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Wednesday, May 5

Yesterday was a funny old day all in. I think I had about three entirely different days in one. There was:

Red mist morning
There's no doubt about it. The morning was not good. I have been fooling myself about a parking ticket. I've been fooling myself that I can cope with being subject to criminal proceedings for not paying it. I know that I am in the right. I know that Newcastle City Council's Parking Control have been a bunch of unfair jobsworth cunts who do not deserve to be paid MY money to do a job which ultimately takes more money to pay them to be even more cunts than they already are. If this is legally offensive to the cunts then let them know one thing. They're cunts and I've proof.

I have a parking permit to park in Manors car park. This permit entitles me to park in a permit space between 8am and 6pm every day. On one wet day a few weeks ago, I parked in a permit space between the hours of 10am and about 5pm... returning to my car I found a parking ticket. What had I done wrong? Well, I'd misjudged the border between the permit spaces for Gold Permits and the permit spaces for Gold Plus Permits. Why are there different spaces? Well, the Gold Plus Permit holders get to park for longer... ah... but why do they need a different sort of space to do that? Because the Parking Control people are cunts? probably... probably.

Anyway, I appealed against the 60 pound ticket (30 if paid promptly) on the grounds that it was a genuine mistake, I was parked within my time, the parking had been paid for and I was one space - yes, one space away from the place they wouldn't have ticketed me in. They rejected my appeal.... and I'd even been nice to them. I hadn't called them a bunch of fucking wank-shaft jobsworth cunts who deserve to rot in their own faeces.

I appealed again and this time explained that the signage was dodgy (it is... perhaps I'll take a picture) and that the car park was exceedingly busy - I couldn't be certain that there was a regular gold permit space available. Again... they've been fucking paid for my right to park in their poorly maintained shit-hole of a car park... perhaps they can do something a little more sensible than fining their own customers for using parking facilities... Oh no... apparently not. £60 please (no £30) or "We'll take you to the magistrates' court". Ok, says I, in reply. If the only place you're prepared to discuss it is in court, then I'll see you there...

Then I get a letter explaining the consequences of actually going to court. Pay the fine, pay court costs, pay compensation - because it's tough being a bunch of fucking nazis - it really takes it out of you - pay a fine imposed by the magistrates court for being a criminal (because parking a car is against the law you know) and spend 10 minutes in the lift of the car park with deathly gas coming at you... actually, that last bit I just made up.

A couple of sleepless nights later - anger more than fear. I decided to ring up and resolve this matter amicably. I don't want to go to court. Especially since the charge was "not paying a parking ticket" which I can't deny... I hadn't paid it. I didn't want to. If I lost my temper in court - and that was likely. I'm seeing the red mist now and I'm not even under any pressure - then I would have lost the case. The only chance of winning was to come across as reasonable to the Magistrates and catch them on a good day - too big a risk. So I tried to negotiate my way out of the situation.

To all the people at Newcastle City Council Parking control, who are, as I mentioned previously, a bunch of fucking imbecile-cunt-jobsworth-hate-filled-shit-for-fucking-brains-cunts, I say this. I forgive you. No. I don't. I paid your fucking charge - even though you refused to, at least, drop down to the initial £30 which I would have paid if I hadn't dared to appeal against your stupid fucking system. I paid the £60 to keep you quiet and to remove the stress. I do not agree with the system. Nor do I agree with the way it's policed. The irony being that I'm paying council tax for these people to continue their reign of terror, and my employer is putting regular funds in their cash-laden-nazi-pockets for the permits which permit me to be a victim of the jack-booted cock-suckers.

So, I was very cross in the morning. Luckily the mood was broken by this picture:


Click to enlarge

Classic! I laughed uproariously and it didn't seem to hurt as much...

Off on a journey
I left the office went shopping for some various items and headed for the station. I regret the fact that I did not watch where the end of my guitar was headed... it knocked a sandwich out of the hand of a passer-by. Admittedly, he should have been looking where he was going too. The sandwich was ruined and he threw it away. I was upset for him - after all, I was at least partly responsible. I asked him whether he'd allow me to replace it for him and he refused. I suppose if you're going to hold your sandwich badly, you have the right to be proud about replacing it. Shame. I could have bought him a sandwich and we could have become friends - maybe travelled the world. Maybe gone to Cleethorpes... but no.

I got on the train and warned the lady beside me that I was about to do something odd. I pointed out that I knew it was odd and so, therefore, it shouldn't seem scary. I won't spoil the reveal for those people who read this and who will be seeing The Musical! in a couple of days, but my train journey was spent sewing. I'm not much of a seamstress, but I learned a lot over the course of the journey.

My companion turned out to be in the fashion industry, so we chatted about that for a while as I ineptly sewed away. If only I'd had a rocking chair and a roaring hearth too.

Gig night
Then I went into gig mode. I did a very nice arts centre in Cranleigh, Surrey. The audience were small and perfectly formed. I threw some stuff at them with pop-music references that 65% of them would not have got... but I made it work anyway and acknowleged that they weren't really radio 1 listeners... always play the room you have...

As gig nights go, it was a treat. I ended up in bed at reasonable hour, had a couple of beers during the gig and woke up at a reasonable time ready to go to work. On this occasion, my bed was 300 miles from the office, but I had a morning off in which to narrow the distance. Good stuff.

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