is only the second time I have ever done so, the other being after a visit to a professional lady in Victoria.  Of course I drop some sauce down myself which I figure is a great precursor to going into a business type meeting/interview/appointment.  More insania erupts when I attempt to use the BK toilets in Oxford Street, they’re SO dingey and you just can’t get any peace.  After two people storming in on me I give up, the fella was too scared of further exposure.

I head back to Holborn for my interview at Accountancy Additions.  More form filling in but at least this time this company looks like it actually deals with professionals and skilled personnel (i.e. me!).  I do however turn up drenched which is odd because whereas Oxford Street was rainy and wet as fuck, I emerge one stop in Holborn to things nice and sunny, go figure.  This interview is very casual, much too casual.  The man interviewing me is South African and called Craig.  He is overly friendly and as a result unnerving.  He tells me that this morning he has just spoken to Louise from the office and he asks me just what is going on at BS & Co for him to be having two people at once job hunting from there.  I say my bit.  This interview feels less encouraging, Craig appears to be attempting to steer me more towards employment still in Essex and/or Suffolk.  This is the opposite to music to my ears, I feel such a switch right now would be a real side step.  He does however comment that he has more positions in those areas than actual personnel to fill them; that’s the stuff, said like a true employment agency.  This interview is very brief, something I am a tad relieved about.  He asks me why I dressed up, commenting that I didn’t have to.  I have to lie and not tell him it was to meet with another agencies.  All agencies will tell you not to register with anyone else because apparently prospective employers will get bored of seeing your CV however the truth is that they just want 100% dibs on any commissions from them finding you employment, they are in effect steering you away from approaching their competition.  And how many businesses do you know that will approach more than one employment agency?  Those fees actually are astronomical, I have been offered a thousand pounds in the past to find fresh blood for my employer (at that time).

Free of all my work obligations and somewhat encouraged, I make the quick hop back to Fopp to make my purchases (four Nick Cave CDs, two John Coltrane DVDs and Hannah And Her Sisters by Woody Allen on DVD) and by four I am back on the train back to Colchester to hook up with Stevo and Sandip/Sunny to go to the 20/20 cricket tonight.

I do all right getting back to Colchester for five but this still means poor old Sunny is waiting at the office for me.  I strip off out of my suit in my car into my night clothes, someone passing me in my car at that moment could have got quite the thrill.

I finally hook up with Sunny around 5.30.  Stevo has already left for Chelmsford and Sunny is flapping.  It amazes me how much of a meal he makes out of getting petrol on London Road, Stanway.  Whilst on our way to Chelmsford, Stevo calls me and asks if we can pick him up.  That’s cool but instead of picking up at his house, he wants us to pick him up at Chelmsford Beefeater.  Stevo is really fucking weird about his parents.  I know it’s a bit odd for a 35 year old to be back living at home but we don’t care THAT much!  Unfortunately Sunny and I get a little lost when I get confused as to which eatery is the Beefeater (my bad).  In the end we go to Stevo’s house and call his home phone.  He’s long gone, what a fucking calamity.  Sunny gives up and decides to just drive to the ground and basically fuck Stevo.  We find the lush staggering into town roughly outside Chelmsford prison.  He is nuts.  We let him in the car and he has pictures of Portugal and the England v France match.  All is forgiven.  On the way to the cricket ground I have a heated discussion over how crap it is that Greece have made the Euro 2004 final, it’s rubbish!

The cricket ground is rammed, I will never get used to the public being all over the pitch prior to kick off.  And to add razzamatazz to proceedings some pretty tubby girl is on the pitch singing covers of Billy Joel etc songs whilst kids around her appear to be attempting to hit cricket balls at her.  Above us there are darkest clouds and rain is inevitable, postponing the start.  When the rain finally teams down the only apparent place to gain refuge is the disabled area, and it’s a pretty piss poor show when so many people clamber round people in wheelchairs just to keep out of the rain.

Eventually the game kicks off and we start out drinking in the pavilion, along with all the other uninterested in cricket pissheads.  After just five minutes of watching play, I already see more cricket than I did in the whole of last year’s visit.  Essex bat first and are piss poor, soon wickets go and they fall apart.  However, please don’t ask me what the score was.  It appears that for 20/20 teams tend to put out their reserve sides.  We came today to watch Shane Warne but a few weeks ago he broke his hand (or something) but I doubt he would have played anyway.  We drink drink drink and all beer here is pish.  I do however enjoy going to the bar because there is the most beautiful Asian girl working (it).

I check my phone and there is a text from Phoebe thinking it weird that I am watching cricket, asking me “isn’t it boring?â€?.  Rather.  I also check my phone to see that Marco has been evicted from the Big Brother.  Oh my, drama darling.  Nevermind, he sucks ass and cock.

Chelmsford is a strange place, much too many West Ham fans it seems.  Essex fall apart for a pretty poor score and Hampshire enter into bat looking a good bet to score.  At this point Stevo disappears for about half an hour when he said he was going for chips.  Instead of just going to the concessions truck he has gone all the way into Chelmsford to a proper chip shop and brought back proper bags of chips with some curry sauce (for Sunny?  What a stereotype!).  Stevo has also returned with a four pack of Stella, how the fuck did he sneak that in?  When I moaned about the poor beer, I was only half joking.  Sneaking Stellas into a cricket ground, that pretty much sums Stevo up.  We then remember that there is a cricket match happening and Essex are putting it to Hampshire and gaining wickets and pace to the point of being in a winning position.  Eventually (and quickly) Essex pull it off and bowl out Hampshire and win the match.

We stagger back to Sunny’s car through the streets of Chelmsford.  Stevo and Drew are always ripping on Colchester, so we gain our revenge and take this piss out of “this?â€?.  Sunny is a real sport driving us around.  He takes Stevo home but via the road Drew lives down so we get to see what his castle/mansion looks like, which is actually pretty average surprisingly.  When we drop Stevo off Sunny says to me “I can’t imagine him ever moving out or having a girlfriendâ€?.  I agree.  I squeeze out enough conversation with him to get us home, me sounding semi big shot now that I have now been to London to check it all out.  I get in and The Krays AND Good Morning Vietnam are on tv.  Too much choice, life is good sometimes.  In the words of Phoebe: sweetdreams.

np:  The Vines – Get Free

July 1 (Thursday): For a second morning running I awaken from a dream about working at BS & Co.  I am scared to death, working life is wearing me out.  So where am I?  Beats me (up).

I trudge into work but there’s nothing really there for me to do, both jobs I am currently charging on are in a state of limbo and I’ve exhausted the work that I can do on them without having the further information that I require.

At dinnertime I go for lunch with Azmei.  Her sister drops her off outside the office in her shitty brown Ka so obviously she didn’t wrap it around a lamppost driving it home over the limit Friday night.  I’m in a weird mood, frazzled as per usual these, it is the summer, the heat and the hate, it does me in.  Neither of us can decide where to go so we wind up going to Nandos for lunch.  Its horribly average and almost laboured, part of me thinks/realises that me and Azmei will never really be close friends ever again.  An interesting thing though, I brace myself for some flack with regards to Friday night but it turns out that Sarah never even told her that I went along to the works “doâ€?.  Sign of a guilty conscience?  I say a few bad things but bite my lip and don’t go too far into things other than saying “we had an argumentâ€?.  I drop the subject.  Conversation is really disturbingly laboured.  I was considering opening up some more today and going emo on her but ultimately it feels too little too late and entirely pointless by now.  Lunch passes with a whim and we part ways.  Ideally this should be the last time we ever see each other, any further contact will ruin/tarnish any idealised notions/versions of the times we used to spend late last year/early this year.

To match my mood, I quickly pop to the HMV sale to buy a Morrissey CD for three quid.  What a rotter.

Things get bad when Azmei texts about an hour into the afternoon.  It seems she has mentioned Friday to Sarah and Sarah has gone and told Azmei what I said was untrue.  Grief, I barely said anything about things.  And I’m getting double texts from Azmei, seems she is kicking off.  I tell her it is a “mountain out of a molehillâ€?.  I can’t believe her sister, she’s a prize shit.  That ends.

In the early evening, before the football, I pop to Asda to get money for tomorrow and to the train station to get tickets so that I don’t have to be fucking about with them in the morning.  Azmei texts and tells me she isn’t going up to London tomorrow now, she is going Monday now instead.  She tells me its because she doesn’t have paperwork that she needs for tomorrow (to wire money to Pakistan or something) but I get paranoid and I think our little spat this afternoon has prompted her to blow me out.  I actually was really looking forward to going up to London together and I feel really let down, yet again.  She can’t get away with this.

I get home in time to catch the beginning of tonight’s Euro 2004 and it’s Greece v the Czech Republic.  For me it’s the Czechs all the way baby!  Of the four teams from the semis, only Holland and the Czechs in my opinion look worthy champions (on paper) and now we need a team that will beat Portugal in the final because they are shits as they put England out.  Greece on the other hand, what the hell are they doing in the semi finals?  Greece are shit.  Maybe they’re not shit these days, well obviously they’re a pretty accomplished side to have gotten the results they done so far but still, like Turkey, this is a nation England used to beat 5-0 when I first got into football and that is how it should still be.

However I watch very little of the match, instead I get into a texting rally with Azmei, sending her some of the darkest cloud comments going.  I’m a shit but I also fit shit on.  I guess really in being so bleak I am fishing for texts/comments from her to make me feel better.  None come.  All I get are clichés from her suggesting a complete lack of understanding, like our friendship has never really registered with her.  I hate it when I get this way but when someone puts me in a foul mood my instincts are to make them feel the exact way right back.  Whatever, it goes on until past ten, almost as if we’re baiting each other but there is a distinct air of “I couldn’t care lessâ€? coming from her.  Whoops.

