friday riot

I rather enjoyed the footage of The Ranger’s fans going berserk yesterday. The mentality of the rioters was fascinating; there wasn’t a complex set of psychological stations stemming from a genuine and understandable grievance that initiated a pack mentality sparking violence, but because their fucking telly broke and they got all cross.

I mean who can blame them? The first thing I did when my TV bust a few years ago was to punch the ever loving shit out of my girlfriend then take bare chested to the streets in order to throw bins and paving at the police. It’s completely rational right?

Maybe not rational but it’s to be expected, mix alcohol with some knuckle dragging fuckwit who can’t tie his shoe laces up without help from his mum and, inevitably, he’s going to start lashing out, he doesn’t need a reason, he just will. This is why there was a police presence on Wednesday night.

What I wasn’t expected was the way a group of trained peacekeepers responded to the rioting. I’ve seen more courage under fire from wood pigeons and better organised retards. The line of police were pushed back by an angry mob of delinquents, fair enough, but the line was completely random, braver officers moved back slowly whilst some just fucked off out of it, subsequently one officer was left to face the mob on his own and down he went under a hail of boots and fists. He received fuck all support from his colleagues and if it wasn’t for the bravery of some army medic we’d be looking at a murder enquiry.

Last night was splendid, a few drinks with IC in the local then back to the flat for fish fingers and a spot of telly… Oh, and some wine (and a little G&T for good measure). Tonight my run of social engagements continues, I’m meeting Harry in the city, poor chaps smashed up his leg, for a gentle night on the tiles. I intend to spend much of Saturday sleeping off the past 10 days which have been intense by anyone’s standards.

The revolting Friday list follows this and some comedy after, sent to me by a mate yesterday, with an addition of what can happen when you go to Manchester, as if Wednesday’s episode wasn’t bad enough.

Have lovely weekends all. (What the hell are ‘squitter tits?’)

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It’s been a busy week, over in the Eastend with IC on Monday, out with Swineshead and Frank on Tuesday and last night my old mucca Jools was over from NYC.

Yesterday had been another hot one in the office, the sun eventually decided to make itself known at about 11am and remained hanged in the heavens until it’s customary departure at 9-ish… After a short sweet zip back on the black bitch I briefly changed and was straight out to hit the tube, again. I can’t recall a period of my life when I’ve been so au fait with this fucking mode of transport, I maintain that I don’t mind it anymore simply because of reading books over those free right-wing papers that were, in my opinion, wholly responsible for London voting a galloping dick headed gitprong as mayor. A slow drip of invective and barely concealed propaganda seems to have infiltrated the moronic minds of a large enough quantity of the electorate –those who did vote for this blonde bastard may not have noticed that he seems to have disappeared, he popped up to ban booze on the tube and since then seems to have gone to ground.

Jools was waiting for me in sunny Sloane Square and we ambled to a pub off the Kings Road for a couple of pints and a catch-up. At 8 we walked to an upmarket curry house where we were joined by Paul and his friend and ordered a slew of fantastic food. Despite myself I stuck to beer, and I kept this in moderation, even managing to make it to the last tube home and thus avoiding the usual fees for a cab which slide convoy-like up and down the street tempting me with their orange Cyclops eye, the shiny black sluts.

It’s pissing down with rain, the light is gunmetal grey but I don’t mind, the weekend is expected to be pleasant enough and it’s finally within reach via a night with IC in Tooting. But first I’ve got to survive a day in this place, god help me.

if I had a hammer

I had to turn Gordon Ramsey off.

This wasn’t because the show was largely bollocks, it was because fucking Geri Halliwell was on it pushing ‘her book’ and Ramsey was actually flirting with the harridan, it was like watching the school bully trying to score with the school bike, and failing.

Apparently, according to this incisive in depth fucking interview as Geri and Gordon made meatballs (Geri tonelessly repeated some guff about ‘mamma’s meatballs being the best’ and alluded to some sort of Spanish heritage in a futile attempt to scaffold a depth of character over and above the vacuous pimple-brained prick we all know and despise) Geri spoke of her career.

