False Contentment

After a self imposed hiatus from blogging, I find myself once more hunched over my work PC tapping away speedily on the crumb covered and tea stained keyboard which, rather distractingly I realise I must clean it sooner rather than later. Since my last sporadic enteries in the latter part of 2007 I have been somewhat uninspired and uninterested in pouring my angst, frustration and trivialities out into the public domain, even if these words are seldom read by others. Part of this reluctance to write came from a slightly drunken and unconsidered thought I had as I was laying in bed one night and re-evaluated my existence as a blogger. I decided to tred enthusiastically into the world of music blogging- leaving aside my usual tales of narcissism and foolhardy behaviour for a more interesting subject matter. After only several posts, my enthusiasm waned. What was the point? There are literally hundreds of far superior blogs out there doing a thoroughly decent and more dedicated job than I, and more importantly; it had become too much of a burden to keep it up to date. I felt slightly out of my depth so I quit. Since then I have remained somewhat idle. This lack of interest was partly due to the fact that over the past few months I have found myself in the relatively unusual position of having an abundance of work to do and in the even more unfamiliar arena of contentment, or at least I think it was contentment? Perhaps my malaise had simply reached a tolerable level? Why? I'll try and explain:

These woes commenced almost immediately after Christmas (the time of my last blog entry) upon my return to work after an extended and most pleasant Festive break; the enjoyment of having nearly two weeks away from the office, gorging myself with food and drink and watching a vast array of varying quality television programs was eradicated within a few short minutes of me returning to work. Within a matter of an hour I was close to tears. Within two hours I was close to lobbing my computer out from the window and joyfully skipping out of the office, explaining to my shocked looking colleagues, that I no longer had the desire to remain in the pitiful job, and that I bid them all adieu and have a good life, laughing maniacally at their requests of me to reconsider and at the looks of disbelief as they peer out of the window to see where my computer had landed. Naturally I did no such thing, and instead just bottled up my frustration. Mulling it over it now with the benefit of hindsight, it is clear to me that I made the wrong decision. Granted I would be broke beyond all recognition, as despite the relatively good pay I earn, I struggle financially come the end of each month and embarrassingly in the more desperate of months, it is usually with the fist week! However I would at the very least be a little happier than I am at present. I have of course had one other long term and equally as depressing job, which after over three years of gainful employment I quit on a whim. Of course, I had to give my notice, which was four weeks, rather than ignominiously quitting and walking out with my head held high in an emotional charged moment of clarity. That blessed day I hit the street after handing in my security pass and receiving a few emotional and fond farewells; ranks fairly high in my all time greatest feelings list; sandwiched between scoring and injury time goal for the school football team and that time when having spent my last penny the night before on a pricey drinking spree whilst on a University trip to London, finding 10p and on the street (yes- exactly like Charlie Bucket) and winning £5 on the 'Naughts and Crosses' fruit machine in the Trocadero thus enabling me to buy a sumptuous meal at the Burger King located in Piccadilly Circus and a bus home to my modest student accommodation from Liverpool City centre.

As the office was operating at a snail’s pace I had the time and the inclination to scour the job vacancies pages on all the neighbouring Council’s. This was a fruitless exercise- not surprisingly no one was advertising jobs over the Christmas period. This left me feeling even more disheartened and disillusioned and I left work at the earliest opportunity (3pm) without saying so much as a ‘goodbye’ to any of my colleagues.

This feeling of sheer and utter despair forced my hand somewhat, and a mist the depressive stupor I somehow made a weary trek to an old haunt of mine, the local art and crafts shop and in a desperate attempt to put a halt to the laborious rut I have found myself entrenched in. I purchased several items quickly and hurried out of the shop to start my masterpieces.

I sat at my dining room table still in my work attire of shirt tie and trousers. I had removed my shoes and had since donned my faithful old slippers. I opened the new sketch book and stared blankly at the vastness of white that lay before me. This was no time to be faint hearted I told myself and took a slurp of tea. I decided that a pencil was possibly the best place to start, however it soon occurred to me that of the two pencils that I owned were extremely blunt. I set about looking for a pencil sharpener but to no avail. Un daunted I strode into the kitchen and returned with a medium sized knife and attempted to sharpen my instrument the old fashioned way. Alas, this only exacerbated the situation, so with a heavy heart I decided that I would forgo the use of graphite and instead go straight to the use of my mighty pen.

Removing the pen’s lid seemed more problematic that I had could of imagined, but with a firm twist the struggle ended and I came out victorious. Using an old envelope that had at some point contained a household utility bill, I tested the pen. True to form after some initial stiffness the ink flowed from the tip with grace leaving me somewhat relieved and I graciously thanked my lucky stars. I returned my attentions to the beautifully white, crisp piece of paper and recalled the pleasure I used to experience upon christening a new sketch pad and that in just about every new sketch book I have ever purchased, and there have been many; the first drawing had always been of a high caliber, guaranteed. Suddenly my bleak and pitiful dog’sbody existence ceased. An escape route was in view and all I had to do was produce the first in what would hopefully be a series of high caliber pieces of artwork. I think I banded the term ‘masterpiece’ with no sense of irony on several occasions.
That first day of drawing proved pretty fruitless in terms of finished artwork, but the ball was rolling and I felt invincible!

