November 7 (Sunday): Bush Is A Pussy. This morning I wake up bamboozled at around 7.30 and I find myself watch BBC 24 News. There has been some kind of enormous train crash occur during the evening yesterday where someone it seems had broken down (or parked) on a level crossing. My god, trains are fragile, they seem to fly off tracks like Hornby toy sets. Perhaps the infamous excuses of “leaves on the track” may not be so flippant after all.

I find myself actually Match Of The Day despite my cod anti-Premiership stance these days. Let’s face it The Championship is a lot more open and competitive and therefore more exciting as a result even if half the players don’t appear to be able to play for toffee, they do at least still kick people up in the air in the name of entertainment (well, they do at Millwall). Sunday morning TV then turns into Pop World and as usual I find myself asking “should I be watching this?”.

Early doors and Acton hits me up on MSN. He is still pissed he tells me. I attempt to make his head pound further by describing what I am watching on TV to him: Helen Fielding and George W. Bush being interviewed by David Frost on his tedious Sunday morn show. This guy stole Peter Cook’s thunder in the sixties? The Heaven And Earth Show comes on and it is just too much.

I begin watching my Teachers Series 3 DVD as things begin to transpire into being a proper lazy Sunday (with lazy being code for utterly wasted). And unfortunately, one of my previously favourite TV shows no longer appears to be floating my boat.

I spring up with the realisation that I have to actually go out and do stuff today. I bag up the Cantonese book and tape from the library (a dead loss that was) and I head into town. I drop the book off and look around for the Ken Barry book (“Jennifer Government”) we briefly looked at in English this week. It isn’t in the library (a spelling book on wrestling is though) but I do discover the book in Waterstones. I’ll buy it another.

I catch glimpse of the time on my watch and I suddenly realise I am missing the essential Chancers on Channel Four. This show is pretty unmissable for someone into music. I still would heavily doubt the credibility of anyone involved in this show (including Fatman Scoop, Mr Commercial Rap himself) but it still makes for great viewing for an (one) insight into the music world. And this one is so far removed from where I used to be involved it is painful, although there are the occasional moments of familiarity that make me smile.

Back out on the streets, I resume today’s chores and I do some half arsed attempt at food shopping at Asda where I find myself getting lost in the store looking for some Marmite. Not intending on kissing anyone this weekend.

I pop over to the train station to get a ticket for tomorrow and as soon as I get there I realise that I forgotten to buy some bin bags and I feel like such a failure, I almost begin crying in the queue. Exam meltdown has officially started.

I return home where I wind up watching the movie The Indian In The Cupboard mainly because Steve Coogan is in it (eventually) and I used to play with action figures when I was younger. These really are not the best reasons for a 28 year old man to be watching a kid’s movie.

Beyond that, I watch more of my Teachers DVD and eventually fall asleep for a Sunday nap (god I sound old).

At 6PM The Simpsons is on TV and the routineness of it all seems to be some kind of return of sanity to the world, as a beast/species humans need routine in their lives just to keep them on the tracks, the straight and narrow.

I spend the remainder of the evening getting prepared for tomorrows trip up to Kings Cross and clean myself up (mentally and physically) to attack the course in general.

At 7.38 my phone beeps and it is a text from Phoebe stating “Hiya Jason hows it going? Time flies! tmrw is revision course for me. How about u? Hows ur english course going? Anyway hope u had a gd wkend! Phoebe”. I guess this shows she hasn’t forgotten about me entirely. I however reply curtly, far from friendly.

The night ends, seeing me having a much need bath before falling asleep watching the Music Hall Of Fame on TV (now onto the fifties) featuring a mindblowing bit on Johnny Cash. I fall asleep before the show finishes.

np: Johnny Cash - Hurt