In the meantime, Greece v Czech Republic goes into extra time, this to me is absurd.  Similar to England v Portugal, when Portugal put out our big gun Rooney, tonight Greece have kicked Nedved out of the game and this has only given Greece confidence.  Eventually it happens, Greece score in extra time.  I have to admit it is a fantastic set piece goal, it happens so fast the Czechs don’t know what hits them.  It does go against the run of the game, the Czechs still look the better team.  So Greece win and go into the Euro 2004 final to cap a very bad night for me.  Greece prevailing when it is down to the competition and opponents being so bad is a really bad thing for European football, their getting to the final of Euro 2004 I am heard as saying “this is the worst thing to happen to football in my lifetimeâ€?.  Fuck, Big Brother is more interesting at the moment anyway, so I go back to watching that before passing out asleep.

np:  Sol-i - Tingling

June 30 (Wednesday): All due respect.  I wake up having suffered a dream about work, this only suggests by it all, I am too stressed out.  Does this morning begin with any grand revelations.  No, not really.

So, work itself, what happens?  Well I manage to go through the day without too much hassle.  For Stevo though, it is a different story.  This beggars belief but Cris actually comes over to the office and tells Stevo that his job on CPA is “an utter pile of shitâ€?.  Talk about a negative motivator.  Our usually loud office (Chernobyl) goes pretty much silent for the rest of the morning.  I guess Mr Alexander has made comment about the work/job/accounts to some extent but almost definitely nothing to warrant such comments.  Someone just stepped on our graves.

My day isn’t much better, Brooks Transport have failed to come up with the required reports, despite printing off every other possible report it seems.  And Andy remains pedantic about Hollyhouse Media, originally I had the job completed in about 18 hours but now continual bouncing it back to me is seeing it headed towards the 30 hour mark.

We lunch at the Marquis, we being myself, Stevo, Brian and Sandip.  The television gets put on and we see that Tim Henman is already losing, which I guess is what a loser does.  Like a junkie, I get out of there as soon as possible to sample the first day of the HMV summer sale.  Minutes later, £27 is added to my credit card and Nil By Mouth, Swingers and Little Shop Of Horrors added to my DVD collection.  In the afternoon, by the time I am checking the tennis on my phone, Henman has already choked and lost.

Tonight is five-a-side football and the make up league match against Anglia Grain.  As I was explaining to Dad via MSN last night, the reason we won our last match was due to Dick and James Warner and tonight we are their opposition.  And I’d forgotten about Andy, their wonderkid in a red England shirt who looks like and is built like Wayne Rooney and plays pretty close to him also.  Spirits start off high but then Dick insists on using their scummy, crappy ball instead of the softer indoors ball that we use every week.  I don’t want to sound soft but that ball fucking hurts/stings and as a result I play the game in a right fucking mood, the most pissed off I have every been in one of our five-a-side.  This is even to the point that I am moved to shouting out “pikey fucking ballâ€? and “wankersâ€?.  As expected one shoot flies and completely fucks up my hand.  It is a real shame really because our team is actually playing really well, especially Seymour having visibly the best game he has had in weeks.  Still, there are casualties on their side also as a shoot gets fired straight into James’ balls, perhaps ending any chances of him having kids in the near future.  Towards half time we begin to really close the gap but then unfortunately I allow a couple of stupid goals in as per usual and the half time score is 7-5 to Anglia Grain.  At halftime I gripe like fuck about the ball, considering kicking it on the roof, considering attempting to squeeze all the air out of it until it pops (yeah, I’m really that strong).  I make the smart arse comment “hey, next time we might as well play with a tennis ballâ€?.  The second half is more of the same and eventually it ends 14-11 to Anglia Grain with me letting in a couple of late ones just as it looked like we might just scrape our way back into the game.  My bad.  After the game I storm out fucked off, never has one of our five-a-side games made me so angry.

I get in, I bath.  Azmei texts about arrangements to meet for lunch tomorrow.  I tell her about my interviews on Friday and she says she’s going up to London also Friday and she suggests that we go up together.  It’s a plan, it’s a date.  Actually, I really really appreciate this, it will be so, I guess, comforting and infinitely helpful to have some support to prep me for my first city interviews, albeit just agency ones.

Tonight is the return of Euro 2004 and its Holland v Portugal.  I hate Portugal and before the tournament Holland were my picks so it’s obvious (and boring) as to whom I want to win this one.  Unfortunately however, Holland are piss poor yet again and Ronaldo scores yet another great goal.  They later add a second against an impotent Holland whose only way of scoring appears to be to have Portugal score for them (with an own goal).  I watch this game with a half arsed heart, without us in the tournament now it really is pointless and to be honest they might as well shut up shop.  Laters.

np:  Breeders - Saints

June 29 (Tuesday): Long term parking.  This morning I am not in work ten minutes and one of the partner’s is having a pop at me.  Today’s master is Mr Heddle who is asking pedantic/redundant questions about a little hair studio job.  None of queries result in actual adjustments and come with complete air of uselessness.  The straw that might snap the camels back is when he queries where I have posted some deposit account transactions and when I go straight to the posting I notice he has already made a mark on the schedule, so he had actually discovered them on his own anyway.  This is coupled with his query of me posting payments out of a tax bank account to personal tax payments.  This is an assumption on my part but what on earth are they actually like to be?  This is very frustrating, I feel talked down to and messed about.  The rest of the morning gets spent in a strop.

As a result, when I follow up Accountancy Additions call, I have little conscience.  Bad thing however, of all the times Drew the gob could come over to our office……so now the worst kept secret will be out within a few days I can see.  I mention to the guy Craig that I am in the city Friday so we arrange an impromptu interview for the after at 2.30.

I lunch with Louise, we’re in similar sorts of boats, both questioning our futures and careers.  However I am six years older than her and wish I was as good/knowledgeable as her at her age.  We wander over to the ghetto side of Colchester and outside some tacky clothes shop is a girl a very close double to Mutya Sugababes sans make up, sans looks.  Still, I’m smit.  She is being talked to (screamed at) by some crazy chit chat who is obviously her boss.  Ace, life on the wrong side of the tracks.  Like a redneck I buy the Stone Cold Steve Austin autobiography in hardback for four quid and I’m happy as a pig in shit.

I get home and unfortunately it is a second night of no football and me at a lose.  Didn’t I have a life just a few days ago?  I read my Stone Cold book, MSN with Dad for a bit and again watch Big Brother.  Without doubt, it is an early night.

np:  Har Mar Superstar – E Z Pass

June 28 (Monday): The test dream.  Back at work, back in a mood.  Events Friday night were the result of certain actions at work, so there is no getting away from things just yet.  Things begin fairly well though as while I walk to work I receive a text from Mark asking if I want to do lunch today (“excellent!â€?).  In the office I paint my picture of events to my workmates, to the extent they are able to finally make me see the funny side of things and they are actually telling me what I did was right.

Mid morning I receive a phonecall from Hays Personnel.  It is their London branch and some bird there may have some job opportunities there for me.  She asks me if I can come in for an interview, come in being to London.  I provisionally agree but have to arrange the day off with Seymour.  He is easy and says “certainly you can take a holiday Fridayâ€?.  It turns out that the Hays office is in Covent Garden (cool!) and an interview is set for 11.00.

I meet up with Mark for lunch, Stevo seems a bit hurt that he is not invited.  Mark is off back to Sheffield tomorrow for a month or so and that sucks.  We lunch in the beer garden of the Hogshead under the threat of dark clouds and rain.  I tell him about my impending opportunities with London and my worries about the future.  I express my concerns about becoming the future within BS like certain other staff and he tells me that I am a “bit more cerebral than himâ€?.  Like it.  Lunch is fantastic but over all too soon.  Its one of the few genuine conversations I will be having all week.  Drat.

The remainder of the day passes quietly without any real incident.  Sarah doesn’t get in touch (to some relief) and when I get home in the evening it is quiet and dead because for the first night in weeks there is no football on the telly.  I check my email to find that Accountancy Additions have been attempting to contact me also with regards to getting a job.

With no football, my evening is open but I just don’t know what to do.  Luckily this morning I received my Ciao Manhattan DVD from America so I watch that on a scorching summer evening taking me straight back to my holiday in Sacramento last year.  Afterwards Dad hits me on MSN for a bit.  Then there is Big Brother and what?

np:  Pavement – Major Leagues

June 27 (Sunday):  Cold cuts.  Today is about a slow moving Graham, I suspect I may still be stoned.  Eventually I manage to haul myself out of my flat and head to the olds for the weekly weekend ritual.  Things look good when I sneak into town and actually find a prime parking place, luck is on my side.  I buy Front magazine because it comes with a free DVD.  When I get to my parents I watch the DVD and it’s the sickest/funniest thing, some tubby black midget with terrible teeth called Beetle/Beetlejuice pulling pranks and humiliating himself, it’s beyond belief, right up there with Bumfights.  And I do laugh my arse off.

Today is laboured, I am a 27 year old man in a teenage mood hanging out with his parents, how bad do I suck?  Still, there’s a barbecue.  I eat too much and the dog is visible flagging in the heat, he is getting home.

The big deal is the new girl in Big Brother called Becki.  It is so wrong but this is interesting.  Becki looks like a cross between that Dani girl from the other night, B’s aunt Nina and Rita Tushington from the sixties (as your parents).  I am quite smit.

I begin to make moves to go home but I get talked into staying and watching the football (the last quarter final) with dad.  Denmark v Czech Republic is a bit of snorer in the first half, its weird everyone now fancies the Czechs big time but tonight they don’t really look all that.  And I’ve always had a bit of a thing for Denmark ever since Jan Molby became my first football hero.  Come the second half though its all change when before Denmark know it, they are losing 3-0!  The lanky Koller headed in a predictable go ahead goal for the Czechs but then Baros popped in with two close goals that took my breath away, easily two of the most skilful and impressive moments of the whole tournament, finally I see what people see in the Czech Republic.  Once it was three the game was so over it hurt Denmark and the last twenty minutes were played out in an excruciating manner.