The next day at work I arrived with a newly found vigor and thought about drawing from most of the day when I was called into my manager’s office. Of course my first emotion upon receiving such a request was panic and my brain quickly went through all of my recent misdemeanors and fuck ups. I entered his office and closed the door behind me. I made small talk about football, which bought me some time- but he soon diverted the conversation back to the office. In a nutshell, he said, I was to be seconded over to another post within our department. I was intrigued, especially as he said that I would be doing the exact same job that I was currently doing only earning what would calculate to be an extra £200 a month until June when my colleague returned from her maternity leave. I was shocked to say the least and after going over the details I left his office feeling thoroughly satisfied with myself. After all my colleague did nothing all day! Not to say that she was lazy,; there was very little work for her to do! This was a win win situation for me and I decreed to my fellow workers that I was leaving early that day- which I promptly did. Instead of getting down to some drawing I decided to celebrate on my own, and continue to celebrate when Lisa arrived back from work, and moved my sketch pad and old faithful pen to one side.

My work continued exactly the same as it had been previously. The work was monotonous and uninspiring and I was sure that I was being asked to do even more tedious task than ever before, but shamefully I suppressed any of the emotions of bitterness and angst that I usually display in these situations and with a genuine smile I set about these tasks.

I lost the ambition therefore to write or even draw. I was relatively content with life. Sure it was depressing at times, but I just thought about the extra funds in my account and all of those CD’s and records I could buy. I considered finally entering into the Council’s lucrative pension scheme and made in roads into buying a house. I even went and looked at some 2nd hand cars!

Sadly, day by day and week by week, this contentment evaporated- but I continued to put a brave face on things. I had ceased looking for alternative employment as the with my wages, not to mention the flexi time and other Council perks was as good, if not better, than other jobs. I even contemplated sticking this job out even though I knew I wasn’t really happy but I was busy at work which kept my mind from wandering to much. I no longer felt as if I was entitled to be doing something better with my life.

Then the other week I was struck down with clarity! I was jolted back into my old happy-that-I’m-unhappy ways. I became me again! What was the catalyst for this spark on ingenuity that had broken down all the walls? Well the source of this inspiration took me by surprise too. I in all seriousness would not have expected it to have stemmed from such a low brow and contrived masterpiece of self awareness. The film of which I speak?

You, Me and Dupree!

Yes- You, Me and Dupree has saved my life! I have found my “ness” again. I am back baby, I AM BACK!!!!

Bah Humbug but that's too strong, it is my favourite holiday

So the Christmas period draws ever closer, and today I finally completed all my Christmas purchases. Huzzzzzar!! In the office, the wind down for the holidays continues (though to be fair it started in October) and I've pretty much been left to my own devices- which means I've just stuffed my face with chocolate and arsed* around with the P.C making a compilation of alternative Christmas tunes for some colleagues and drawing countless pictures of Father Christmas (that's Santa Claus to ye Americanos).

To improve the already relaxed atmosphere here we had a fire alarm too...frigggin sweet! I was so happy I almost puked (though this could have been an result of the copious chocolates I'd devoured during the course of the day) Whilst compiling said CD, it occurred to me that perhaps I had been too hasty in my declaration of love for Jonah Lewie's 'Stop the Cavalry' on my last post. It is, as I'm sure you'll agree a magnificent song, however I had overlooked the aural delights of The Waitresses - 'Christmas Wrapping' which is almost defiantly, probably, kind of, my favourite Xmo tune. Anyhow, I have therefore decided on a whollyoriginal theme for my first Podcast....Christmas! Watch this space! I've also been racking my chocolate addled brain to come up with the usual tiresome list of favourite albums and songs and in a ode to St John of Peel's festive Fifty, I shall be compiling (and perhaps podcasting) a list of my favourite songs and albums shortly...hopefullybefore the New year. (also any recommendations would be welcome)

*The Technical term

MP3

The Waitresses - Christmas Wrapping

you scumbag you maggot...

Okay-as St. Noddy of Holder commented once or twice at this time of year:

"Itttttttttt'ssssssss Chrisssssssstttttmasssssssss!"

Well very nearly at least.

I think I may have finally resolved some technical problems and after a self induced hiatus, I shall be re-commencing my blogging duties- and even harbour ambitions to post some Podcasts here (watch this space). Meanwhile, after reading and downloading a plethora of different alternative festive Mp3s, I've noticed that the vast majority have overlooked two of my favourite Chrimbo tunes.

If you'd have asked me two years ago, I would have definitely said The Pouges feat. the late Kirsty McCall was the all time greatest Festive song, however having heard this song 40 plus times already this year I'm a tad fed up with it. Hilariously, BBC Radio 1 (the main culprits for its overplaying) decided that they'd blank out 'faggot' in the classic line 'you scumbag you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot'. Even funnier was the public outcry abut this. It's strange that the thin skinned members of the public who would usually complain at any form of offensive language, chose to campaign to keep this lyric in. Picking and choosing your grievances is possibly more annoying than anything else.

Anyway- bom bom bom bom-bom bom bom bo-bom-bom...

MP3:

Jonah Lewie - Stop The Cavalry

Hope can be a dangerous thing.

As Morgan Freeman's character Red in The Shawshank Redemption famously stated :

"Hope can be a dangerous thing".

