This week started off with potential. BJ twisted his ankle on the weekend playing Rugby. My delight wasn’t due to me still having repressed hatred for him after Parking Ticketgate the week before but because he had to work from home on the Monday. In my head I was thinking we’d play a lot of FIFA, have a lunch and play knock down ginger. Unfortunately this didn’t happen because we are both no longer 12 and he not only has a real job but is also the most sensible 23 yr old you’re ever likely to come across: he likes indoor rock climbing, spends 3hrs a week ironing and bakes things with his girlfriend. By ‘things’ I mean cakes and biscuits not random objects or insects that would be far too cavalier and not sensible enough. So my Monday was spent doing nothing of interest in the same room as someone else doing nothing of interest. It was like he brought his office job into my living room; this was not appreciated.
My other housemate B (Benedict Pringle) had been working through the Monday and Tuesday night at his advertising company. I don’t know exactly what he was doing. Presumably he was trying to think of an advert to rival Compare the Market and the Go Compare dude. As a man who watches a lot of day time television I would really like to see a couple of different intermissions between programmes. Maybe someone can make an advert where the Meerkat and that fat, crap moustached opera singer fight: the winner gets to stay on TV, the loser get’s relegated to the advertising in the Evening Standard. The reason I was excited was that his long night meant he was going to be at home on Wednesday. He got in at 9am, I figured he’d have a quick nap and would be up at lunch to hang out: I was positively pumped.
I quickly popped to my parents to help them move furniture. Since I’ve moved out, I’m only ever required to go back to either move furniture or fix the computer. I get the feeling my parents wish I was either a massive tattooed geezer removals man or a spectacle wearing nerd. I’m unfortunately neither of these things: I’m bad at lifting things and clueless about IT but evidently less rubbish than my parents are. I got home at about 2am to find B had left the flat. I was absolutely gutted. My good deed for my parents had cost me a companion for the day. My parents now owe me a play date. From now on I will have to start charging them for services rendered but rather than money I want them to provide me with someone who likes computer games and is not a git. Paying me in a human being is probably defined as slave trading, however, if slavery merely consisted of sitting on a sofa, chatting and playing FIFA it probably wouldn’t have been so morally abhorrent and it’s abolition wouldn’t have been so widely celebrated.
The week, therefore, was one that promised to be fun and friend filled yet was mainly one of writing and Facebook stalking….
Sunday 25 April 2010
Thursday 15 April 2010
April 5-9th
I went to The Diner on bank holiday Monday: what a surprise. On the way into the restaurant a woman said, “did I see you doing comedy in Hastings last week?” I said, “yes I was gigging there” and she replied, “thought I recognised you”. She, however, did not state whether she thought I was funny or not. I can only guess she thought I was not amusing. It was quite pointless stopping me really. I saw a bloke the week before who works in Foxtons but I didn’t stop him to point this out. What I’m saying is, only stop me if you’re going to pay me a compliment.
Me and BJ went down to The Coronet in Notting Hill to watch The Hurt Locker. It was one of those films that won loads of Oscars so I was worried it was going to be shit. There will be Blood is a prime example of a wank movie that won loads of awards. The cinema is a decrepit but kitsch venue, which I recommend everyone goes to. It was only £4.50 for a ticket although I got a £60 parking fine, so it ended up being an expensive visit. I rarely get angry but I definitely wanted to punch a bin when I discovered the ticket. I parked on a single yellow on a bank holiday, which I assumed was allowed, apparently not in Chelsea and Kensington. My anger was exacerbated when I sat in the car and I expected BJ to offer to pay half as he’d persuaded me to drive and told me it was fine to park on a single yellow. He didn’t offer so I went, “you’ll give me money right?” and he went “I’ve always paid parking fines myself with other people in the car”. I then didn’t talk to him till we got home: mature. He then reassessed his stance and offered to pay 1/3rd of the fare. It was a funny argument in retrospect because personal parking fine politics are not exactly something you are aware of until it happens. It doesn’t exactly pop up in conversation down the pub along with what football team you support. We have now kissed and made up: gay.
The rest of the week was spent writing and in my own company. I wished there was one bank holiday a week for the rest of the year so I could hang out with more people. If one of the political parties put that in their manifesto they would win the election. Admittedly we’d go into a recession but what’s new there? The two women I spent most of my week with were Charlotte Jackson (the Sky Sports News presenter who I love) and my Polish cleaner (still don’t know her name). I also watched Kick Ass on my own. It’s awesome. I watched it in a cinema with only six other people so felt guilty every time I laughed out loud. I wanted to get up and turn around to everyone and say “you should all be laughing right now: stop making me feel like the nutter in this viewing situation”; getting up and saying that would ironically have made me look like a nutter.
Me and BJ went down to The Coronet in Notting Hill to watch The Hurt Locker. It was one of those films that won loads of Oscars so I was worried it was going to be shit. There will be Blood is a prime example of a wank movie that won loads of awards. The cinema is a decrepit but kitsch venue, which I recommend everyone goes to. It was only £4.50 for a ticket although I got a £60 parking fine, so it ended up being an expensive visit. I rarely get angry but I definitely wanted to punch a bin when I discovered the ticket. I parked on a single yellow on a bank holiday, which I assumed was allowed, apparently not in Chelsea and Kensington. My anger was exacerbated when I sat in the car and I expected BJ to offer to pay half as he’d persuaded me to drive and told me it was fine to park on a single yellow. He didn’t offer so I went, “you’ll give me money right?” and he went “I’ve always paid parking fines myself with other people in the car”. I then didn’t talk to him till we got home: mature. He then reassessed his stance and offered to pay 1/3rd of the fare. It was a funny argument in retrospect because personal parking fine politics are not exactly something you are aware of until it happens. It doesn’t exactly pop up in conversation down the pub along with what football team you support. We have now kissed and made up: gay.