After the game I drive home wrongly shattered.  It’s a Sunday evening, I have no more to say.

np: Velvet Underground – Lady Godiva’s Operation

June 26 (Saturday): Unidentified black males.  I wake up and life has beaten me.  Christ, last night was the pits, life should never go that low.  I wonder how much I overreact (again!) but it’s not my fault at the end of the day, what a prize shit.

The night lingers in my consciousness, in the form of a mental scar.  This is one of those can’t get out of bed days.  Somehow though, from somewhere, I do manage to get the Saturday newspapers (did I walk down to the shop next to football ground?).

I don’t rant and rave or do anything destructive, instead I decide I cannot stay around here (here being Colchester, here being BS & Co).   I hit the web (the modern answer to everything it seems to me) and I begin scanning/scouring the job websites for accountancy jobs, local and in the City.  My CV is in the best state it has been in for ages and I have no reservations about sending it out to companies now, especially I genuinely do not think my current could possible be any harder.

I chose not to go around my parents today, I really don’t want them to see me this down in the dumps.  Instead I mope around my flat, half expecting a bitch out text from Sarah regarding my actions last night.  I never comes.  I watch The Ice Storm which I seemed to remember being good (not so hot on second viewing).

By the evening I am desperate and in need of human contact.  I am disturbed majorly but this has more to do with watching James Brown and Will Young on TV dueting.  I call up Mark to see what he’s up to.  My heart sinks when there is no response.  Spirits rise through the roof though when he gets back to me and says I can go over.

I get over to his and the plan is to watch the football, Swedan v Holland.  However his brother is there and things are much more fun just ripping the piss out of life.  There are beers and their parents are away so we can party.  I think however that I currently have a chest infection and when I splutter after a hit I sound like a real lightweight amateur.  Still, it knocks my head off immediately.

When I describe my experiences last night to everybody I find myself already able to laugh at things, that old cliché about it being good to talk really is true.  And it makes you sound interesting.

Mark’s brother Steve shows me his test pressings for his new record, I remember them.  I try to give him advice but it he seems to be doing things a good way, no expense spared.  I ask him why he’s pressing vinyl in England instead of the Czech Republic and apparently that place is a major pollutant of rivers and lakes in the area.  I always heavily criticised (and never used) the vinyl because it was cheap, nasty and always skipped, who would have thought I was being green.  Regardless, whatever the record with Rube is on, it is going to be a winner.

Potted and munchied, it is a real relief that Mark is cooking us dinner but it does mean that we are missing the game.  The food is great though and by the time we eventually get around to watching the football the game it is still 0-0 and going into extra time.  Extra time is actually pretty exciting and I’m told far better than the actual 90 minutes normal time was.  Holland come closest but fail to seal the deal.  Has football always been this entertaining when stoned?  Eventually the game gets into penalties and it is really great, penalty shootouts are actually pretty good fun to watch when you couldn’t give a flying fuck about the end result, high on comedy value.  Who won?  Erm, Holland I think.  Hope so.

Stoned we channel hop and come across Bo Selecta.  The Bear is hanging out with Bob Mortimer in the pub and they are both being fucking disgusting.  This is the stuff of greatness.

As it starts to piss down outside, Mark’s Steve disappears to bed or to listen to music somewhere leaving us to hang out with his friend who soon clocks it and leaves.  Me and Mark watch Paul McCartney live from Glastonbury for a bit but its getting late and cheesy in equal doses.  Without doubt, good times.

Today turns out to be the first day in a long long time that Sarah my “stalkerâ€? does not text me.  It is a relief

np:  So Clear Productions – Taking You Back

June 25 (Friday): Marco Polo. This morning I suffered disturbing dreams and I awaken in Mark’s study surrounded by human rights books, on top of a mattress maybe as seen in Trainspotting (sorry). One bonus: at least I am fully clothed. Do I have a headache? A hangover? Nope, I am still fucking drunk. I look over to see Stevo asleep, curled up like a dickhead. I give it until eight and then wake him up with a warning. I apologetically search out Mark and thank him for allowing us to crash but he looks terrible, rightfully exercising a “fuck off, I want to go back to sleep� attitude.

We stagger back to the office to collect Stevo’s car. Embarrassingly JS is already there and we get clocked picking up the motor looking like a couple of pikey zombies. I finally get home at 8.30, now that will be a nice story to drag through the day (“I only got home at 8.30�).

By the time I get into work I actually feel pretty rosey, the reason for this, rather than being hung-over I think I am still a bit drunk. And I don’t think I’m the only one when Sara phones me on my mobile all the way from Dubai at great expense. She insists she ain’t pissed but she lies. I’m not much better though, tipsy and very horse, a deep sexy sounding voice making me sound like one of the main players in The Football Factory (yeah I wish). On the phone, I am filth and fearless to her. She asks me if I miss her, I answer “sometimes�. I ask her where she is and what she did last night for the football, it has been a long time since she last phoned me so I take it she has had a barney with her latest boyfriend and needs some man attention. That ends, ten minutes plus on our phone bills.

Today Azmei has arranged to come to lunch, sadly though it is to go with Lindsey and Louise and I just can’t be out eating with Lindsey and her hypocrisies, I’d either slap her or vomit (or both!). This however does not register with Azmei, dude I’ve gone nearly six months without giving her the time of day, nothings going to change. Azmei turns up and doesn’t come over and say “hi� to that fucking kills any desire I have to talk/speak to her, so I go over say “hi� and trot off into town to bank my pay cheque (pay day!!!!). I get a little piss take abuse from Louise whilst in Natwest but I jog and do my first lunch break on my own for the first time in months. Retail therapy sees my buy WWF Smackdown 4 for my Playstation 2 and a kick ass Jeff Banks shirt for tonight’s “date�, all going on the credit cards already up to six grand. You’re no good for me.

I return to the office and Ivan is waiting for a chat, he’s just bored and hung-over. He rips into the fact that I appear to have bought a healthy lunch from Boots by accident (honest guv). Me and him shoot the shit, always interesting considering his past as a school bully called Screwdriver (ho ho). Illuminating though, he does tell me that Azmei’s sister Sarah has been calling the office to speak to Griggs. “Really?� this is news to me and very unwelcome/unwanted news at that. My heart is broken (yeah right). Still, it does piss me off. I see Lindsey and Louise return from lunch without Azmei so I text her to see if she’s still in town (she said she’d pop in for a chat). Eventually she turns up and I’m really arsey with her, again snappy looking for a row. I’m an arsehole but we’re having lunch next Thursday so I figure niceties are best saved for then. The rest of the afternoon is a grind.

As soon as I get home I set about tidying my home in two hours strong in the slight event that tonight I might be getting lucky. And I do a pretty ish good job, although the pile of newspapers I have amassed for stock share details is really a fucking mess. I get ready/prepared feeling dubious but put on CK-One so I guess I must be making an effort.

I put my living room tv on to try out my new Playstation game and the fucker don’t work. Stevo had it on this morning but now it ain’t working. Stevo has broken my tv!

Sarah picks me up at 7.30. As I get in the car, the first thing she says is “you smell nice�. Han Solo style, I reply “I know�. I ask her if it was her black eyeliner that I found in my car the other day. She laughs but I am serious. We park in St Marys but she makes a bit of a meal of it. She says she doesn’t want to go out carrying a handbag and I mumble “not on the blob then�. Luckily she doesn’t hear this but christ, I am really in a funny mood. We walk to Edwards. For the past two days she has been saying the meet up is at the Playhouse but now there is a sudden change but as soon as we get there she starts going “or is it?�. Red rag to a bull, red rag to a bull.

Things start off sedate, I’m charming and on best behaviour, running the risk of boring as a result. Sarah gets a call from her Capita workmates, they are indeed in the Playhouse, grief. We wait for them to come over, they do so and wow, adults. The main manager guy is some doppelganger to some ginger person I used to go to school with called Lee, he is a Doppelganger. Nowhere near as offensive though as the scouse Scott doppelganger manager who is pretty large and arrogant to boot and I suspect another Mcslim. In the words of Kurt Cobain, “you’re in high school again�. And “everyone’s the same�. That said, they are flash with the notes and buying all the booze and turning us onto evils. I’m soon drinking coke and vodka and handling it. However my driving for the evening, Sarah, she manages to squeeze in about three Bacardi Breezers in about ten minutes and soon she is all over the show. She gives me her car keys and it looks like I’ll be the one driving home tonight.

With booze, Sarah is a nut. I say three Bacardi in fifteen minutes, I forget to add she downs them, almost sticking the entire bottles down her throat. I wonder if she is showing how she gives blowjobs, she’s on flirt overdrive. We get a bit touchy feely with no real intent, my main efforts are with attempting to keep her on her feet. I soon find I am sobering up very quickly. She introduces me to her workmates and, as much as I try, we do not have any common interests with which to build on (and I promise that is not me being antisocial). At one point I whisper in her ear jokily “I’m impressed, you’ve drunk three drinks this evening and not had to go to the toilet like typical girls�. This appears to tickle a nerve as she spits some orange juice out with laughter over one of her seniors, her Doppelganger boss giving her a genuine look of bemusement. This might be funny did she not spend the next hour worrying about the act and what her workmates now think of her (too late to worry about that methinks).