It would have been better if Israel had been hammered by Russia on Saturday rather than build up the Nation's expectations. I suppose I ought to be grateful; we won't have to endure the barrage of football related adverts, the usual all too familiar sound bites from the players and managers, no more faux nationalism, flag waving and the inevitable feeling of either being cheated by a referee or the heartbreaking defeat in a penalty shoot out.

What's the difference between the English FA and Lewis Hamilton?
Hamilton's still got McLaren and he's going to Switzerland.


MP3 hosting still not working :(

Lazy Bones

Apologies, apologies, apologies- gonna get my finger out of my arse soon...I promise! I have been busy(ish) and alas this 'ere blog has been somewhat neglected. I plan to make amends.

Don't go a changin'!

(I was going to post some toonage, however to confound matters my file hosts have gone weird! So you'll have to bare with me)

Evidently Chickentown

Above all other TV shows, I love The Sopranos.

Sadly I fluffed up the timer on our DVD recorder so we missed the first of the final 9 episodes which was shown last Sunday whilst we were away in Scotland, taping instead the incredibly unfunny Phone Jacker and Big Brother's Big Mouth. As I'm sure you'll agree these are in no way shape or form a suitable replacement for Big Tony and his merry band of Italian American hoods.

Sadly though, whist in New York I did accidentally learn of a major plot development whilst skipping through the plethora of US TV channels. This has haunted me somewhat and has tainted my enjoyment of, what is in my uninformed opinion; the greatest TV program in TV History...or certainly the greatest US TV series.

I've always been a fan of the music they put into the show too, a large portion of which hail from these shores and come from a variety of lesser known artists. I can recall with head swelling pride when Tony had his first breakdown; James Gandolfini is sat in his customary dressing gown and white vest with tears streaming down his fat face, all the while Stuart Staple's bleak and unmistakable (and utter perfect) voice warbles tenderly on Tindersticks' 'Tiny Tears'.
I can also remember Mogwai's ‘Cody’ being played in another similar moment of emotional high drama; though this is possibly my least favorite Mogwai track ever- but you can’t have everything (this was possibly because when the record ‘Come on Die Young’ was released the idea of Stuart Braithwaite attempting to sing was, in my snobbish mind anyway, an act of heresy)

In the last episode, as Tony is reflecting his relationship with Chris in his physiatrist- Dr. Melfi's office, a bizarre voice started to emanated from our TV set as the credits start.

“Wait a minute...surely not?”

I looked to Lisa who was frowning knowing that she recognised the unmistakably broad Mancunian drawl.

Holy shit! It's John Cooper Clarke's 'Evidently Chickentown'.

We both laughed that an artist as obscure as him could make it onto a show of such a high stature.

I felt as if a friend of mine had 'made it' to the big time and we both hoped that he was significantly financial rewarded for his endeavors.

I'm sure that over the past 9 or so seasons of The Sopranos there has been many, many musical highlights, but surely you can't top a bit of ole Johnny Clarke can you?

MP3's

John Cooper Clarke- Evidently Chickentown [Album Version]

Tindersticks- Tiny Tears

Mogwai- Cody

(New) Captain of industry

I awoke this morning in an unusually pleasant frame of mind and a full-to-bursting bladder. The bright sunshine seeped through our bedroom curtains and it felt good to be alive. Awakening early as I did, I decided to make haste, ensuring this peculiar feeling of contentment and enthusiasm was not wasted and good golly Miss Molly- I was in work some twenty minutes early!

My punctuality was noted by some of the more observant fellow shlums and after the rudimentary pleasantries were exchanged with colleagues, I set about getting straight to work choosing to forgo my usual internet surfing. All the outstanding work that had taunted me from my desk for the past few months was irradiated in what can only be described as a Herculean blitz of professionalism. One by one the tower stack of orange files that lay dormant on my pine workstation slowly disappeared. When beverages were offered by some kind hearted souls in the office, I barely made eye contact- only enough to convey my gratitude so resolute was my conviction to bust my hump. After dealing with the conveyancing reports of several proposed acquisitions, hunger pains taunted my focused and determined mind. I chose to ignore these urges, lambasting my weak body for such cravings- assuring my growling stomach that lunch wasn't too far away. I called solicitors and surveyors and was firm and direct with my slew of requests as opposed to my more customary laid back and thoroughly affable approach.

Between manically typing up purchase reports and amending spreadsheets accordingly I reached to my left and grabbed my tea mug without averting my gaze from the numbers and names that I was scrolling through on my computer's monitor, taking giant gulps from my now tepid tea. It wasn't long before my energy levels started to flag. I was pragmatic about this decline; after all I wasn't used to this.

I permitted myself to gaze idly out of the office's window at the beautiful and awe inspiring perfect blue sky before putting my head down and continuing with my tasks. When my phone rang, I answered it in my usual eloquent manner, but continued to crunch the numbers whilst still effectively and professionally dealing with the call.

Soon my shirt's top button was unfastened and my sleeves were rolled up. I felt like a captain of industry. I felt like I could accomplish anything. I felt of use.

I looked at the clock to see if I'd missed my lunch break.

It was 9:20am.

Shit!

I had effectively done all my work for the week and the realisation that the rest of the day would now drag like the proverbial motherfucker. What have I done?!!!!

Knee class blues

I made my knee rehabilitation class debut last Friday morning and I'm fairly proud of the fact that my operation scar is far bigger than anyone else's.

