Mathew Browne

I went to Newham council’s free fireworks display in Beckton yesterday evening, which was fun. Quite a lot of mouthy chav children and teens though, who - judging by the average age of the many single mums there - get laid more often than I do. The grand finale of the display was very impressive. It was as if the sky had mortally offended their mum and they were seeking revenge against it. (Hence the title of this post.)

Then I got a call from a friend I haven’t seen for months telling me to meet him in a bar near Trafalgar Square at 10:30. So me and the Missus go along, knowing that we’d only be staying about an hour so we wouldn’t risk missing the last tube home. And then we waited. And waited. After an hour I got impatient and we went home. Bit gutted really, especially as I didn’t even get a text to say “never mind, see you next time”.

I guess that’s a case of karma for you. Henry, another friend of mine, who was with said friend at the time, was running a play this week in Islington that I didn’t bother going to see. His timing wasn’t excellent - he booked it from November 1st through November 5th. This was up against the free fireworks display from the comfort of my living room on Saturday, which was the only day I would have entertained the notion of going. The weekday performances were at 9:30 in the evening, which proved problematic - I could either stay at UCL then travel up later, which would mean 4 hours of killing time, or go home then go back into London to see the play. This would have meant a 90-115 minute round trip to see a 60 minute play. Plus, in the case of the days where I have work the next day and presuming I’d be staying afterwards for a drink - which I’d be expected to - I’d have ended up home about midnight, which is waaaaay past my bedtime. (I need 10 hours sleep to function.) I haven’t had the balls to apologise yet.

My spirits have been lifted by the huge free fireworks display I was treated to this evening, all from the comfort of my living room balcony. On the dock, the local resident’s association had loaded a barge chock-full of pretty explosives. I took some pretty awesome photos, which I will put online later and change this sentence to be a link to it. So, if you just read that, I still haven’t gotten round to it.

I am currently selling my huge Playstation game collection because (a) I could do with some extra bread (b) I don’t have the storage/shelving space to accommodate them all (c) I don’t have the time to play them anymore. So, at the time of writing I have 205 listings on eBay, with more to go on. The great thing is, I always bought the games in job lots where the average cost per game never came to more than £2(*) but individually many of them are worth more. Some a LOT more. Sadly, eBay’s listing fees, completion fees, and Paypal fees (if applicable) will eat away into my profits like a hungry fat bird.

* The exception to this rule is the game Kula World, which I bought for £35. It usually sells for £45-£50 second-hand. Owing to the fact that no-one bought it while it was originally out, only for it to be declared a classic game later, this is one of only a handful of games that has actually gone up in value. I’m keeping it not because it’s value is going up, but because it is - as correctly hailed by game critics in hindsight - a classic.

Looks like I’m going on one of the famed “team building exercises” at Centre Parcs on November 22nd and 23rd. Don’t know what to make of it really. I think I’m unimpressed. We apparently have to leave by coach from UCL “very early in the morning”. Great.

As long as I don’t have to take part in any white water rafting, tight rope walking, army assault courses, or any of that shite I’ll be fine. Just show me the bar and bill it to UCL’s tab. Having said that, I wonder if anyone would actually be brazen enough to take full advantage of the open bar and get well and truly sozzled at UCL’s expense. They’d probably be earmarked for the sack if they did.

I just got offered a Jaffa Cake by some guy in my office I’ve never spoken to. He’s got one of those Jaffa Cake tubes and is currently touring the office offering delicious orange jelly and sponge treats to all. That brightened up my day.

Then my day got overcast and pissed down raindrops of misery on me. The Royal Mail (should be called the Royal Fail) have lost a special delivery containing concert tickets. Despite the fact that it’s supposedly “tracked” and “a signature is taken from the recipient”, the peasant woman at the other end of the phone told me that because they didn’t get the letter back when it went out for delivery last Friday, they presumed it was delivered. Never mind taking a signature, nor the fact that I got a card telling me “we tried to deliver an item but you were out”.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Special Mail Services refused to hand over a letter to my fiancee because clearly she isn’t me. Never mind she answered my door, with access to my chequebook and all my utility bills as proof that I do actually live there. They think they’re Top Secret, like the Men in Black or something.

The Missus tried calling them up to arrange a redelivery and the guy answering got all flustered and was like “I can’t even discuss this with you” then refused to talk to her about my mail. I mean, she shouldn’t even know it exists, right? Like Area 51. Right, so you’re boss is going to neuralise you, take you to Area 51 and let the greys thought-rape you to see how much you know about Mathew Browne’s classified documents. Dude, it was just a letter.

Every delivery firm, be it couriers, the Royal Fail or Special Mail Services, are all Cunts. They should all hand over their businesses to the pizza delivery boys of Caroline’s Pizza. They always get it right.

If anybody reading this is planning on getting me a Christmas present (and yes Louise this means you) I want a box of Crunchie bars. Not the crappy mini ones they put in Celebrations tins, but the proper ones.

I’ve started getting a Crunchie with my lunch every day from Tesco and am getting scarily addicted to them.

Reminds me of the time I was in school and would blow all my lunch money on a few packs of Space Raiders (which at the time were 10p and still are…) to fill up my savoury stomach, and then about 6 Cadbury Creme Eggs. My Dad was not impressed. So, in the ultimate act of being kind to be cruel he bought me THREE BOXES of Creme Eggs - that’s 144 gooey chocolatey treats.

Of course, one week and about 80 eggs in, I was sick of the fucking things, and never blew my lunch money on Creme Eggs again. A lesson hard learned.