The moment that pisses me off most is when the Scott doppelganger gets all big man over us. This spell is coupled with me once more becoming invisible in the eye of Sarah. I watch as Scott doppelganger (real name: Abdul or something just as shit) whilst speaking to Sarah looks over and nods in my direction, the obvious question being “who is he?�. Her response is obvious, “a friend�. I get into the action, feeling a proper tool only to have Scott/Abdul ask me about my industry and what my “balance sheet looks like�. I do balance sheets for each of my clients. He tells me how to get ahead in business and it sounds so pathetic when I hear myself saying “there will be partnership opportunities in five years�. It begins to dawn on me this guy is younger than me but due to his confidence/ego/arrogance he appears much more developed and accomplished than me. Not my kind of thing, the sort of person that rubs me up. He tells me the only way to get ahead is to change jobs regularly. I agree with this from a salary perspective but really I have been told this makes for a bad looking CV, maybe our industries differ more than we realise but this man is just so goddamn confident about his views. Die!

Sarah’s friend Sarah (I think) talks us to for a bit and it is apparent I am now playing the third wheel in their thang. She does however ask if one of us is wearing CK-One, which wrongly makes me proud. I smugly confess to smelling so fine and Sarah goes “you’ve pulled� as if she don’t count.

By this point I’m ceasing to have fun. Word spreads though that Greece have beaten France 1-0 and put them out. I am amazed. Sadly however this means I have probably missed another highlight of Euro 2004. I also check my phone to confirm that Vanessa has been voted out of the Big Brother house. When I relay this information to the others, there is little interest.

We leave Edwards and I ask Sarah about the other Asian lady out with us who is about to go home. Sarah tells me she is Pakistani also. I comment how pretty the lady is but Sarah insists on making me tell her that she is better looking. She hears what she wants to hear, I exaggerate without meaning in a weak effort to flirt. The mood gets killed when she asks about Phoebe. I tell her that’s not happening and switch the subject.

We head towards Roberto’s and as we pass Bodrums I hear my name shouted and its Ben and Mercs, fucking A! I am so happy to see them and this is a good night, in front of Sarah it makes me look really popular, a proper man about town. Sarah seems eager to meet. We walk with them until they go into the Hogshead and I know in my heart of hearts that following them in there instead of going with Sarah’s wanky workmates to Roberto’s will be a hundred times more fun. As we part company, Sarah insists on high fiving Mercs and Ben in an effort to be “cool�.

Arrival at Roberto’s is flat. There we find even more Capita employees including the woman apparently the “doppelganger� managers flirt at work with, a manager herself but also some four eyed minger smoking a cheap cigar. Females smoking cigars is so lame. By now I am long on the Cokes but not coke, which I was hoping might be about. Roberto’s is a common haunt of the partners at BS & Co and they come up in bored conversation between me and Sarah, her bringing them up. HER! I ask her if she has called the office to speak to Andy. She openly says yes, a couple of times “he told me to call back on Thursday�. Red rag to bull, red rag to bull. A can of worms is re-opened and she begins bugging me, asking me what was in the text he sent her, treating me as if I don’t count, don’t have a dick. She goes further, “it was him who had his hand on my arse the other Thursday�. My god, she is totally taken in, overreacting to some smarmy flirting, she thinks it was serious. She keeps bugging me, even saying “I’m hurt you won’t tell me what he said in the text�. I can’t believe her. I don’t hold back, I tell her that “he is taking the piss out of you� and that she is “sad and pathetic� to be so taken in. Once more I feel like Mr Irrelevant and mentally my night ends. How dramatic.

Roberto’s gets old and we head to Yates. On the way I am huffy and pass Heddle, barely saying “hi�, instead putting all concentration into seething. As we get to Yates Sarah asks if I’m pissed off and when I tell her “yup� she acts shocked. We get into Yates and have a proper row. I’m crap at arguing, all I muster is “I have to deal with that cunt at work, I don’t want to have to deal with it socially�. See, useless. She pops back “I don’t know why you’re angry, you brought it up�, which is untrue but I can’t get around. She asks for her car keys back. Very socially responsible I give them back to the drunken girl. She offers to drive me back home (yeah right). I do really want home though but scouse Scott Abdul talks us into staying, I forget Sarah likes these people. Yates after hours (post-eleven) is a funny place, it’s the real dregs. And lots of ladies. A better man would attempt to clean because there sure is lots of game. A better man though. Instead I stand for about quarter an hour quiet before saying to Sarah “I’m off�. Like a complete fool I get talked into staying even longer. Doppelganger does about his tenth round of drinks and I decide to hit the Stella. Sadly, it’s too little too late. I do begin talking to one of the husbands of a Capita bird. He appears to be a househusband (in other words wimp) but is actually a hot shot solicitor in the City. Oh my. We exchange niceties and then I tell him I support Millwall and he is shocked. The conversation turns to wank when the doppelginger and comments on his cack designer shoes that to me scream “wimp� but to the trained eye “scream� money.

We leave there around 11.45 and the doppelginger attempts to get us into the Wig & Pen but they’re having none of it, instead they point us to Valentinos. HELP! With Sarah now seeming to be ignoring me, I hear Scott Abdul finally say something interesting: DMX. I ask him about hip-hop but I get shot down, my last attempt to fit in fucked. As we follow the drunken master, our manager Doppelganger, the night begins to take on the look of the episode of The Office when they go nightclubbing. It dawns on me, these are social amateurs, occasional drinkers, despite their boasts. The biggest fool however remains I, as I follow them aimlessly, am I still looking out for Sarah’s best interests? Our little group passes Seymour’s house as it gets lost looking for Valentino’s, Sarah bang up for it. Sarah however is supposed to be home by midnight or she will turn into a pumpkin or something. She tells me that we will only be “in there for a little bit�. At this point I finally fucking lose it and just fuck off and walk home. I leave her to drive home and for all I know she wraps her new Ka around a lamp post (semi-hopefully with a lesson to be learned).

The thirty minute walk home to mine is a horrific mind trick, so sober it is rarely comfortable, undulled by alcohol you begin to notice that there might be actual threats around. The walk provides too much thinking time/space. I wonder what went wrong tonight, how I projected myself to the point that I allowed myself to get pissed on yet again. I’m just too passive I guess. There is no quick fix, there most disturbing thing is that people pushing me so far before I snap and make things so bad is such a recurring element to my life, not least with the “fairer sex�. Sometimes it doesn’t help to analyse.

My night is capped when I get home to find a pretty nasty email from Matt Newnham:
“jason

as per your wishes, i shall not contact you again. as repeated, the ebay sales will hopefully stop through the VERO. i'm disappointed with your skewed attitude and world view.

all this is your decision, i have tried to be amicable on many occassions and let so many of your unsavoury activities slide because of friendship. you have a short memory of the people who stuck by you. perhaps you should speak to tom and chris, whose advice i sought before discussing with you if you still wanted a part in gringo records. they all said you were a liability.

once again, good luck with sorting yourself out. it would be nice to have the old jason back. in the meantime, please do not bother replying.

good bye
matt�

Does that read as badly as I think? All in all, it’s just one of those things that makes life a fucking grind at times and at the end of an evening such as, you genuinely begin to wonder if it might just be better to call an end to things. I surrender.

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life. But who would want to do a thing like that? Choose not to choose life: choose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who need reasons when you've got Gringo Records?

np: nothing

Gringo Records Gringo Records Gringo Records Gringo Records Gringo Records Gringo Records

is it the Hacienda? no, its the Hippodrome! 

if this offends you, go back to Russia! 

tonight's TV 

June 24 (Thursday): In Camelot.  I need my sleep, not only my beauty sleep but the whole fucking hog sleep.  Sadly, dragged out for the X consecutive night is really hitting me hard.
 
At work though, I am buzzing.  Football last night was awesome and I describe it to Seymour with complete pride, even to the point that I state “after Sunday I’ve got my confidence backâ€?.  And it soon becomes apparent that the match mended bridges between me and Stevo.  Ben texts and he’s bang up for it.  At lunch time I stagger into town and I actually bump into Ellen Clarke as I am replying to a Ben text.  Her wedding is this weekend (talk about a long time planning).  I joke “where’s my invitation?â€?
 
Five o’clock comes around it is time to make moves.  I fly into town to MVC because the Sun is advertising they are selling the Tenacious D CD in the sale for four quid, got to be done.  I make my purchase and return to the office to go watch the football.  Stevo is in tow and with Ben and Mark out too, we have our firm (ho ho).  Lucky Graham doesn’t have a session this week, so there is time to spend, time to waste before the game.  We plod around my flat for a few minutes to no amusement so we just head straight to Yates, getting there just after six, it being blatantly apparent I will get plied with booze and drink too much tonight.  Ben and Stevo get on like a burning down house; they can bore the hind legs off a donkey with football stories better than I.  Mark eventually turns up and there is reinforcements in the house.
 
Tonight there is a different vibe in Yates; I guess this must mean it is just busier than the Croatia game.  The prime spot we had for that game is now gone, someone has decided to cash in and put a table and chairs there.  We stand heartily around the main bar area, there are two plasma screens within view so we have our pick.  We are also unfortunately opposite the staircase leading up to the toilets and this is where management appear to be setting up for the night, including the fit female manager there who looks five foot tall and not much older.
 
The game begins and I’m pretty much already next to pissed so when Owen finally scores a goal after a very long time coming a rush of emotion explodes and place goes off.  Take that Portugal.  To an early goal, we surely think the obvious, and this is a hatful will come.  Our fuel and excitement are soon scuppered when those dirty Portuguese go and wanker Rooney.  For the rest of the first half and we seem to do is drink, drink and drink.  I can remember very little of the first half other than having to bob my head too much and make way for drunkards staggering back from having a piss.
 