I did have to haul my weary carcass out of bed nearly an hour before I usually have to get up which I wasn't too enamored with. I then had to walk twenty minutes to catch the bus full of over exuberant school kids that takes me near to Broadgreen Hospital, whereupon I have a 10 -15 minute walk to get to physiotherapy department. When I arrived I was already perspiring and slightly red in the face.

Luckily I managed to catch the bus with seconds to spare. Relief!

My joy at catching this bus was short lived was. I walked onto the bus behind the giddy schoolies and I noticed that I only had a tenner on me. I apologised to the driver for not having any better change. He looked at me through his despondent and possibly hung over eyes and seethed:
"I can't change that!"
"(SIGH) What time are you departing?"
"Right now- you better buy some'ink from der shop; I'll pick you up by the traffic lights."

I hobbled off the bus and with my bag weighing me down tried to get to the nearby newsagents as quickly as I could, knowing that the next bus was not for another 30 minutes. Because my bag was heavy my limp was more prominent than usual, and of course I slightly exaggerated it for the benefit of the unhelpful bus driver.

The shop- which is only a stone's throw away from the bus stop- was teeming with school children of a variety of different size and age in a multitude of different coloured uniforms. I fought my way to the counter with a bottle of water and paid and pushed my way back through the kids just as the bus was pulling up at the traffic lights. I paid the driver and thanked him for waiting though this was an insincere display of gratitude, but definitely not one laden with sarcasm. My MP3 player tossed out some tunes at random and included Jarvis' astutely witty 'Fat Children' , which I listened to with a wry smile on my face as I watched the lawless teens run amok on the bus scoffing their McCoys' crisp at 8.15am.

The class was good and I certainly felt the benefits from the knee exercises the two semi-attractive and fake tanned physios had prepared for us.

It was fairly evident from the start that I was the 'new boy' as everyone knew exactly what exercises to do. I looked on with wide eyed envy at the exercises I could only dream of doing i.e. shuttle runs and the trampoline. The vast majority of the fellow post operation classmates were attired fittingly and wouldn't have looked out of place in a gym or running a marathon perhaps. I on the other hand looked as if I hadn't done any exercise since the 1980s. My spurs shorts looked faded and probably showed too much flesh, my GAP hoodie was taken off within five minutes due to the perspiration revealing a cheap (but most adored) Gaudi tourist T-Shirt my folks brought back for me from Barcelona 6 years ago. I had black office socks rolled down my leg as far as I could and I tried my utmost to conceal them within my trainers with little success. The class reminded me of a Police Academy style group of misfits and as I warmed up on the exercise bike I looked around identifying the rich tapestry of character types. There was the loud mouth, the brute, the comic, the pretty boy, the old guy, the wacky one, the quiet one (also the only woman), the hippie, the token chap from an ethnic minority, the arse kisser, the rough neck, the over exuberant and generic extras who just faded into the background. I wondered which I could be considering that most of the positions I am usually associated with were already taken. I figured that I'll just see how it pans out before labelling myself to fill a character void.

I'm sitting down, enjoying my holiday

Whilst on a Withnail & I theme (as per my last post) I’ve had a rejuvenating weekend in the country whilst in attendance at Scotland’s newest Festival; The Connect Festival, Inverneshire, last weekend and once more today I must feel the short stabbing pains of displeasure at yet another monumentally depressing morning as I return to work after an enjoyable few days of annual leave. Whilst unhappy that after such a fine weekend I must once more return to this soul sapping office environment I do feel strangely pragmatic and upbeat- and dare I say: positive.

As something of a music festival veteran and connoisseur of sorts (tongue firmly in cheek whilst I typed that I assure you) it’s got be said that with the exception of the ankle deep mud which made walking about the site a tad hazardous (especially for someone with a not-so-stable knee as myself) it was possibly the finest festival I’ve attended in the UK. Not only was the music choice on display an excellent, if not slightly eclectic mix of old and new, the surrounding picturesque views of the Scottish countryside (which if you’ve ever been fortunate enough to see then you must agree there is no where as beautiful in the world) but possibly its finest asset was the incredibly friendly atmosphere provided by the other revellers in attendance; perhaps a result of the unusually high quality food and drinks on offer (Organic food stalls and a mouth watering selection of ‘real ales’). Usually at our annual trip to the Leeds Festival, I do spent a large portion of my time muttering “tosser” under my breath at the antics of some of the fuckwits whom attend and annoy me, and I am usually left bemused at the frequent number of Randoms* sporting black painted fingernails asking me if I’d seen a generic Emo/Crap Punk Band and that I “should” check them out (though as soon as someone tells me I should listen/read/watch something I tend to get unnecessarily irked at the audacity of folks whom assume that by listening/reading/watching something will significantly benefit me. This usually results in a rather sarcastic response from yours truly along the lines of “why the fuck should I?”. After all if someone was to say “you should do more exercise” or “you should check your testicles for lumps” then I can see the importance and can fully accept the use of the phrase), though nearly everyone I encountered last weekend was of a most pleasant disposition.

So what about the Music eh?

Well highlights would have to be Seasick Steve, CSS, Jarvis, Emma Pollock, Bat for Lashes, The Beastie Boys, Teenage Fanclub, LCD Soundsystem, James Yorkston, Mogwai, Regina Spektor and Polyphonic Spree.

