Category Archives: curb your enthusiasm

halifux

Trying to think of anything that was good about yesterday. No, it was all bad, pretty much from the moment I woke up to the time I finally went off to sleep.

Work was its usual mundane self, saved momentarily by doing P in the morning, the afternoon rattled past punctuated with abundant quantities of coffee and cigarettes. The only thing I was looking forward to doing in the evening was seeing Myfwt, making some supper and watching Masterchef. Oddly, being resigned to the fact that I wasn’t drinking, indeed, it wasn’t even an option, even the usual watered down gloom that arrives with abstinence was sitting grumpily outside of the cortex.

There was one other thing I had to do. I had to write a piece before Wednesday and it was something I wasn’t able to do at work. I’m amazed I can write P at work frankly because I’m used to silence when I write, P is done on a needs/must basis so I’ve no option, anything else outside of the occasional piece for friends is easier done at home. I began my task in earnest when I arrived back, later than usual. Coincidentally Myfwt wasn’t feeling too good and had decided to come straight back instead of popping by the gym. So engrossed in the whole article I failed to take full heed of ‘not feeling well’. When will I ever learn?

Before she arrived I’d been pondering the article. Pondering is done either with a cigarette or by wandering to the kitchen and wandering back (a ‘wander-ponder’ if you will) with a cup of tea or, in this case, Teriyaki peanuts, which are more more-ish than they have any right to be. I ate over half a packet completely by accident.

About 15 mins before the article was complete Myfwt arrived home looking a little fragile. My mind still scribbling away I ushered her in, she had a couple of peanuts and I finished off the bag and the article at almost the same moment. Right, time to cook… Christ. I then realised that I was feeling utterly sick. I’d gorged myself on so many peanuts I forgotten myself. I announced my self induced malaise to Myfwt who was looking all wane and pail and lovely and refused to cook her the dinner I’d offered to make, indeed, been banging on about all day. This didn’t go down well. Evening ruined.

For the last few weeks I’ve been trying to find out how much I owe the fucking cunts that are the Halifax. I took a loan out a few years back and I’ve been paying it back monthly. Yesterday morning I called them with my account details, what have you. After being asked a series of baffling questions I was informed I’d ‘failed security’ and they fucking hung up on me. Of course, I called them back, the same procedure started, I failed security again (the questions went from, ‘what day do you pay us back a month’ and ‘how much do us pay us back annually’ to ‘what was the colour of the APR on the 3rd March 2003 and how many Howard’s does it take to change a (energy efficient) light bulb’). The last time I called them back (the time after they’d hung up on me again for swearing) they told me just to go into a branch with my passport and they’d tell me directly. Fucking cunts the lot of them.

Oh, Curb Your Enthusiasm was actually shit last night, the worse one I’ve seen, and I couldn’t sleep after.

Masterchef was shit too.

Bollocks.


sleep talking

I remembered at school aged 10 the teacher wanted us to describe strange words through the power of art. My best mate Jim had ‘somnambulist’ and I had ‘grotesque’. After learning the about the definitions of the words the class set to work on their pieces. For some reason known only to myself, I decided to portray a fat middle-aged bald man in a dirty vest, sat on a toilet in a cubicle littered with syringes and old beer cans. Being rather deft with a brush the resulting piece was rather effective, I found out later (much later, about ten years ago) that my parents had been called into the school and interrogated about my frame of mind by a social worker. According to my mum one of the teachers was very upset about the piece concluding that the artist was ‘deeply disturbed’ which was utter twaddle, of course…

I was thinking about this last night in bed during another bout of self-imposed insomnia, ‘self imposed’ because I abstained last night. The word ‘somnambulist’, or rather the act of somnambulism is something that has always terrified the shit out of me. As a small child one of my key fears was to meet my parents whilst they were sleep walking, of course this phenomenon is the fundamental chill factor in zombie movies (in addition to being a key catalyst of surrealism –something familiar devoid of its expected characteristics) so as fears go, it’s far from unique, I’d even argue it’s innate in everyone.

So, I pondered this, I began thinking how I’d feel if I found Myfwt sleep walking, no, I most certainly wouldn’t like that… idiotically I found myself downloading my childhood fears into the present, with the barrier of booze removed my mind was able to cheerfully bat these ideas about while I quietly panicked in the dark. Myfwt slept like a top, I went to sleep at 3 after having gone to bed at 10.30 to watch (a not up to par) Curb Your Enthusiasm prior to turning off the light.

Waking up without a hangover is certainly preferable to waking up with one; it’s helping me to stick to my 2 days off a week and contributing to a bit of control when I’m having days on. I’m meeting Frank for a couple tonight but after that I may see if I can hold out until Friday… we’ll see.

Another key factor in all this is the whole food/wine thing. If I eat a roast or a pie or employ anything with a cheese and tomato sauce I find denying myself wine almost impossible. But stick to stir-fries with chilli, salmon, prawns etc., and you’ve a meal that doesn’t lend itself well to red wine (though very arguably with white and beer, both surmountable as I don’t crave them like I do the sweet, sweet red) either in eating or preparation.

That’s got to be a top tip right there, surely.


full moon fever

It’s the full moon; I’ve just worked it out, why didn’t I notice this before? Up to, during, but seldom just after, Cunt is at his worst. Last night was no exception when he opened his ‘set’ at 11.00pm with a soundcheck. He actually said ‘one two one two, thank you’. There was no one there. Just him.

I pounded the heel my foot into the floor and it went quiet for about 15 minutes. Then the front door went and something unemployed and disgusting appeared out of the gloom. This creature reckoned it could play the harmonica, which wasn’t the problem; it was Cunt shouting someone’s lyrics tonelessly, tunelessly in the wrong order. Myfwt slept through the din while I seethed in the dark, I was compromised by my desire to go downstairs and slam hard on his door/face or remain impassive so as not to wake her up. I opted for the latter, I’m exhausted, she slept like a doll.

Up until then last night was rather nice, despite the fact I didn’t drink. I made salmon and stir fry with Piqued’s Pepper sauce *winks* and we watched Grand Designs on More4. Downstairs the hairy extension was screaming the place down, I’ve no idea where its mother was or what the fuck was going on, but at some point it went to afford the occurrences mentioned at the beginning of the post, or it died.

We watched Curb Your Enthusiasm in bed, Myfwt reluctant at first, apparently Larry David reminds her of me and this is apparently ‘irritating’, but it was such a beautifully crafted episode she couldn’t resist. The Mr. Jew line nearly killed me; really, you should’ve been there. Actually I’m glad you weren’t or I would’ve been forced to call the authorities.

It’s gorgeous day so far, winter sunlight is always the most sublime because it has that air of serendipity about it, and following my night off I have two days of mild socialising. I’ll probably take Thursday off too in order to prepare my liver for Friday, Gee and I are going to Brixton to see Korn which will probably involve our having to be social and shit.

Despite still being in the month of January I can see the end of it, February isn’t much better but at least it’s a moth closer to the start of the motor sport season, which, for me, means Spring and is imbued with misty, happy recollections of my childhood; TV after Sunday lunch with Murray Walker screaming his head off and my dad complaining at his inability to coherently express factual information about drivers and their cars…

Right, I need to get on, it’s busy here.

This is lovely, great video too…