The second half is bad news, basically Ben, Stevo and myself stand pissed up singing Col U, Wimbledon and Millwall songs in addition to “David James is homosexualâ€? and god knows what other horrific crap we come up with.  And we just get louder.  Embarrassed?  We should be.  I think the “Killroy we love youâ€? attempt was a bridge too far.  I genuinely thought that any minute we would be getting thrown out but then again, our money is good.  The sad realisation was that England on the pitch was really pushing it.  When Rooney came off and Vessel came on our spark disappeared with Wayne’s World and as the second half wore on it looked like we were involved in a real defensive scrap but one that we were maintaining.  And never in our dreams did we now look like scoring (not even in a brothel).  It was devastating when Postiga scored an equaliser so late, you could see it coming a mile off but at the same time it really looked like we were holding our own and would be holding our own until the end.  And even worse, useless James, the shot as good as it was, was fairly saveable.
 
Sol Campbell’s goal was France 98 and Argentina all over again.  Our gut instincts were to grab each other and jump like lunatics to celebrate our winner moments for time, all against the run of play.  In the light of day though, anytime a goal gets bundled in that way with the goalie flailing, ending up on the ground, it IS going to go in the favour of the keeper.  Having seen the moment now more times the JFK getting assassinated though, Terry was the one obstructing as the keeper attempted to recover from the initial incident, surely rendering him out of play.  Whatever, yet again we were cheated; we give good for our money but never seem to really accomplish anything.
 
No one around was confident about going into extra time, with no Rooney up front basically we had no game.  It was a pretty scary concept to think that penalties were going to be our best bet tonight.  It comes to an end in the 110 minute when Rui Costa, I am convinced that’s golden goal.  I find myself saying to Ben “let’s get out of hereâ€? for fear that it is going to kick off.  It takes about a minute for me to realise the game is playing on.  When Lampard scores it comes completely unexpectedly, a gift from god.  The goal is an explosion of emotion.  When Rui Costa scored it really looked like it but I guess our efforts can be classed as tenacious.  As the goal went in and everything everyone went off, I would say it was comparable to being there with it’s own charm.
 
England plays out and get through to penalties.  If anyone claims they were confident with England going into the penalties they are a liar and a fool.  When Beckham balloons spoons his third England penalty in a row it almost comes as expected.  And add this to David James looking anything but confident, it was almost over before it had begun.  Still we flung ourselves into celebrations when we scored and they looked like they had missed, to the point some pisshead in red almost gets ratty when I accidentally bang him but tonight he would stand no chance, I felt I could shout anyone down (the wonders and joy of Stella!).  I have to admit I was gutted when Vassel missed our ultimate penalty; I really am a fan despite the fact that for most of the tournament he had been pish (especially tonight).  When the Portuguese keeper stepped up and bopped home the winner it felt that nothing could be more insulting, they could not possibly take the piss anymore.  At the close “fucking typicalâ€? was said more times than once and sadness was prevalent over anger (internally though I was steaming).  Ultimately I blame Sven.
 
After the disaster we stormed out onto the streets of Colchester, having expecting the outpouring from the Wig & Pen to be setting the town alight.  Surprisingly the place was pretty sedate with everyone down and no one really ratty.  We walked past the Nandos and felt like knocking its Portuguese front window in.  How dare they!  We end up in the beer garden of the Hogshead drinking Stella and freezing out tits off, depressed and dejected.  I can’t speak, I have shouted myself horse.  Could it get any worse?  Yes, Ben suggests we go to the Hippodrome being that its casual night.  Oh joy.  Worse though, everybody acts gung ho for it the mistake in question.  No no no.  By this point I am very very drunk and when Chris Lox’s brother Tim Jeff comes over to say “hiâ€? I am only able to ramble incoherently about Tenacious D.  By the time I have finished talking to him I find myself being lead to the Hippodrome, nightclub of nightclubs.  We stop at the cash machine and I have reached my limit and can’t get any money out, maybe I’m saved!  Like a food parcel to a starving nation, within seconds a score is shoved in my hand and I am still very much in.
 
We walk down the High Street and it is dead.  No sign of trouble, no sign of violence.  We get to the entrance of the Hippodrome and they don’t even search us on the way in!  This is very casual.  I am however in one of those states where I am actually too pissed to give my ticket to the ticket collector.
 
The Hippodrome.  I came here in 1993 and never came back.  And I can see why.  We soon rendezvous and Stevo remains AWOL.  We then watch as staggers out of the crowds giving a wanker sign to some guy and watch the guy follow him for a bit, we brace ourselves for trouble but doing the thing of watching him look for us instead of us going over to him.
 
I go for a piss in this place and there is a toilet attendant there.  I’m getting used to these annoying people now, spending so much time going up to London, I can see why the fit Girls Aloud bird slapped the piss out of one of them.  And this one has Chuppa lollies also, a real red rag to a bull if ever there was one.  And the ultimate seal of tackiness, what were the fragrances on offer: CK One?  Hugo Boss?  No, Lynx aerosols.  Nice.  Frightened I slump into a booth and notice at the bottom some pennies.  I put my hand in my pocket, throw some coppers in too and make a wish.  Is this clubbing equivalent of a wishing well?
 
We regroup upstairs (I didn’t even realise there was one).  The vibe is strange, most people are acting like rude obnoxious wankers but occasionally, usually when you expect it most of all, a few real gestures of kindness and friendliness are shown.  Personally I think the four of us stick out like sore thumbs but whatever we are shitfaced and monging, just like goldfish.  Upstairs the DJ is playing much better music, 100% hip hop that is 66% decent and 50% recognisable.  Compare this to my trips downstairs where I hear that DJ shamelessly playing Foo Fighters and Christina Aquilera together.  I spot a free sofa and make a b-line for it.  My friends are slow to follow, some almost look like they prefer to stand, but we get in some chill time.  Opposite us three real disco tarts plonk themselves down.  I look is disbelief at their sneers and brace myself for a least a little abuse.  No need, as one girl hops on the lap of another and starts riding ferociously and giving us all a show, Stevo points and gawps in amazement, almost producing more of a show himself.  The non-involved disco tart three points and laughs, taking the piss out of Stevo, taking the heat off the rest of us.  Stevo innocently asked the girls “are you lesbians?â€? to which they respond “no, we’re trisexualsâ€?, a term Stevo has to ask me about.  When I tell him it means “try anythingâ€? he goes back to interrogating the Disco Gal.  God knows what he says to her/them but immediately what little reception we have (albeit sarcastic) goes.
 
We go back to standing up at the bar like chumps when it is decided more alcohol is required as lifeblood and I begin scoping the DJ, trying to egg myself on to request 99 Problems by Jay-Z.  My apparent familiarity with the phat tunes he be dropping gave me a delusional air of being down with the kids.  At the same time though, I look around at the kids and think “what a bunch of wankersâ€?.  And this isn’t me riding some high horse, they genuinely were mostly pseudo-players acting up.  Mark tells me that he just spots some guy pissing up a wall and then we see security drag another bloke out the house (there are legendary horror stories about the security of the establishment), maybe that means time to leave.  We actually reach until around 1.30 in the morning and the whole point of the evening and coming to the Hippodrome has taken on the weight of being some kind of endurance test, to see that we can make it until 2.00.  Doesn’t happen.  Words are said and moves are made.  Ben tells us he’s off for a piss and as soon as he gets back we will leave: we never see him again.  Eventually, after waiting, we trolley out onto the street where there is the usual carnage of some girl falling on her arse in the street.  In my usual socially minded way, I could care less.
 
Right now, my number one desire ain’t pussy nor world peace, its kebab subsistence.  Earlier, while on our way to the Hogshead, Bodrums was shut post football.  As we head in that direction, I attempt to steer things towards Queen Street and the ghetto side of town for some reliable kebab houses (usually fronting prostitutes and drug dealers).  I get outvoted 2-1 and the promise of meat somewhere somehow, with Sam’s Pizzeria sounded the best bet, marvellous.  I nearly die when we pass it to see it shut but saving the day, Bodrums is open and trading.  They’ve worked on that place, done up the interior and put in a new counter in.  Also they may have gone on some staff training, tonight rarely are they this polite.  With the football now long forgotten, things begin to look better.
 
It looks like Stevo and I are in for a LONG walk home (or a bit of drink driving) when Mark says his parents are away and we can stay over at his crib.  This is a relief, to be honest I am really a bit funny about having people over to stay at my flat.  The walk to his is hilarious and despicable.  Of the three of us, for some reason I am the only person to have bought a kebab and it is plainly obvious the others want in, want some so I spend the entirety of the walk to Mark’s hiding my chow and pretending not to be eating whilst literally attempting to fend them off.  For some reason I allow them some pitta I rip off but nothing else.  I’m an only child.
 
When we get into Creffield Road we don’t fuck about.  Mark directs us to his dad’s study and immediately pulls out old duvets and mattresses in the realisation that time is heading towards 3.00 in the morning.  I’ve never seen this part of Mark’s house before, I don’t know where I am.  I sleep in my contact lenses, I rebel to the end.
 
np: Dizzee Rascal – Fix Up Look Sharp

June 23 (Wednesday): Sentimental education.  I wake up shocked that my alarm clock actually dares to go off.  Before being rudely interrupted, I was having a dream about shopping in Fopp with my friends, pretty sad.  I actually wake up thinking “this is finally my timeâ€?.
 
My momentum soon yields however when I MSN Phoebe and she tells me that she can’t make it for our date on 3 July.  I am gutted but she is very apologetic and keen to re-arrange, so rather than a cancellation it’s just a postponement.
 
Today at work it is Lindsey’s birthday.  I don’t wish her happy birthday but I do get my order in for birthday cakes.
 
Work wise, Seymour has given me a pretty big job to do (Brooks Transport) which would have been an audit were the year end a month earlier.  Unfortunately he has made mention of the job to Stevo who decides to hassle me about it and me and him end up having one of our classic heated arguments, this time about ETBs.  The argument gets absurd to the point that we (mainly Stevo) are in disagreement about the font that we use on Excel.  Grief, could things be any more Mickey Mouse.  Seymour said I was working with Ivan on the job anyways (ho ho).
 