Primal scream were pretty good too, but was overshadowed somewhat by bass player Mani getting smacked full on in the face, by a pint of beer that had been hurled with some venom from a crack shot in the audience. Perhaps it was someone who had been unfortunate enough to have witnessed one of his DJ sets? He wasn’t amused, and bravely invited the guilty party on stage where he would (and I quote) “break his fucking nose”.

Now I don’t agree that people should e able to get away with throwing stuff at bands on stage, especially liquids (though I would rather get hit by a pint of beer than half a pint of piss) but because the crowd in Liverpool where we saw Primal Scream earlier in the year (read my blog about it here http://dogsbodydreadnought.blogspot.com/2006/11/keep-on-keeping-on.html) did exactly the same thing. Is there some underlying reasoning behind throwing pints a Mani? Answers on a postcard please (and please I know he IS a twat)…


* Randoms- Stranger at a festival who will engage you in affable conversation. Whist at the festival I overheard someone ask her friend if as to the whereabouts of a pal of theirs. Her response was “Oh there she is. She’s talking to a random”.

To make matters worse(r)

I have of late--but
wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all
custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily
with my disposition that this goodly frame, the
earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most
excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave
o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted
with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to
me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how
express and admirable! in action how like an angel!
in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the
world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,
what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not
me: no, nor woman neither

You may have perhaps been wondering as to my whereabouts? Worry not, I had merely taken a momentary hiatus from blogging to order to re-charge my batteries and renew my enthusiasm.

The past few weeks have been packed with some rather notable events too, which on the most part were exceedingly good for ones soul. For starters I went on my second ever Stag Do for my future brother in law, which was a damp squid somewhat, resulting in me arriving home whilst Match of The day was still on the telly! I can assure you that it was not due to alcohol intolerance on my part, but sadly that of my sister’s fiancé and his best man- not to mention general tiredness from other members of the party and one poor soul’s unfortunate and untimely dose of the shits.

At work it was the end of an era as my colleague Sean (mentioned countless times in these hallowed pages) finally left our team to return from whence he came…The Wirral. An above average work night out ensued with some surprising results. Most surprisingly of all was that I actually enjoyed myself – something I haven’t managed to accomplish on a staff night out for an eon. It was more rawkus than the aforementioned stag do with all my colleagues falling by the way side due to over indulgence of alcohol. I would like to point out that perhaps this was due to the incredibly unwise decision for him to have his leaving meal at the tapas restaurant La Tasca, as by the very nature of tapas it did little by way of soaking up the booze, so much so that only a few hours after leaving this vaguely Spanish themed establishment it was a tactical necessity for me to devour a pizza from on of the city’s many poor quality Take-Aways.

We saw Jon and Eve off in style as along with a merry band of chums, staying in a remote barn near Colne for a couple of nights. Indeed it was good- complete with as many relevant Withnail & I quotes you could shake a shitty stick at. We lit fires, ate an abundance of meat, drank a shit load of beer and made merry. Indeed it was seriously good. It was also my lil’ sister’s wedding, which was a most beautiful day for all and of course we had our final –final send off and goodbye for Jon and Eve this weekend gone, which proved to be more emotional than I had first anticipated; culminating with me forlornly sat in my front room yesterday morning,30 mins after they had departed, drinking some of their left over beer, eating some of their unwanted chocolate, tears rolling down my cheeks (of my face) staring at the framed Sweet Johnny poster ole sweet Johnny had given to me to look after until their return. Lisa too was very upset and despite our excitement for their forthcoming Round-the –World-Trip we couldn’t help but feel lonely and rather sorry for ourselves (hence the Baird’s quote above- notably used in Withnail & I – incase you didn’t know- though you really ought to)

I’ve also been back at work.

This, as you’d imagine, isn’t exactly to my liking and has done little to raise my weary and dwindling spirits. For the most part as I’ve been forced to take some annual leave off for Barn Trips and Weddings (not to mention The Connect Festival this weekend) it’s been more tolerable than I’d become accustomed to, however tomorrow I’ve been asked to come in early to prepare Tea and Coffee for a meeting. Not just any meeting but for my ex. Bosses and colleagues who’s last contact with me was a departmental meeting, where they took great pleasure and pride informing the rest of the organization that I was quitting to go into the studio for 6 weeks to record the band’s debut album. Possibly the last time I felt optimistic about anything.

To matters even worser[sic] my usual protagonists and now mortal enemy, Mersey Rail have pulled out all the stops to really get on my tits. Not only are they only providing a train every half hour instead of every fifteen minutes, but they are only providing these trains with only 3 carriages, resulting in there being no space on these effing trains. So in order to arrive at work on time to provide these beverages (which by they way just entails pouring water into the tea pot and coffee pot- which both already have the correct amount of tea and coffee waiting in them and the milk, sugar etc has been taken car of in advance too) I’m going to have to leave the house at the time I usually get out of bed. And it was this bombshell which has only just been dropped that I decided to reacquaint myself with this ere blog. Sharing my pain. Venting my frustration.

Grrrreeeaaat!

Aplostonic bender

I knew I was making a scene.

