19/08/09 - To me, U2

Fresh from solving my lunch riddle by combining carbs and salad in some kind of jacket potato goliath, I’m taking this opportunity to draw some breath, turn up The Dead Weather and ignore my emails long enough to do what I was hired for (sic), and update the world on the goings on at F1 Rocks HQ.

Distressingly, that’s three straight meals at my desk, including dinner last night and brunch this morning and conveniently forgetting my bagel (sliced in true American wannabe style by my bagel slicer – I don’t have internet or a television but all about the culinary accessories) from this morning. Last night’s post watershed working special did come with the consolation prize of finding a stray box decorated with pornography in the street as I left, which I approached with caution a la Morgan Freeman in Se7en, only to disappointingly find plastic bags instead of Gwyneth Paltrow’s head (or more transport friendly ‘reading’ material).


Combine this futility with the truly terrible haircut I received last week (too short at the back, too long at the front), which left me resembling an extra from Coneheads in a Johnny Borrell wig, my haphazard attempts at securing somewhere to live beyond the next two weeks, and missing an explosion that apparently shook the building (potential chance to enlist disaster movie survival 101), I’d almost go as far to say it was nearly a lousy week. However, the perks of employment here reared their head again when a Friday afternoon whip round produced some luxury seats to see U2 at Wembley – two of which were handed to me, and although not a single person in the office cared to spend the evening in close quarters listening to MOR ‘rock’ music with me, my constantly bewildered flatmate Jack was more than happy to leave his grind at the Job Centre early and act as my accomplice.

(Lengthy pause of writing here lasting almost a day – distracted by a meeting with the Three Wise Men from our digital agency. New music choice: The Strokes ‘Is This It’ – oldie but a goodie)

Again, my lack of slickness when faced with VIP style situations where one is supposed to act suave resulted in refusing to believe that we could possibly be seated in an area attended by security guards, and the usual autograph hungry slobbering when confronted with someone I recognised from television (‘Holy smoke! It’s Eddie Jordan!’). U2 themselves washed over me in a wave of indifference, they’re not a band I have any allegiance to, but I begrudgingly admit to howling along with the massed ranks during ‘In the Name of Love’, and I couldn’t fail to be impressed by the space station that passed for a stage (see below). Although not as delighted as I was with the tog rating on our seat cushions… God bless the joys of VIP treatment.



Nemesis update: the enemy is out of the country topping up his fake tan with some real sunlight. My mind’s eye conjures up Wham’s ‘Club Tropicana’ video as an indication of how he’ll be spending his time.

I was getting ready today to move desks to cohabit with the freakishly tall new legal intern, but rank has been pulled and I’m staying put, which probably comes in handy for general spying and subterfuge, but is less useful for things such as playing loud music, making personal calls, illicit social networking and whiling away the hours staring pointlessly out of the window. Not that I’m sulking. Anyhow, back to my morning of drafting invites for VIPs and VVIPs (and probably VVVIPs too – although I’m not sure who’d have such a status – Dolph Lundgren if I had my way), staring lovingly at my teenage boy style pinup of Jenson Button’s mistress, and pretending I know how to use Excel.