She doesn’t see herself as a diva, apparently, and accepts that, perhaps, she’s not as technically adept as Mariah Carey (who for all her sins can actually sing) so she’s turned, as she puts it, ‘to writing?’ Like, Children’s Books?’ and answers all questions with a question (called upspeak if we’re going to get technical) clearly indicating that she’s telling one long protracted fucking fib, because no one that stupid can hold a Bic the right way up let alone have the capacity to pen a bestseller.

Gordon helpfully mentions the title of ‘her book’, called Evigunder Millifluffle or some such shit; she repeats the title of ‘her book’ with such vehemence I thought her fucking eyes were going to shoot out of her gormless lolly pop head and hit that fat Welsh cunt Gordon had been crawling over five minutes previously. It was disgusting.

So I turned it off and played Scarface, actually I didn’t play Scarface, I made Scarface get in his car, drive about and kill lots of people, all of which I imagined to be wearing little Union Jack Dresses.

Oh, some of you that read this more than once will be aware of Cunt, well, he’s back, the knuckle dragging half wit has returned from wherever, back are the Mousterian pulses and thumps, fundamental confusion over the physics of doors and an all round air of chinless backwardness. I want to move again.

The sun seems to have fucked off as well.

(check out the audience)

painted stag

We crept low through the dried leaves and branches, they were out there moving to towards us, and we toward them… Frank looked over, ‘move left, I’ll flank them to the right’ he whispered. I nodded and checked back for movement ahead.

Nothing.

‘Good luck’ I hissed as he rose to move, as he darted away I sensed something wasn’t right. I saw the scrub shudder before he did but by that time it was too late, a plethora of shots erupted yonder accompanied by a groan a few metres away, Frank had been hit.

Nothing I can do for him now. I think of his mother at home looking out of the kitchen window anxious for news of her boy. Jesus…

As the broken leaves and twigs settled onto the canopy floor there was more movement ahead, and to my horror, something to my left. I have to go, now… I rose slightly bringing my weapon up to my shoulder, a shot is fired at 9 o clock, I spin to face an enemy and take immediate action, he’s hit… move… adrenalin rushes into my blood, a clumsy lurch causes me to lift myself up higher than I intended, I hear the shots before I’m hit 4 times, 3 in the chest and 1 in my already injured leg. Christ, no. I’ve been hit, I’m all fucking covered in yellow paint…

Being hit by a paint ball hurts, though it’s random, the ones that catch you on the side of the back sting like fuckery, I still have bruises from Saturday.

The day had begun early, I met Frank at 7am and we took the train to Chiswick where we were picked up by Sim and taken to a paintballing place near Slough to meet up with some friends, and, of course, the stag. There were other lads there too, borstal boys, all prison tats and shaved heads with a few of gangsta types thrown in for balance and it was with this crowd we would be spending the morning. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so conspicuously middle class in my life.

We were split into 2 random teams, the upshot being that I was expected to actually work with some of these yobbos, bizarrely once the masks are down you can’t tell who is who, one is either yellow or red and that’s that. There is obviously something deeply significant about this of course with regard to us as human beings and the nature of warfare perhaps… but I can’t be pissed to make a big deal out of it.

I found myself working well with these strangers, or friends, due to the camo gear and motocross masks I could only identify Frank and the stag (well he was wearing a pink tutu fairy wings and deely boppers) and that was it. In one game I even managed to capture the enemy flag while my crew kept me covered under fire, I even high fived someone, I don’t do high fives, I’m not a high fiver, it was ridiculously exciting -a bunch of thirtysomethings reduced to 8 year old boys playing war. By the time we left all of us were exhausted, sweating, filthy and grinning from, ear to ear, the yobbos and gangsters were now comrades, they all said goodbye as we exited the site.

Next stop was a waterpark so some if the chaps could indulge in wakeboarding. Frank and I sat this one out, my back had already had a jolly good workout and I didn’t fancy pushing it, I’m glad I didn’t too, it’s not great today. We spent a lazy afternoon by the water watching the remaining stag party going round and round, the stag was still sporting a pink tutu fairy wings and deely boppers…I took some shots of them on the water and smoked cigarettes in the hot afternoon sun.