I was devouring a Subway Meatball marinara sandwich on Hearty Italian bread and making a total fucking mess in the process. The one solitary napkin the spotty adolescent had provided for me was not in anyway adequate enough to meet my needs. The poor girl whom had the enormous misfortune of having to sit next to me on the Leeds to Liverpool train, edged as far away as she could until her shoulder blades were pressed firmly against the train carriage's window, her face buried firmly into her trashy novel. I tried my best to act as if I was sober, but sadly the vast quantities of alcohol I'd devoured during the day made this an impossible task.

I was so hungry though and knew that I needed to soak up the booze. Actually I was beyond hungry. I needed food in my body. I ate my subway as if my life depended on it.

Thankfully I had managed to finish the food before a mealy mouthed looking train conductor asked for my ticket, giving me a look of distain in the process.

"What's your problem?" I slurred at him, spitting globules on un chewed sandwich at him in the process.

He avoided eye contact with me and continued to ask the other passenger for their tickets.

From the corner of my eye, I could see a woman put her arm around her young daughter in a protective manner and look at me fearfully. Her daughter looked scared yet wildly curious.

Never before had I instigated such fear and loathing in other people. I was impressed and I lapped it up. I gave them a smile and the child's pupils widened through fear and the mother turned her head so not to look at me. I sat back in my chair and laughed quite loudly to myself, before coughing harshly on a piece on meatball that had reappeared in the back of my throat. I really couldn't believe it. After years of avoiding confrontational pissheads on public transport, I had finally become one myself. I thought back to what Mark, Luke and I had agreed upon earlier in the day; that perhaps the cider drinking winos who congregate on the park benches of our country, have perhaps got the right idea. As I contemplated my new life as a Bukowski-esque drunkard I felt the need for sleep and all went dark.

I awoke confused, disoriented with the taste of minestrone soup in my dry mouth. The girl who was sat next to me was stood up and trying to get past me. She looked disgusted. I moved my legs wearily to let her get passed, then slumped into the warm seat she'd vacated. I rested my face against the window and looked out over the gloomy industrial landscape of Manchester and let out a little whimper. I felt like death. One of my main reasons behind drinking at 9.30 in the morning was for hangover prevention, however the proceeding 7 bottles and five pints only exacerbated the situation. I tried to blink, but my eyeballs were so dry my eyelids found close properly.

I could see that the young mother and daughter were no longer sat opposite me, instead a rather large black gentleman was reading a copy of the daily Star. My booze fuelled bravado had deserted me and I was left to suffer the pains of day time drinking. I let out a long and thoroughly pathetic groan and with my head in my hands mumbled "what was I thinking?" to myself, but smiled at the hazy recollections of that morning and the preceding night.


Some twenty two hours earlier I was heading in the opposite direction, full of verve and positivism. Not only was an old chum's 30th birthday but also my first day at work for over 6 weeks. I felt of use again.
On route to Leeds I'd had a thoroughly pleasant sleep whilst listening to Joanna Newsome on my MP3 player. I'd arrived with enough time to spare to make it over to Luke's gaff in order for me to drop of my bag and sleeping bag. With the exception of a rather confused taxi driver with sat nav whom couldn't find the street- the journey was a success. Thankfully he had a dog eared A to Z which he proceeded to thumb through whilst driving at speed and I eventually arrived to find Luke and Mark sat on the doorstep swigging beer from the bottle on route to intoxication.

Several hours later after helium balloon hilarity and pints of quality pilsner, it all started to get a little messy. As my alcohol tolerance is at an all time low, my memories of the night’s events were sketchy to say the least. I’m convinced I talked more crap than usual, and from my foggy recollections I talked to Luke’s sister and husband for an eon on a range of subjects which I can no longer recall. I do however remember dropping my pint in the courtyard/alleyway where we were stood and it covering Luke’s sister Mary and some guy whom I’d not been introduced to yet’s coat, which lay oddly on the floor by a wheelie bin. This guy, whose name was revealed to me at a later point during the night, looked fairly put out by my customary clumsiness and as is accustomed; I apologised profusely… I think?

It was from this point things really started to get sketchy. The next bar we swaggered to had a very steep staircase and a rather dodgy banister which it was unwise (not to mention unsafe) to put any weight onto.

The beer choices were good though, Erdinger and Staropramen on tap. I’m certain that due to confusion and an act of overwhelming generosity from Mark the Deviant, I ended up with three pints of varying pilsners. I can assure you that none of this was wasted.

As the night drew, clarity went right out of the window. Where was I? What time was it? Where’s this other pint of Erdinger arrived from? Why’s some forlorn looking woman telling me that my cohort is acting like an asshole? Why was my knee feeling particularly swore? Most of these questions remain unanswered still.

I do, however remember Luke’s courageous proclamation that we should head back to his, where he had a fridge full of beer. This sounded like a plan, though I had a ¾ full pint left. Not being the wasteful sort, I concealed this drink by placing my coat over it whilst it remained in my hand. It was the perfect crime.

At a nearby taxi rank, two rather surly looking Asian gentlemen told us that they wouldn’t provide us with transportation due the inebriation of Mark.
”He’s going to be sick” They told us.

Somehow, we persuaded them that he wouldn’t although I’m still not exactly sure how we were able to do this. They pointed towards a taxi that was parked outside. Our carriage awaited us. I chose to alight in the front passenger seat. Alas as I was about to take my seat, a dazed and confused Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci T-shirt clad friend of mine, decided that he didn’t want to get this particular vehicle and disappeared down a nearby side street mumbling incoherently. Luke gave chase and I decided to take my seat.