In the evening we play football and we’re playing with a “weakened sideâ€?.  Ivan is out for starters which means we have none of his ringer Colts team mates either.  Instead we scrape together me, Stevo, Kev, Dick and his son James, who I really rate and think is a fantastic player.  We begin and the game is a real scrap.  For starters Birkett’s have six (i.e. a sub) so it looks like we will eventually lose/give in to tiredness but it doesn’t happy.  Dick has a bit of a mini war with Jev and our team is really solid and soon flies (somehow) into a 4-0 lead, thanks mainly to James bashing several goals.  Still, the real shocker is how ferocious Dick and Jev are going at each other.  At halftime the score is 7-4 to us and I’m feeling confident and on-form, something that has really been missing lately.  The second is a continuation of snuffing out Birkett’s and thanks to mainly Dick the team is solid and has real shape, Kev is also having the best game he’s had in weeks.  Slowly Birkett’s come back into it and eventually equalise but with the very last kick of the game James scores for us to make it 10-9 and I have never been so relieved for a game to end or so excited by us scoring a goal.  Winners!
 
As I drive home I get a text from Azmei saying they (her and Sarah) are on their way to pick me up.  She said they would be around to pick me up at 7.30 which was going to give me time to have a quick bath and get changed with good time.  As I pull into Hollytree Court there they are waiting for me.  This pisses me off and I get the fucking hump as I have to rush to get ready without having a break from anything.  I don’t even let them up into the flat, it is too much of a tip, instead I make them wait in the car.  Rushed, I emerge ten minutes later Captain Grumps.  They fucking knew I had football until 7.00 but still turn up early, how stupid can people get.  And all this for Troy!  I queue with Sarah and get tickets.  She pays and I don’t care, I’m in a mood with her.  Serving us is one of B’s old friends called Jaz.  This was the girl that once gave a blowjob at the top of a hill, got spaffed in the eye by wax dart from a backed up willy and then moaned/complained/concerned about the health issues (I told her she could lose her sight).  Needless to say, tonight she doesn’t recognise me.  I tell Sarah that sordid little tale and really impresses her, gives off an air that I know a lot of people and I have dirt on all of them.  The Mcslim sisters buy popcorn drinks and sweets while I see my reflection in the spacemaker mirror and I look so bedraggled it’s disgusting, which annoys me even more.
 
The movie Troy.  It is horrible.  We sit three, Sarah left, Azmei middle and I right (the aisle seat in case of fire).  I don’t know why I said "yes" to seeing this film; it really does not appeal to me.  Everyone looks faggy, talks macho and makes a meal out of everything, blowing even the merest issue out of proportion.  This is a chick flick full stop (and very homoerotic).  Brad Pitt is a thug, a skilled killer, but one with a heart and as a result girls will the look past this just to get to his sweet eyes, hot bod and pretty face.  Wanker.  And that little twat Orlando Bloom is in it too but at least he gets reduced to his knees, like the little pussy he actually is (he looks like a deformed version of Justin Timberlake to me).  Eric Bana is perhaps the biggest culprit though.  All that good work done with Chopper cashed in to be a low rent version of the King from Lord Of The Rings.  It works though, the two females to my left get wet over him.
 
I spend most of the movie with my mind elsewhere, Euro 2004 games have started to get good now that I have been unable to see them.  Tonight are the closing games of Group D (and the group stages in general).  I keep checking GPRS on my phone and I see that Germany have taken an early lead against the Czech Republic which is a real shock.  The next check on my phone five minutes sees that Holland take the lead against Latvia and it is soon becoming apparent to my “datesâ€? that I am bored by the movie Troy.  As an effort I try to ignore my phone for their benefit but I receive a text from Phoebe which makes my night, am I a ladies man or what?  Regardless, this does prompt me to start playing with my phone again and I discover that the Czech Republic have equalised against Germany and that Holland have added to their against Latvia: in other words, I am missing Euro 2004 games worth watching.
 
The movie ends and it is dross.  I check my phone and the Euro 2004 games ended with Czech Republic snatching a 2-1 win over Germany (yes!  Germany are out) and Holland ended up beating Latvia (our mates) 3-0.  As we emerged from the cinema (which felt like being released from a prison sentence) I see a girl called Danni who I used to know through a mutual acquaintance.  She looks as per.  I don’t bother saying hello, last time I spoke to her the evening ended with me called her a “prickteaseâ€?.  I and the Mcslim sisters walk back to their Ka and I am feeling argumentative.  I don’t think they enjoyed the film either but shockingly the two HUGE Lord Of The Rings fans failed to recognise Orlando Bloom.  Allah!  When they drop me off at my flat I am snappy and tired, it fails to register with them that I am pissed off even when I am purposely trying to instigate an argument.  I am a shit sometimes and they are thick skinned and probably a bit thick too (which is rich coming from me at the back of these in coherent ramblings).  I need sleep in the worst way.
 
np:  Helmet - Clean

June 22 (Tuesday): Irregular around the margins.  Today the worm has turned, no more hot shitty weather, now it’s all about wet shitty weather.  So how does today begin?  With me waking up more tired than how I went to bed.  What are my big plans for today?  Just don’t upset anyone!
 
Nothing really happens today.  Sarah texts me to ask if I can change cinema plans so that we go tomorrow (Wednesday) instead of Friday and would I like to go with her to a works do.  Guess so, I say yes.
 
I do spend too much of the day asking my fellow workers “which hand do you wipe your bum with?â€? replying “I use toilet paperâ€?.  I’ve been watch the Leonard episode of That Peter Kay Thing much too much.
 
Other than that, the day passes and in the evening I want to make the most of my first night off in a very long time.  I think I had agreed Saturday to go round Allen’s tonight but I am too knackered.  I balls up though.  I have a permanent slow moving flat tyre and after posting some swag CDs, I go to pump it up.  Mistake!  After waiting about 20 minutes to get to the pump anyway (meaning I miss the beginning of Italy v Bulgaria anyway) as soon as I attempt to pump the tyre up it only deflates instead of inflate.  This is bad, suggesting that the tyre has finally given up and that the puncture may actually be in the valve.  Like a fool I fuck around with it moronically for about half an hour to the point I am jacking up the car to put the spare on (the spare looking like a polio version of the alloys ahoy).  One problem though, the wheel bolts have been put on with one of those drill guns and a mortal man (me) cannot possibly loosen and them get them off.  And honestly, this is not me being a wimp, I am actually standing/balancing on the wrench and the bolts still are not budging (the wrench instead choosing to bend itself). I’m fucked it seems.  In the end, about an hour later, like a fool I squeeze some air into the flat to get it home, doing god knows how much damage to my motor.  Fucking cars.  I do however first stop by Asda to get some onion bhajis for dinner to comfort eat.
 
By the time I get in the football is next to finished.  ITV showed the wrong game in Italy v Bulgaria, Denmark v Swedan was always going to sound infinitely better.  Turned out what I had missed was Denmark taking the lead against Swedan in the first half and Bulgaria actually finally scoring, their first goal in the tournament.  The games appeared to have picked up in the second half big style with Larrson equalising for Swedan around the same time Italy equalised against Bulgaria.  Denmark would later go on to take the lead in their game.  All the drama happened at the end when Swedan and Italy both scored in the 90th minute, the knock on result of this being Italy initially thinking they had done it and were going through until they find out about Swedan’s goal.  Just like Eurovision, the Scandinavians appear to be doing each other a favour, especially with their “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yoursâ€? knock about in the dying seconds of the game.  It’s a funny old game.
 
Just before turning in for the night Sarah hits me on MSN.  She’s all right.
 
np: Green Day – Geek Stink Breath

game 

kinda like Big Brother 

event ticket 

June 21 (longest day of year Monday): All happy families. A new week, a new weak. I’ve just experienced one of those weekends that leaves you drained for the week ahead, leaving your body yearning another weekend NOW!

I toddle into work with a spring in my step. Ivan has called in sick, funny he hardly looked sick running around in Tottenham yesterday. I’m genuinely chipper, even to the point I am telling a client (Phil at Design And Print) about the tournament. Seymour overhears me bemoaning my penalty giveaway and tells me not to blame myself. We talk about the tournament and add to the fact it was fun, the fact that our players were running around like headless chickens. Next year Seymour says HE will pick the team, one with shape.

At lunchtime me and Stevo go for a well deserved Chinese buffet at Zentral. We are a couple of bloaters. Today is England v Croatia. It should be easy but after their great result against France (compared to our result against France), who knows. Mark has said we should go out and watch it tonight. I text Ben to see if he’s interested (he said he was Saturday). By the end of the day though, enthusiasm for going out to see the game is a bit low. Stevo however whines to the point I naturally give in, so I get in touch with Mark and plans are hatched to go watch the game at Yates. Insanely Stevo goes all the way back to Chelmsford to change and we arrange to meet up at 7pm.

We arrive in Yates at seven and the vibe is really good and the place is still pretty empty. Tonight I intend NOT to drink. And it kind of helps that I am broke. Cokes away.

By the time the match has started the place is filling up. It is fantastic summer evening and I have clocked that I am one of only a few people in the pub wearing blue and Croatia are wearing blue. Whoops. Now I know there are a lot of Croatians in Colchester but surely I won’t be accused of supporting them will I? Also it seems it is actually much better to watch one of the flat screens instead of the big screen. Then a girl comes who looks like a good looking version of Amy Winehouse, I am immediately smit.

All this attention to detail though is soon scuppered when Croatia score after eight minutes from a set piece (Kovac). We look so fucking sloppy and James really seems to drop a bollock on that one. We come back though, completely at Croatia, this is the most offensive/attacking I have seen an England under Sven. We throw attempt after attempt at them and nothing happens. I make comment to Stevo “it’s going to be one of those days� meaning we’re mostly likely to shot the shit out of Croatia and still not find the net.

