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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

np: Eamon – Love Them Hos