I apologized to the friendly looking driver for the confusion and introduced myself. I think I may have told him about my knee and the funeral I had attended that morning. The stolen pint was still under my coat and I wanted to show the driver but thought better of it.

It seemed like ages before an exasperated taxi driver told me that Mark and Luke had got into the taxi parked behind us. I swaggered out of the taxi and could see Luke swaying in the back seat. They got out and found their way into the correct car. It would be fair to say at this point I realized that we were all drunk as lords.

I don’t remember how long it took to get home or who paid for the cab, but we were soon in Luke’s gaff and I whipped my coat from my hand to reveal the ¾ full pint and decorative glass. “Da da daaaaa!”. I knew that Lisa would be so proud when I return with this beauty. Somewhere along the way some typically peculiar and almost unlistenable music found its way on the record player. The room was spinning and after a brief moment of unfamiliar charity on my part whereupon I had attempted to clean the house’s toilet for no good reason, I was on the sofa listening to the end of the record and Mark’s snoring and I was out like a light.

The following morning I was awoken from a heavy and alcoholic slumber to the sound of someone equally overhung as I searching for a pair of £4.99 H&M sunglasses. The bright sun seeped through the thin curtains and pierced my eyelids causing my head hurt like a cunt. Once these problematic sunglasses were eventually found (in his bag no less) I was wide-awake. It was 8.30am. This was unprecedented for me and the early morning caught me off guard. It was less than an hour when a bottle of Carlsberg Export was placed into my shaking hand by Mark, who by now had already knocked one back and was encouraging me to join the party. We sat on the doorstep looking out at the world, a cold beer in hand, not overly concerned by the neighbour’s look of contempt. Rhid provided us with conversation and some cracking cheese and crumpets; not to mention an introduction into the rocktastic word of 1970’s garage band The Gizmos which had just arrived via the post that very morning. Once Luke was up and more food was consumed the beer started to flow at a faster pace than it had already. By 10.30 I’d already had 3 or four beers. I felt like hybrid of Chinaski and Sir Digby Chicken Ceaser and all was well.

The morning flew by and by 12pm there was only a few bottles left and therefore the allure of pub was too overwhelming to ignore. At the time this seemed like a good idea, but it only made things messier.

The pub was deserted expect for the Fararr slack wearing, side parted and neatly combed short sleeved shirt wear regular who watched us closely whilst we sunglasses clad piss heads chatted to the amiable barmaid. Despite her slow Yorkshire drawl and her butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth face, she was razor sharp, perhaps a byproduct of having a baby at the tender age of 15. When Luke did the formal introductions she made a joke about our Gospel inspired names.

“Where’s John?” She asked.

Until that moment, I’d never really realised that we where a John short of a Gospel.

We sat inside and discussed a plethora of different subjects that are almost mandatory when one is hammered. We argued playfully on many subjects but we all were in agreement that our soon to be King’s on/off girlyfirend Kate Middleton is a hottie.

I don’t recall much else except a particularly scary looking dog running amok in the pub’s car park and that we’d agreed to form a band, accordingly named; The Apostles.

It must have been getting close to 4pm before we staggered back to Luke’s. I don’t think I noticed Mark was missing until I was slumped in my chair in the taxi on route to the train station and I could vaguely recollect Luke calling his mum on the phone to apologise for the state he was in.

My next memory was trying to act sober eating my subway. I can’t even remember buying it though.

When I arrived in Liverpool at 8pm I managed to somehow crawl into a taxi and not puke up. I couldn’t get rid of the taste of Minestrone from my mouth and I craved what would only be my second non alcoholic drink of the day. I was also rather alarmed to notice that my arms were bright red and feeling rather hot.

Once home, I truged wearily up the stairs to our front room where Lisa sat reading the paper. I slurred some words that indicated how cruddy I felt and she suggested I take a shower. I agreed and dropped my bag to the floor dramatically.

“What was that?” She asked.

I didn’t know. My bag had made a nasty smashing noise. I opened it to see what was left of my Erdinger glass.
”…shite”

Broken Household Appliance

Well I successfully managed to extend my little holiday for a few more days, however due to a combination of our utterly useless and bamboozling landlord and a broken washing machine, not to mention Lisa’s reaction when I divulged that in times of anxiety I find it soothing to urinate in a sink, I’m not exactly jumping for joy.

Instead of enjoying my extra day away from the office, I’m now ringing around to see if I can get someone out to repair it, then call our landlords back and forth with quotes. Plus the dozens of household jobs Lisa’s roped me into doing.

Wish I was back at work.


Grandaddy - Broken Household Appliance National Forest

Band of Horses- The End’s Not Near

Edwyn Collins (with Bernard Butler) - In a Broken Dream

Sebadoh- Not Too Amused

That's neat, that's neat, that's neat, that's neat, I really love your tiger print ironing board

Being something of a twat at times, I’ve always loved Monday mornings, however today I can related to the rest of the world whom wake up with a depressed groan. I’m supposed to be going back to work on Wednesday (ain’t that a kick in the head?) and I don’t think that I’m fully ready to be reinstated in the working environment and I am currently racking my brain for possible and plausible ways for me to avoid going back until next Monday. Sadly my doctor’s note expires on the Wednesday, but I’m in the hospital on Thurs and on the Friday I’m hoping to leaves fairly early in order to get to the fair city of Leeds for Luke’s birthday felicitations. It all seems pointless really, plus there are a few more films I want to watch before I go back.