We left at 5 to go back to London and were dropped in a bustling Camden to begin the evening’s entertainment. By now the eight strong group had bonded into a fully operational drinking machine, after a few in a pub we went to eat Tapas and drink Sangria, mountains of food was served and demolished in minutes, I don’t think any of us appreciated how hungry were. Another bar featured, this time outside on the street drinking Sol before a final few in The Underworld with the stag still grimly bearing his tattered pink tutu fairy wings and deely boppers. A smashing day closed and the tube rolled Frank and I back to south London in measured oblivion.

Last night I arrived in Hackney at 7 to meet IC; we hooked up with Swineshead and his missus to enjoy a few beers in the twilight. It seems that the whole of London has slipped easily into the clement weather; there is a palpable mood of contentment despite the city being governed by a fucking idiot. My journey back from Hackney this morning featured a sea of short-sleeved shirts and summer dresses, the suit seems to have been obliterated from society, it’s rather nice actually –long may it last.

rasslez

I managed to get some of the weekend instalment written before I went out on the razzle with Harry yesterday but I didn’t post the bastard thing to myself at work, subsequently the other of half of the weekend will be right here tomorrow.

I’d like to point out that I didn’t mean to go out and wind up drinking. I was already feeling delicate from Saturday, it was all worth it though.

At midday yesterday I woke up and ate half of the burger I’d made on Friday, I was probably chewing with my mouth open with my eyes virtually closed cradling my head in the other hand. After some writing and the washing of Saturday’s clothes (what was all mucky) I watched the Grand Prix, which was used as an aid to recovery before crawling out the flat and hitting the sunshine.

It took me a few minutes to get over how warm it was, being the clever fellow I am I’m rather adept at keeping my place cool using blind and open window combos that block direct light and ensure subsequent convection sucks the heat away from my fucking balls, so walking out into the heat of the afternoon was a little surprising.

At 4-ish, following a sodden bus and tube ride, I met up with Harry and we managed to find a spot on the roof terrace of a pub–this was probably our undoing. It was such a lovely spot with a splendid view over Clapham Common that to leave it would’ve been akin to plopping on the Jesus child.

Harry and I began to converse about everything and as the beer flowed the minutiae of life was probed and dissected with enthusiasm reserved only for those in our quite magnificent predicament. Presently our table became occupied with strangers and, subsequently, conversations were struck up providing an excuse to continue for longer than intended. I reasoned that because it was a Sunday, and that I usually don’t drink on the day of the cunting Sabbath, then it was my duty to imbibe. Before I left for home I wound up drinking a vodka expresso or something, I have to confess to feeling a bit muddled.

I do recall that when I arrived back I ate a crumpet. This I know to be true.

gig

It is done.

In advance I’d like to apologise for the late P today. I’m knackered and I have a hangover.

A few weeks ago some berk that occasionally uses this site to peddle his filthy wares correctly guessed that I was going to do some stand-up. Of course I denied all. I believe there was a wager in question to the tune of £10, or something, £10 he now owes me because I fobbed him off, and therefore won.

The venue was small; indeed, if it wasn’t from the generous support from my friends (I was actually rather touched that so many came and so many that couldn’t were so supportive) the audience would’ve been effectively halved. To be honest I was, initially, a bit disappointed by the turn out of strangers. My friends already know what a thumping great git I am and stood up in front them telling them stuff I wouldn’t even put on here wasn’t dong much to steady my pre gig nerves. Besides I know that a lot of them would’ve been feeling nervous by proxy and even if I’d come on like Bill Hicks may have been too stunned to react.

Urban Woo made an excellent MC, a task I would no more undertake than I would eat a Cornish pasty full of Tortoise turds and gelled all the acts into one seamless set as I paced up and down in the green room (I always wondered why it was thus named, I now know) trying to remember 9 minutes of material.

The other comics, 3 of which were pros and 4 of which weren’t, had all done this sort of thing before, some of them for years, and were rather surprised that this was my debut. The first guy on was bloody good, I wasn’t sure if this was a necessarily a good thing from my point of view so I decided to take myself off to the bar (I’d already had a couple of pints) to drink whisky and chain smoke. After a couple of other comics and what seemed like an age I was given a sparkling introduction and there I was.

