Wednesday, November 10, 2004

October 24 (Sunday): See You Dead. After a really disturbed night of sleep, I finally wake up at 9.45 after a weird series of dreams, the weirdest of which being me starting a band with an Elvis Costello clone and writing a song with him until 4AM this morning before giving Tom and Chris ride homes on a long narrow push bike.

Today the sign says “welcome to another drab Sunday” but at least it moves quickly.

After a bit of BBC News, Pop World, David Frost and Heaven And Earth, I tune into the Championship on ITV and can’t fucking believe what I see when they show Cardiff’s goals yesterday against Millwall. No luck or bunch of fuckwits in our side: you decide.

Eventually I get out and make moves to going home to see the olds. Today is Man Utd v Arsenal on Sky as Arsenal go for the unbeaten record and in the real world, as fucking annoying as Man Utd and their supporters are, Arsenal is the biggest cocksucking team in the country.

When I arrive home my parents are in the process of beginning to clear out the loft of 58 Hereford Road which they have just sold and this time it seems like the move is for real and not just them telling me half truths and porky pies. And sorting out the loft generally means sorting out my stuff (my shit) as I am hoarder (or as Harvey Pekar would say, a “collector”).

Instead of helping out or doing anything the least bit useful or constructive, instead I revert to teenager mode that I always slump into whenever I come home and I settle down to watching the Wrestling Channel on Sky where they are showing a really interesting Shoot interview (on camcorder) with Bam Bam Bigelow, later followed by a shorter interview with Jim Cornette. What on earth is the deal with me and my fascination with wrestling? Help.

I have to stop watching the wrestling when dad comes into the front room and relinquishes the Sky from me in order to watch Man Utd v Arsenal. The game turns out to be hot headed and drab as expected, not nearly as nasty as desired but enough to make it interesting. And the result is the right! Oh happy days as Man Utd put two past Arsenal to beat them 2-0 and make sure they ain’t breaking any records this season. Its something of grey area as to whether the win is/was actually deserved but they got it all the same and without anyone getting off, not least Ashley Cole who spent the game being a whining fuck and when the supposed incident with Van Nistelrooy occurred, it was only his hell for leather momentum that made it look/be so bad. Likewise, the other whinger of the show appeared to be the flappy Wayne Rooney, looking and acting like one of my inbred cousins out on the piss. The way he goes around shoving people, it is a wonder he does not get sent off more times. Whatever though, Arsenal lost and that’s the main/best thing about it.

In the early evening I manage to get some writing deal whilst also living in fear of Emily texting me and asking me to the Sunday night quiz at the Hogshead. I don’t want to go (it’s a Sunday!) but I don’t want to be seen to be letting her down for a second weekend running either. In the end though, she doesn’t text and then I get a bit grumpy over that! Can’t win.

When I finally get home to Bohemian Grove, the Music Hall Of Fame has reached the seventies and obviously the Sex Pistols, Clash and Led Zeppelin along with a bunch of disco acts blah blah blah. Once more Henry Rollins is on there saying how he likes everything and this makes all well with the world?

Around midnight Sara comes online from Australia and I hit her on MSN for a short while but she doesn’t seem/appear to want to speak. What the fucks up with her now?

For a second night running I go to sleep watching my Book Group DVD, finally getting to the end where the guy ODs and his twin brother turns up in time to ruin the entire second series. I think my watching Book Group at this time has been prompting by happening across seeing Anne Dudek in an episode of Friends the other dressed up as a slag. What’s that about? Tell me in the morning.

np: Julian Lennon – Too Late For Goodbyes


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