This weekend proved to be a success in all respects and Lisa and I made it past the finishing line and watched the final episode of Heroes. We both patted ourselves on the back for managing to watch the entire series (23 episodes- each one 40 mins long) in one week. Sadly, it’s left a huge void in our evenings’ viewing.

Amongst other things, Lisa tricked me into acquiring a new ironing board. We’ve needed a new one since we first moved into together some 2 and a half years ago. One of my key contributions to the household (besides the pile of guitars/amps/keyboards and tea spillage) was my Tiger print ironing board which has been in my care for some 8 years.

Way back when, when I first moved back to Liverpool I rented a small one roomed bed-sit. I did have to share a kitchen and a bathroom with the other four tenants, which was a complete nightmare and the main reason for my talent at being able to urinate into plant pots or other small receptacles, but I got to meet some other blokes of a similar age group, which whilst not making any long lasting friendships was for the most part a positive experience. One such chap was the previous owner of the aforementioned Tiger Print ironing board.

I’m pretty sure after several minutes of trying to remember; his name was either Jamie or Paul and was several years older than me at the time. He was pretty much the only other tenant who ever would knock on my door and be pro active in starting a conversation. I remember the day he moved in. I left my flat to go to work I was greeted with the sight of a very, very attractive blonde girl in a fake fur coat, tight jeans and FMBs. I was immediately elated that I would be having such and attractive tenant. I locked my door, took a deep breathe and walked over to her to introduce myself. She clocked me and gave me a warm and friendly smile. As I got closer a tall fella’ with collar length hair came of the room and quickly thrust one of his giant hands out in my direction. After shaking it heartily he explained that he was the new tenant and had moved up to Liverpool to be closer to his girlfriend. I think he was from Wakefield or Huddersfield- either way he was from my neck of the woods. I remember thinking that I would have moved from Australia to be near her. He was very proud of her, as any man would be, and looked like the cat who’d got the cream.

Anyhow, he would knock on my door from time to time to ask to borrow the odd item of food or a lighter, the usual neighbourly type conversations. I never ever invited him into my flat, it was a door step friendship.

On one particular occasion, he knocked on my door and asked if he could borrow my mobile phone to contact his girlfriend as the pay phone located on our landing was out of order. I let him, but wasn’t too pleased that he’d ask such a favour. He had promised that he’d only be a minute or so, but after five minutes I started to pace up and down in my room, chuntering obscenities under my breath and looking at the clock.

Several minutes later, after wearing the cheap carpet thread bare, I heard the familiar knock upon my door. I opened it and there he was with his hand outstretched with my phone. He didn’t look good though and I could tell that something was a miss.

“She’s just dumped me” He said, sounding slightly dazed and understandably dejected.

I gave some generic words of support and pulled sympathetic grimaces as he explained what had happened. For a moment when he looked like he was about to burst out crying, I almost broke convention and invited him into my room, but thankfully thought better of it.
I did feel sorry for him and thought it amusing that he was dumped on my phone, in some funny way, I actually felt responsible.

The next time I saw him was a couple of weeks later and he was back to his usual buoyant self. He informed me that he was moving back to Yorkshire the following week and thanked me for all the things I’d leant to him. I, in return, thanked him for all the things he’s leant to me; though both he and I knew that I’d never borrowed anything from him during his short tenure.

Later that week I spotted a man who I assumed to be his father, helping him move his stuff into a people carrier. I sneaked into my room to avoid helping.

I was strumming my guitar gently and watching TV when I heard that unmistakable knock on my door. When I opened it, he was stood there beaming with a Tiger Print ironing board under his arm.

He knew that I’d been using a bass amp and a towel to iron my clothes and offered me this monstrosity.

“My brother gave this to me, when he moved in with his girlfriend. I think it’s time for me to pass it on to you”

I joked that I was honoured- but I liked the story of it being a symbol for bachelorism and thanked him for this thoughtful present. I wished him well and I never saw him again.

At the time, I assumed that I would have this ironing board for another year, perhaps two, as I figured that Lisa and I would soon be living together. It took another six years and three more homes before I managed to convince her it would be a good idea. By the time we did move in, I was the only one of the two of us who was an ironing board owner and despite her hatred of hit, we’ve used it ever since.

I did promise to buy a new one about a year ago but for the usual reasons I never actually got around to doing it. At least once a fortnight Lisa’s reminded me of this fact.

So I was tricked into buying one at Home & Bargain yesterday. I told Lisa I am unhappy to part company with the ole tiger print until I had found a suitable home for it. I mentioned that about a year ago, I had offered it to Jack- the only bachelor I knew. Alas, he didn’t want it despite being suitably intrigued when I regaled the board’s origins.

Anyway, I’m going to iron some of my work clothes- that is if they still fit me. Sitting on my arse non stop for the past 6 weeks has resulted in me gaining a few pounds.

45 hours before I return to work...

Mp3’s
(follow link)

Pulp- Monday Morning

Palace Music- Work Hard-Play Hard

Dolly Parton- 9 to 5 (live version)

Yo La Tengo- Big Day Coming (demo version)

Dean Martin - Ain’t That a Kick in the Head