The thing is, when you’re actually up there doing it it’s quite hard to get much of an idea of how it’s actually going, which sounds a odd –maybe it’s something that comes with practice, I was too busy trying to remember my set, a quarter of which I fortuitously forgot (I say ‘fortuitously’ because apparently the girl-kissing-after-sucking is very old hat) and ensure that I didn’t waffle my lines. Apart from when I’m blowing my wad I don’t think I’ve ever felt less like ‘me’. The adrenalin rush that I was expecting afterwards didn’t really happen; this may have had something to do with a sense of sheer confusion following coming off stage as I came back into myself.

According to friends, strangers and the other comics I went down very well. I was required to interrogate the opinions of all my friends to make sure they weren’t just being nice. There were 3 in particular that would’ve told me outright if they thought I was shit (my bro being one) and apparently, I wasn’t. Indeed, within minutes of getting off the stage I had other bookings.

I’m too knackered to write anymore, but like some dreadful curse I’ll be back Monday. Have nice weekends.

boris brown bastards

What a beautiful day.

Some cunt in government has decided that we’re throwing away £10 billion, much of it still in it’s packaging, of perfectly edible food per year. There is a solution, the government cunt explained this morning on BBC’s Today. We, that’s you and I, can prevent this by ‘perhaps eating it before the sell by date and, therefore, not throwing it away…’ Well fuck my old boots, I’d not thought of that… this can be the most unbelievably insulting utterance by a minister to it’s minions ever? Really, who the fuck do these people think we are?

This comes on the back of a ‘Labour’ u-turn on dope. Spurning the advice of all its scientific advisers and just about every possible aspect of common sense, democracy and ethics Smith has taken it onto her fat old arse to go ahead anyway. Fuck you all.

Surely all this shit must be in response to last week’s by-election? Labour have concluded that the electorate don’t think they’re being fascist or dictatorial enough, like what the Tory’s is, so they’re happily shitting on all their liberal policies and talking down to us as if we’re snotty-nosed retards –Boris bans booze on the bus, Brown bans beer in bars, it’s the ‘they send one of yours to the hospital, you send one of theirs to the morgue’ simplistic mentality of Hollywood (that was from the Untouchables btw). And it’s fucking shit. The Labour party has officially died; expect ‘wogs taking our jobs’ next week…

Last night was jolly. I walked to the tube in the quite oddly warm sunny evening and met IC at Clapham Common where upon we took ourselves to a public house in order to drink in the balmy climes. Shortly after we went back to the flat where we had a few more drinks and I showed her some footage shot by Jamie a few years back of me vomiting violently into a sink.

The day of reckoning is upon me, the unspeakable events I’ve been alluding to over the past few weeks have arrived. To be honest, and this could well do with me having a hangover of sorts, I don’t feel too bad as I type this.

Actually I do. Short Piqued today. There will be one tomorrow (assuming I’ve not succumb to some sort of fatality) but it may not be until the afternoon. But it may be on time as usual. Who knows? Or cares for that matter…

lacuont

I awoke this morning to the horrific tones of Norman Lamont, the ex Tory Chancellor of yesteryear. For those that don’t know of this cunt he was a 24 carat titurd with a wife who looked liked the underside of a cow pat, but with a blonde coiffure. In addition to being largely responsible for Black Wednesday he was embroiled in a typical Tory sex scandal by getting involved with a prostitute dubbed by the tabloids as Miss Whiplash. Just hearing his voice was akin to a screaming bummed-by-dad nightmare and I curled my toes until they were digging into the balls of my feet. To make matters worse it’s a fairly good indication that the Tories are back in vogue, this makes me feel sicker than a pike with gizzard cancer.

It’s a beautiful day, proper summertime weather, nature has shed itself of the immature pastels of spring, insects are beginning to lazily fizz into life and all is bright and sharp and outlined with clear cut blue, dammit all, it even smells like the summer.