The rest of the week was spent writing and in my own company. I wished there was one bank holiday a week for the rest of the year so I could hang out with more people. If one of the political parties put that in their manifesto they would win the election. Admittedly we’d go into a recession but what’s new there? The two women I spent most of my week with were Charlotte Jackson (the Sky Sports News presenter who I love) and my Polish cleaner (still don’t know her name). I also watched Kick Ass on my own. It’s awesome. I watched it in a cinema with only six other people so felt guilty every time I laughed out loud. I wanted to get up and turn around to everyone and say “you should all be laughing right now: stop making me feel like the nutter in this viewing situation”; getting up and saying that would ironically have made me look like a nutter.
Friday 9 April 2010
29th of March-2nd of April
I spent all of Monday making a stew. This is a sentence I have never previously written or said. I want to improve my cooking skills but the qualm I have with making a big meal of food is that it takes up almost all of your day. Why is this a problem when I spend most of my days twiddling my thumbs and masturbating? Well it’s boring and invariably not worth the effort. What makes it worse is that I’ve recently been watching MasterChef. When you watch people create these breathtakingly tasty dishes and then I go and make a pile of brown shit, it makes you feel pretty dejected. I still want to go on that programme and make toast. I’d love to see Greg Wallace’s podgy visage when I say, “today I’m going to make toast, with an Olivio and honey seasoning accompanied by a goblet of PG Tips.” I bet Greg would still say “lovely!”
I played Comedians football again, which is quickly becoming a weekly ritual, which is hopefully preventing me from becoming a Greg Wallace lookalike. I also went to the Diner on Wednesday. A place I have started visiting regularly. It’s become my rubbish British version of the restaurant they used to frequent in Seinfeld. There is a woman working there who sees always gives me a knowing smile. I can’t work out whether it’s a flirty smile or a smile that means: you come here all the time you sad bastard. That’s the problem with body language: it’s too ambiguous. The worst one is when you catch someone’s eye in a bar and they stare back at you. It either means we both fancy each other or it means, “why is that creepy dude staring at me?” It’s normally the latter.
Easter Friday was the highlight of my week as my housemate BJ (as in blow job) was off work so I had someone to hang out with. My sister also came over to see the flat. I did not show her Chatroulette as I did not want to expose my 22yr old sister to strange erect cocks. BJ created home made sausage rolls, which were belting. They would have beaten the crap out of my beef stew in a fight. They wouldn’t have just beaten it up, they would have maimed, raped and kidnapped it. His culinary skills are certainly superior to his taste in films. He suggested we go and watch Clash of the Titans, which has to be the worst movie I’ve ever seen in the cinema. I always have fun in the cinema because it’s loud and lot’s of stuff is happening in front of your eyes but this did push the boundaries of enjoyment. As a fan of crappy action films, I thought I might like it but Liam Neason’s tin foil costume, and Sam Worthington’s acting which makes Joey Tribbiani look like an oscar winner, made me want to be physically sick. The only good thing about it was Gemma Arterton who as the kids say is “well fit”. I’m pretty sure at one point she stared directly at me. It was not a flirty stare; it was a look that said, “I can’t believe you paid money to watch this pile of wank”….
I played Comedians football again, which is quickly becoming a weekly ritual, which is hopefully preventing me from becoming a Greg Wallace lookalike. I also went to the Diner on Wednesday. A place I have started visiting regularly. It’s become my rubbish British version of the restaurant they used to frequent in Seinfeld. There is a woman working there who sees always gives me a knowing smile. I can’t work out whether it’s a flirty smile or a smile that means: you come here all the time you sad bastard. That’s the problem with body language: it’s too ambiguous. The worst one is when you catch someone’s eye in a bar and they stare back at you. It either means we both fancy each other or it means, “why is that creepy dude staring at me?” It’s normally the latter.
Easter Friday was the highlight of my week as my housemate BJ (as in blow job) was off work so I had someone to hang out with. My sister also came over to see the flat. I did not show her Chatroulette as I did not want to expose my 22yr old sister to strange erect cocks. BJ created home made sausage rolls, which were belting. They would have beaten the crap out of my beef stew in a fight. They wouldn’t have just beaten it up, they would have maimed, raped and kidnapped it. His culinary skills are certainly superior to his taste in films. He suggested we go and watch Clash of the Titans, which has to be the worst movie I’ve ever seen in the cinema. I always have fun in the cinema because it’s loud and lot’s of stuff is happening in front of your eyes but this did push the boundaries of enjoyment. As a fan of crappy action films, I thought I might like it but Liam Neason’s tin foil costume, and Sam Worthington’s acting which makes Joey Tribbiani look like an oscar winner, made me want to be physically sick. The only good thing about it was Gemma Arterton who as the kids say is “well fit”. I’m pretty sure at one point she stared directly at me. It was not a flirty stare; it was a look that said, “I can’t believe you paid money to watch this pile of wank”….
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