When Paul Scholes scores and equalises it is the biggest relief in the world. I have to be honest, the game was dying for me and I found myself really losing interest, instead finding myself checking my phone for love text messages and hate emails. Scholes ending his three year drought comes as a sign, a signal of a turnaround in fortunes for England and an end to our run of bad luck; surely it must only be a matter of time until Owen breaks his drought also. Scholes’s goal really does turn out to be the turning point, especially when Rooney does a Rooney just before half time and once more I/we are left wondering whether to believe our eyes. I think they’re gonna find Maradona-drugs in him, I’ve been saying it all day. Regardless, the effect it has on the room is the special kind of stuff that is hard to describe and yet so easy to experience, best of times. It doesn’t hurt either to hear that Switzerland are drawing with the scum France which puts us on top of the table.

I text Ben to ask where he is, to see if he still wants to hook up. Over enthused I also text Sara in Dubai to ask her if she’s watching. To my surprise, Azmei texts asking if I want to go to the cinema with her and Sarah Friday to see Troy. I jump, say yay. However when I point out that England will now probably be playing Friday instead of Thursday and originally expected she accuses me of avoiding her and asks me “what’s rong (sic)?�.

By the second half Yates is roaring and everyone is buzzing, the crowd here is singing for, fuck’s sake its fantastic. The second half begins with Croatia looking lively and me having to deal with Azmei on the phone. The best thing possible happens when Rooney pops in a workmanlike, unspectacular third, personally I can’t believe it, I just am not used to things going England’s way. I think about in 1996 and when we thumped Holland 4-1 and when we rose to the occasion, tonight it seems we are headed the right way again.

Feeling so confident feels like a flaw though when Croatia pull another goal back as once again the defence is ripped to shreds on a set play and James appears to blame again. And then news filters through that France take the lead against Switzerland through Arsenal scummer Henry. It begins to look like I will be available for the cinema Friday after all, so I text Azmei with the “good� news.

The rest of the game hangs pretty tense until Frank Lampard, god bless him, scores a fourth which seals our evening. As long as he’s knocking in goals the world can forgive (and his dad) for those god-awful Jamie Oliver Sainsburys adverts which make him look a total wanker. News filters through that Henry scores a third for France to beat Switzerland 3-1 but that’s beside the point at this juncture in the evening. When the final whistle blows, the joint erupts and security and police alike look relieved that England win and tonight our rabid fans will not be wanting to burn our town down (unlike after the France game when the scenes in Colchester post-match actually made The Sun!).

Jubilant, we exit for fresh air and new pastures. Tonight England looked good, like Sven has finally got his shit together. We end the game with six defenders on the food and confident enough to have substituted/saved all three of our goal scorers. It’s great to be young and insane.

We head to the Hogshead and it is Hogsdead tonight, the opposite of a full house. Immediately upon entry we are greeted by two females sniggering at us from a table in the corner. What the fuck? One is mutton dressed as lamb and the other is just lamb, smoking lamb. They’d be an odd couple at the best/worst of times but in the Hogshead? Tactically we sit kinda close to them and I observe/people watch because the smoking lamb is actually quite pretty. And it seems I am not the only person people watching, the odd couple are clocking, grading and judging all men in sight (I don’t think us three scored too well). However they’re actually really really odd for people in the Hogshead, it’s a funny relationship and being that they’re so dolled up I wonder if they’re actually on the hustle and maybe the older lady is Madam to the younger lady’s whore. I so think the worst of people sometimes. By now this is taking up my whole attention whilst Mark and Stevo, two relative strangers/mutual acquaintances through me, are left to chat it out. Things get weirder on the ho front when around 10pm an old guy meets up with the ladies looking really out of place albeit not awkward though. It looks very strange. He then proceeds to also buy champagne for the three of them, here is a man obviously going to effort (more than I would anyway). By now, as hard as I try to eavesdrop, I have no idea what the hell is going on. Sadly however, Mark and Stevo are boring of my ignorance and I am forced into making moves towards home when really I just want to go up to the young lady and go/say/ask “how much?�. We put the night out of it’s misery remembering, just in time, that England are through to the quarter finals of Euro 2004 and these are the best of times.

np: PJ Harvey – Working For The Man

The grass is greener in Tottenham. It's astroturf covered in sand. And on it, our boys sure look like champions 

June 20 (Sunday): Where’s Jason? Last night was a drag and when I awaken around six it occurs to me that I have just had barely four hours sleep as prep for today’s tournament. Bugger.

Ivan picks me up around 9.20 honking the company bubble car horn; I guess no Sunday lay ins this week for my neighbours then. Seymour scoffs as I arrive in my Millwall away shirt (“jealous?�). I ride up with Jev and Jeremy, getting the News Of The World only to discover that Emma has been chucked out of the Big Brother house and that Victor is a proper drug dealer. Bejesus.

By the time we arrive in Tottenham it is occurring to me that I am feeling car sick from reading the newspaper in the car. AS Jev works for a Citroen garage, today’s car is a loaner, brand new and with child locks meaning dickhead here can’t open the window for fresh air (“I’m fucking dying back here�). Still, the ride is invaluable for the dirt I hear from them about the teenage Ivan.

Tottenham is pretty much as expected, as per last year except this year there appears to be more players, as in more ringers, non-accountants. Immediately it looks like it is going to be hard work.

Ivan pulls out fresh new strips (on loan from his team/club, the Colts) and they are fantastic, sponsored by Xbox with the nice black and green theme ala Xbox. The tournament is sponsored by Xbox and suddenly things look suspicious. We get changed and I remember once more how fucking manly/sexual it feels to wear shin pads (fetish?).

We are drawn in a group with one team called “Last Years Winners�. That doesn’t sound too encouraging. We begin to warm up and have a kick about on a spare/empty pitch. At this point, the clouds dull over and slowly it begins to rain but fortunately only sporadically. Everyone seems up for it, having fun and taking the piss. Additionally though, everyone is looking terrible in the kick about, hung over or just shit, I can’t decide. I get a text from Phoebe though and I’m good although I just look up in time to see yet another shot spooned out of the court and two team-mates having to climb onto each other’s shoulders to retrieve our ball.

Eventually we all wind up back in the clubhouse (full of Tottenham memorabilia) and I wind up with beer in hand, held safely in place with goalie glove. Everyone takes the piss out of me after I earlier stated “I’m trying to give up�.

Our group is six teams strong and we play in the third game, giving us opportunity to scope/scout our opponents. The first two teams (including “Last Years Winners� I believe) look shit hot. The next two teams are less so impressive. Compared to the walk in the park that was our group last year, this year it appears we are in the “Group Of Death�. Our assigned referee for the group is this big black guy wearing a Rasta hat and a denim jacket on the outside of his referee kit. Comments are soon wheeled out, mainly “he won’t be moving around much� and chants like “the referee likes ganger�. When he put his pen in his mouth you could swear he was toking it like a fat boy.

First match for us. I don’t play, so I don’t pay much attention as to who it is against. It’s a scrappy game against a team more physical than they look like they should be. They appear to be wearing old Denmark kits from 1992. About halfway through someone ploughs through Pete (one of our ringers) and fucks his knee up but I don’t really care as he has already been spending a lot of the day making digs at me. Jeremy jogs on and does a really good job coming on. However the game ends 0-0.

Game two and we go down 3-0 when we really shouldn’t do, it is against one of the teams we had watched previously not really fancied doing much. Whoops. No further comment.

Game three and I am getting hungry. The weather is swinging between sunny and drizzly and I am all of a sudden more concerned with when the organisers will be firing up the barbecue rather than with the progress of the tournament. And I am not alone, every time I return from a wander most of my team-mates pat me on the belly and ask me how burgers I have had. Game three and it is against the team that has looked tastiest. Playing for them is some pseudo-superstar without an accountant’s haircut, looking like Millwall’s Darren Ward on a VERY bad day. He also has the most beautiful girlfriend. We go down 1-0 but actually come back and score our first goal of the day, coming from Jeremy. The game ends with a draw when we really could/should have won.

I go on another one of my wanders and pick up the Xbox in the bar and start playing EA Euro 2004. This ain’t Playstation. I have a good game, don’t win, but then realise “this game is taking ages�. Some cheeky bastard has set the game to last a full 90 minutes, no wonder I had got Ashley Cole sent off. I drop it losing 2-1 to Holland and return to our pitch where our game has already started. Fortunately the game is still young and it is scoreless. Not for long however and soon our opponents begin scoring (something we appear unable to do today) and all gradually we go down 3-0. Our team has little shape but plenty of aggression. John sends Pete back in but it doesn’t work. Fucked off, Ivan proceeds to slice through one of their players and gets sent off (“sin binned� for two minutes). Strangely though, with four against five, we actually score, Dan comes up from the back and slots one in. Despite being a man down, our team pulls together and builds a kind of “against all odds� spirit. Ivan’s two minutes in the “sin bin� actually seems to be more like five but as soon as he gets back on the pitch our team royally gets back into the game and actually pull back with two goals in the last minute to make the deal 3-3. Unfortunately though time runs out and it doesn’t look like now we have done enough to progress.