Yesterday at work was lazy, in addition to it being warm inspiring dozy nothingness my mind was preoccupied by the thing that shall not speak its name (not buggery) and this particular facet of my existence is causing me a few of those mental wanderings, you know, when you’re doing something and your mind just gets completely drowned in itself and you just forg

Bloody Scarface. I didn’t go out last night, despite the sumptuous weather, and remained at home playing on the ps2. I’m stuck again, having to play the same bit over and over then failing at the last hurdle. I now remember why I was happy for the Playstation to gather dust the fucker.

It’s going to be a tough couple of days in the office due to the wotnot. The concern the gubbins trails in its wake isn’t linear, at times it’s okay, bearable even, but then it shifts itself into something more foul than Mrs Thatcher’s clout. Christ imagine that…

This is Ramones weather, a fine example of them in happier days. Only Tommy is alive now… Oh well, at least I got to see them a few years back even if you didn’t. Really, that’s all that counts.

curry brick

On Sunday night, that night being a bank holiday night, a rare night when one can get completely and utterly off their face, I mean cock-fighting drunk (which is where you fight your own cock) be sick on your chest out of it, wake up in cells, fucked and covered in blood… I abstained. Having said that I spent much of Friday and Saturday in a stupor.

Friday was one of the best, a classic piqued night in/out, beginning in the pub with Frank for a few that ultimately wound up with me lurching at piles of CD’s in the wee hours, headphones clamped round my red chortling face, eyes moist from being clobbered about the head with whatever rock-based delights tickled my fancy. Sensational.

I awoke on Saturday feeling surprisingly well; this was actually rather odd because I’d pushed the boat out until it reached Calais, frankly. Still, Saturday wasn’t exactly an energetic one. It was warm and sunny, I had to get to the shops to get my mum and my brothers missus cards and gifts and shit –it occurred to at the same time I might be able to pick up a new PS2 controller to play Scarface, as recommended by Swineshead… I lazily made my way through a flabby white-fleshed south London, rubbing shoulders with behemoth gold-hooped teen mothers, dodging fried chicken eating groups of livid youngsters, the prams of the former, the broken dreams of the latter before a near aneurysm in fucking Argos trying to order a game accessory.

I hate Argos, I hate the people that work there, the people that shop there, the huge catalogues with a million things, 999,999 of which you don’t want and the little blue pens required to note the gargantuan item number after it’s been located from plastic encapsulated pages, the way said number appears on that fucking screen and hovers about before a cheery computerised female voice calls you to stand waiting for one of the dead-eyed gum-chewing shop assistants to flatly ignore you as one hops from one foot to the other, thrusting forward a curled white ticket as your item sits giggling out of reach on the sparsely occupied shelving behind them. But when you’re finally served, the moment the ticket stamp clicks over the receipt and the precious object of desire is placed in ones hand, the empiric sense of victory is overwhelming. Item purchased! I skip out loving the world.

The rest of the afternoon was written off on the game, I only stopped playing because I had an appointment in the local with Harry, Frank and his missus with guest appearance by James. We sat in the beer garden as the evening gave way to dusk then nightime chatting away and drinking steadily. James and Henry and I took ourselves off for a curry (perfectly ordered this time, just the right amount of food and heat) and afterwards James came back to my flat for a final can and speechless laughter before offing himself into the cool night air. For the second time in a row the headphones found their way round my brain, I think I went to bed at 4?

Sunday lunchtime, I’m dressed head to toe in black leather boarding the black bitch to ride to my folks. It was the first hot fast day of the year, the bike was as happy as I and we shot out of London. Possessed.

I arrived in time for lunch, the rest of the family were already there, my bro and his missus, my sister and bro-in-law, niece (now sort of talking) and parents. We ate fisherman’s pie amid the usually clatter of conversation and wise cracks, gifts were exchanged, photos of the Christening passed around (save the one of me and my bro stood in front of the alter pulling devils horns –not one for the folks that) and spent the afternoon nattering and playing with my niece who was in a most congenial frame of mind.

