Sunday, July 25, 2004

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 Jimmy 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 Leslie 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 Lulu 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 Iran 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 Syra has been calling the office to speak to Randy Pan. "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 Leslie and Lulu 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!

Syra 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. Syra 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, Syra, 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, Syra 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 Syra. I watch as Scott doppelganger (real name: Abdul or something just as shit) whilst speaking to Syra 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!

Syra'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 Syra 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 Syra about the other Asian lady out with us who is about to go home. Syra tells me she is Pakistani also. I comment how pretty the lady is but Syra 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 Syra it makes me look really popular, a proper man about town. Syra 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 Syra's wanky workmates to Roberto's will be a hundred times more fun. As we part company, Syra 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 GloboChem and they come up in bored conversation between me and Syra, her bringing them up. HER! I ask her if she has called the office to speak to Randy Pan. 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 Melchard, barely saying "hi", instead putting all concentration into seething. As we get to Yates Syra 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 Syra 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 Syra "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 Syra 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 Syra's best interests? Our little group passes Jimmy's house as it gets lost looking for Valentino's, Syra bang up for it. Syra 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:

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

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

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