The final game was mine. Against a team of Asians I thought looked tasty I felt a bit nervous. It turns out however though that they haven’t actually scored a goal all tournament. The game begins and we have the run. Soon we score and take the lead. I look over at our referee and he’s talking on his fucking mobile phone hands free. My moment comes when one of their shots rebounds off the boards straight back to one of their strikers and he has an open goal. Superman here, I recover and get back in time to make the save of the century, Gordon Banks and David Seaman can both suck my cock. And then all that good work gets ballsed up when I give away the stupidest penalty for apparently leaving my area and kicking the ball when there was absolutely no risk/danger from the other team. For the record, when I kicked the ball I was in the area but my fucking weight carried me out of the area. From his haze of weed and talking on his mobile phone, I have no idea how Rasta Ref would be able to see my foul. I want him reported to UEFA, FIFA, ACCA, HMC&E and anyone else that will listen. I face the penalty like Peter Shilton in 1990 and don’t even see it as it flies in. Minutes later the game ends at 1-1 and I guess it’s my fault that we didn’t win this one. We can’t qualify by group position but there will be five wildcard places so we don’t leave immediately.

By now the barbecue has finally been fired up, I could eat enough for two. We hang around to see if we blag a wildcard spot just as the darkest clouds in history arrive above us. We don’t get a wildcard spot so we fuck off home but satisfyingly the heaviest of down pours begins and we leave the venue telling other teams “you’ve got to play in that mate�.

Again I ride home with Jeremy and Jev and soon get dropped off on Butt Road. I walk home from there, tired and sour. Late Sunday afternoon and I actually find a shop open! I manage to get an Observer with Music Monthly and the lady in the shop actually begins to talk to me about Big Brother. I just want to get in. I get in and watch The Peter Kay Thing I just got on VCD and soon fall asleep.

In the evening Spain v Portugal is shown on TV instead of Greece v Russia (rightfully so). Finally Portugal has started Ronaldo. The game by rights should be killer but actually it’s a bit of a yawn and score flashes from the other game make Greece Russia sound infinitely better as Russia surprisingly go 2-0 up fairly early. I have to admit I pretty stop watching the game, probably choosing to look at porn on the internet or something. Just before halftime Greece pull a goal back and again it seems the wrong game is being shown. The second half does not improve, Portugal look old and Ronaldo does not come over as a 90 minute man for his national team. Eventually they score when Gomes scores in the 57. All hopes of this opening the floodgates get dashed, the game ends with Spain looking pretty pathetic and Portugal winning 1-0. The other game ends at 2-1 but Greece still goes through, poor show.

To be honest, Big Brother is actually interesting me more at the moment and I watch eager for any news of Emma’s dismissal. No real dice. Davina does a short/brief interview with her and she just comes over as stupid and fucked over by Big Brother. Her own fault.

Kiss my arse.

np: Morrissey – The Last Of The Famous International Playboys

DJ DJ. Tonights tools for the trade. 

Hirameka live, just like being there. 

19 June (Saturday): Rat Pack. I awaken hard headed but mobile. No hangover just a slight sense of pummelling. Today I am going to be so busy I could shit.

First things last, I have to bomb it home to the olds to see them for the first time since they got back from Cyprus. Ain’t no time to play, I arrive and dump my shit on them. For their part I buy them a newspaper. The dog is back from the kennels with the funny bark he always returns with.

Tomorrow is Father’s Day (sponsored by Hallmark) so I have to go into town and get a card. I’m lucky, mum overdosed on the gifts, buying him enough from all of us but I still have to go into Clacton to get a card. Clacton is pretty horrible, small-scale and rough. I think the silverspooner anti-capitalists who are anti-chain and pro-independent business you all be put on a bus and driven to Clacton and shown the run down, half arsed attempts by people to start businesses, people just aren’t up to it (financially and commercially). If ever there was a place screaming out for a Starbucks, it is here.

I spent the rest of my time cobbling together CDs for tonight’s DJ set. I really should feel more excited about things than this. I spend an hour compiling sound effects off the internet only to find I can’t burn them to CD! So annoying, the sound effects were going to be so cool. I fly back to Colchester and put together in total six CDs for DJing. It is pathetically time consuming, I must be mad (which apparently I am).

I hook up with the band around 5.30 as they are sound checking (this via a trip to my beloved Asda). Jimmy who we started Gringo with back in the day and who was also in Lando has come to the show. I haven’t seen him in years. It’s alarming how different he looks and how different he sounds. We head back to Chris’ where I blag dinner there for a second night running, I really am a schnorer. We watch the end of Germany v Latvia as they end up drawing 0-0 and Latvia react like they have won the competition. They put out Turkey and now do this, they truly are our mates. Chris and Tom are completely nervous in the build up. We are late leaving for the venue, we are in my car as I supposed to be DJing.

It’s a great summer evening but the vibe is low, everyone appears to be suffering from heat exhaustion or something, most people look ready for bed rather than ready for rock. I barely manage to get myself to the CD players to DJ and I am made to feel really unwelcome. I open with Candle by Sonic Youth and immediately discard every single other track I have chosen to burn.

I check my phone GPRS to discover we are missing the game of Euro 2004 as the Czech Republic have come back from 2-0 behind to Holland to win 3-2. And Holland were my initial picks (pre-tournament) to win the thing. Whoops.

Cats Against The Bomb kick off and wreck the joint, they actually hurt to watch. And all the time Adam appears to spend the entire set laughing his head off at proceedings. His fits the term “one man army�, albeit a pacifist one. We get the Ramones and the by the end the crowd are shouting for more prompting an encore (of sorts).

The Blitters follow and manage to put in their finest set to date. Gone are the theatrics of smashing up PCs and covering one’s self in food stuff. Instead it is about sellotape one’s face up and bare, brutal Dirtbomb t-shirt wearing stuff. Tonight everything seemed to click, the sound was fantastic, the beats crisp and hard and Allen was at an incredible level of intensity, the kind that Albini appeared to have with Big Black, the feeling that any moment things might equally explode into hysterics as they might violence. Allen didn’t appreciate the comparison but he was pulling Rollins-esqe screaming poses (in a good way), to the extent it appeared to be frightening people. Ultimately it reminded me of Throbbing Gristle at their finest (ie the stuff people always show/play you and not the cack). Just before the end of the set the soundman says to me (Mr DJ) “what can you play to follow that?�. Fucking A.

For the record, I accidentally play I Felt Like A Gringo by the Minutemen.

As the Peel session of Crow by Shellac bellowed, Bilge Pump took the stage and ripped into yet another fine set. As per usual they opened with Up The Nest and just provided a whole lot more than was expected from them. Often it is said that they sound much different live to on record and again this was proved right with the sounds being thick/dense and a heavy sound of Unwound showering down. That’s the stuff.

After their set, now in full confidence, my DJ set actually saw some kids dancing when I accidentally put on Check It Out by the Beastie Boys. And these were said kids stood next to the red haired girl from Ipswich that once tried to bite my finger off and a chunk out of my neck at a Paper Chase show. Bad memories. Nepotism rules as I finally brave up to play my “Hot Cosby� DJ Gram track followed by “Big Black Baldwin� by My Shit. Word! At this point Mr Heddle from work (one of my four bosses) decides to shoot the shit with me.

Hirameka’s set was a bit more subdued and impersonal than their previous “final� show but the emotions seemed to be settling/kicking in more than back in December. At an estimate this was Hirameka’s eighth set at the Arts Centre and I can truly say no two sets were ever the same and that went for tonight also. Songs were played faster than originally produced and the set was very tight and professional and probably the most appreciative one that they have performed. It was the first (and I guess last) time I got to see them cover Colors (just at the point Staff shouted in my ear “its fucking shit that they’re splitting up�). Tom congratulated the Czech Republic on their victory and thanked everyone for their loan of equipment before they did “the last song we will ever perform�, The Formalists. It was a noisy conclusion to seven years in Tibet. The crowd bayed for an encore but that was never Hirameka’s thing. At the climax of the set “Stop� by Erasure was supposed to scream out Rules Of Attraction-stylee but Chris forgot to give anyone the CD and it happened, albeit in delayed fashion BUT at least it happened. Then Justin Timberlake accidentally gets put on over the indie rock PA, much to the faux anger of management and finally favouritism rules once more as the last DJ track of the night comes from DJ So Clear.

Post show spirits were bittersweet. A lot of people had come out to bid a fond farewell and catch glimpse of the best four band bill of homegrown (pretty much) talent in Colchester in several years. It all ended with people talking for an eternity, like no one really wanted any of it to conclude. Allen Zuk and Joe Mask got into an interesting three-way with me as fans and friends alike were slowing dispersed by security. Word was spread of an aftershow party at Staff’s but the Hirameka entourage were oblivious to it, they suggested an aftershow at my flat (“fuck off!�). And anyways, Allen was sticking me with rider (cans of Stella!), so he had 100% of my attention.

Unfortunately I got stuck with the Hirameka crew as the remainder left for the post-show and by now it was well past midnight, heading towards one and they were all drunk. I talked shit briefly with some over familiar drunk northerners but really had to go. I got to my car and Chris called me basically asking me what they were going to do. I had to get home but also there were six of them that had to get home also, whom were wasting time arguing over ten pound notes. I pointed out to Chris that there were six of them and it would take two trips and the cheeky fucker goes “see you in a minute then�. When I bought my new car I vowed never to lug equipment about in it because it never really helped the paint work on my last one. Anyways, I’m too soft/nice and I turn up outside the Arts Centre to help them out. Immediately six people attempt to bundle in my car it seems whilst dumping a ton of shit in my boot. Two fucking pikeys from Nottingham who I don’t know from fucking Adam think its coolest and I fucking snap, shouting “have some fucking respect!�. Wow, two wrongs make a right? Thing is though, my car probably costs more than these people earn in a year so….. I actually feel bad when I leave Tom and Tristan behind but I feel worse about allowing these people to shit down my neck and take advantage, my bad for not being able to say “no�. As I tear up London Road Stanway we approach the speed camera on the other side of the road and it flashes twice. FUCK!!! I headed back to pick the other two and wound up getting in around two fucking seething. Not good.

np: Har Mar Superstar – Girl You’re Stupid