Wednesday, November 10, 2004

October 17 (Sunday): The Biggest Failure In Broadway History. I awaken from a dream situating myself on Colchester High Street, still going through last nights bad scenario. In the dream, Sarah continues to persist in stringing me along/around Colchester but now I have Who (from work) being all judging on me for not making a move, for leaving her behind.

Around 7.30 my mobile beeps and it is a text from Azmei saying she had an early night last night and she’s glad me and Sarah are talking again (ho ho) and that she’s sure she’s all right. This is optimism I don’t/can’t share.

This morning I feel partly demon seed, I feel scum of the earth whilst also at the same feeling like a complete victim. I think the best term I used last night was when I texted Stevo saying “I’m fucking mugging myself”.

Azmei and I continue to exchange texts about last night and it turns out that Sarah did indeed get home safely (surprise) but Azmei asks “did you upset her?”. I reply “I don’t think so but I shouldn’t have left her in town”. Azmei tells me “I’ll have a word with her” when really I sum things up better by stating “just give her a slap”.

Kinda shellshocked, kinda stunned all over developments and faux pas performed over the course of the previous 48 hours, I settle into some kind of Sunday morning routine/void. In the words of Guided By Voices; “I can’t socialise, I’ll be institutionalised”.

Pop World comes on the TV and I take that in, half fearful that I might begin to take music seriously again. As hard as I try to pull myself together, my mind is fried.

Sara comes online and enquires about last night. I semi tell all and Sara just hits me with a “told you so” whilst seeming to be really interested in telling me anything at all. I ask her how she eventually came down last night and it turns out she telephoned her other boy toy here in England (how great it felt to feel exclusive). Our exchange covering last nights events feel fruitless, especially when she also avoids addressing our own little exchange beforehand so then I just let it all out in some kind of moan, to which she shows me the door and puts me right (in her eyes). Eventually she goes and it’s a relief.

Late morning my mobile phone rings and I figure “here it comes, trouble/grief/flack” but the number ringing is PISA (the number for the AFC Wimbledon Pissed Independent Supporters Association). I pick it up and it’s Xavier not really knowing who the hell he is calling and likewise, initially I do not know who the hell exactly is calling me. It seems Xavier is after Stevo’s number for something or other, probably to make sure he got home all right and didn’t get beaten up by youths. I give him Stevo’s new number and that’s that.

Eventually I do the newspaper run around 1PM and get some food, purchasing like a peasant.

When I get back in I find that I have downloaded the first part of Some Kind Of Monster, the Metallica documentary that everyone is raving about. I begin watching it and its ok. It does however prompt me to begin downloading Metallica tracks (here comes a lawsuit).

Also on a download trip, I return from shopping to discover that I have downloaded the Ken Bigley beheading video. Now this is really nasty, horribly creepy and clocking in at five minutes. The clip opens with all this insane music blaring out and visuals of something Muslim or other. And then you get the shot of Bigley sat on the floor awaiting his fate. He speaks to the camera and the closing addresses from him and his captors thankfully take up the majority of the clip as when the eventual happens, fortunately very little is visible and to be honest, as jaded as I have become, it all does not look real again. I guess Bollywood have low production costs.

For the remainder of the afternoon I find myself listening to Henry Rollins MP3s and it manages to inspire me into actually doing some writing.

At 6.30 Emily texts to see if I am going to the pub quiz at the Hogshead tonight. I think it is multi text, not specifically addressed to me. As I result I don’t worry too much about ignoring it. I don’t know what is the matter with me? Here is a great opportunity to go out with someone I am genuinely interested in but instead I just sit home, remaining down in the dumps over the past two nights out. I my opinion, Colchester needs a break from after two nights running (excuses excuses).

At 7.00 there is a programme on BBC2 that I am really interested in. Basically it is a show about relocating to Dubai, where Sara lives! However this week, the family the BBC are relocating are/is this really obnoxious and arrogant Afghanistan family that got asylum in the UK. Now there is gratitude, turn you back on the country that took you in. Anyways, because of their arrogance the family in question on the school reach/stretch far beyond their means, boxing well above their weight, and by the end of the show are struggling to pull their shit together and failing miserably. It is really interesting to see Dubai though but to me it just looks like a richer version of Tenerife or something.

Whilst watching the show, Bella comes online and starts hitting me on MSN. It’s OK, nothing earth shattering, just Bella as usual directing me to various items of clothing/garments on Ebay that she wishes she could buy.

At 9PM the Music Hall Of Fame show is on Channel Four again, this week covering bands/artists from the eighties. It’s another great show, beginning with Guns N’ Roses who Henry Rollins shockingly has good words for. Go figure. When Shaun Ryder passes comment it is unbelievable, the man is fucking wrecked, almost recognisable looking bloated, with his voice obviously gone, pretty much now representing a fat Northern stand-up comedian. Get him back on the drugs fast! Where is Bez when you need him? The final act to be considered/suggested for the Hall Of Fame are the Beastie Boys. This blows my mind, they are so a nineties band. Oh well, I’m not going to get upset.

Around midnight, while I am still writing, I get Tom online ranting and seething, having just returned from a Hot Snakes show in Nottingham where someone (Texas John Gimp) has just upset him. He whinges about Nottingham, which is a surprise because I thought he loved it there, living in the little bubble music community thing that they have going on there.

np: Pulp – Common People


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