I arrived home by 5 following some hero antics on the bitch and I got back into the game almost as soon as my helmet was off. Apart from the odd break to catch snatches of movies on the TV, Spiderman 2, Desperado, the evening was given over to fucking Scarface, no drinking, the odd spliff and Scarface, Scarface until 3am if you please. Scarface.

My clear head on Sunday was in stark contrast to the previous 2 days, I had some tea, washed some clothes, shat and showered and headed off to the tube at midday to meet up with Harry and Frank and arrived on Brick Lane an hour later.

The Bank Holiday atmosphere and warm sunny weather created a lovely atmosphere, the trendy scruffs, piss pots and knowing artytypes mingled with purveyors and staff of some of the countries finest curry houses. We moved up to the Vibe Bar and were joined by Den, Ray their 3 year old who is a streak of delight and O, fresh back from Afghanistan –if I say any more on this matter I’ll have to kill you, and he’ll do your family- where we all sat outside sipping cold beer and engaged in deep and meaningfuls, well, a lighter version of.

Following this we took a walk to the Lahore Kebeb House, reputed to be one of the finest curry houses in the UK and completely pigged out. I’ve not eaten that much meat in a month but for the fucking life of me I can’t recall anything that tasted as good –disgraceful as it may be (I was a veggie for a decade so eating meat still comes with that twinge of shame, like smashing a prostitute over the head with a hammer, you enjoy it at the time but after can’t help feeling just that little bit remorseful) it was wholly worth it and as the restaurant is Muslim-owned and doesn’t hold a licence it was remarkably cheap.

We waddled back to Brick Lane were we resumed drinking in the late afternoon, friends melted away leaving Henry, O and I to enjoy the melee outside The Big Chill Bar, or something, heaving with cunts it was, still happily drinking away. Early in the evening we were joined by IC fresh from a weekend in Italy and we had a few more before the latter and I popped off to Hackney.

It’s another gorgeous day actually, warmer than the last and I really don’t thank the powers that be for making me have to work. In fact I blame fucking Boris…

tory hell

Sorry this is late, the reasons, that I’m not going to expand upon, are infuriating.

My heart is heavy, the fucking Tories are making a comeback –this doesn’t fare well for the London Mayor elections, the unthinkable could become a reality. And I know why.

It’s the young reactionary tits under 30, they’ve no recollection of British life under Thatcher, the blue rinsed slattern that ruined so many lives, mine included, with her money begets money policies and anti union fist. The tories have been recruiting hard in this sector and as the rest of us have been gently sighing at new Labour and Ken, lazily accepting our lot (because it’s shit but not disastrous) the fucking tories have been aggressively touting for business, they’ve no policy, no experience of modern government and their leader is doughboy-faced upper class twit of the highest order. In fact all we really know about them is that they’re right wing cunts…

Last night was amusing, a book launch took place on Clerkenwell Green, ‘Green’ being a bit misleading, its a green in its heart only, the place is a slab of concrete with some houses round it, which was themed as a sort of medieval Mayday with a hog roast, jesters and traditional Morris dancers. Whilst highly entertaining this didn’t go down well with some of the more cynical guests, as the performers began spinning yarns and dancing cries of ‘this is shit’ and ‘fucking crusty cunts’ echoed round the small square and a few instantly departed to the nearest boozer.

Prior to this, chatting to an old friend, his ex-girlfriend appeared with her new boyfriend. My friend, a little worse for wear, screamed ‘usurper!’ at the confused looking steak of piss, ‘’ere’, he continued, unaware of his friends moving away looking vaguely horrified, ‘I hope you got something better for your fucking birthday than I fucking did, I got a foot soak for my feet, a fucking foot soak, she said I’ve smelly fucking feet…’he pointed at her embarrassed face stumbled backwards, steadied himself then lunged forward and attempted to grab his exes arse. I was stood there holding my pint giggling like the village idiot, pure entertainment and decidedly more interesting than the hippies with bells and mandolins.

My weekend was briefly looking very different to the one I’m faced with. I shall say no more, no more… but it’s all looking good, no Piqued on Monday as it’s a bank holiday but doubtless reams of crap will be available on Tuesday morning…

Next, the foul Friday list, some Bill and a Piqued desire for you all to enjoy the bank holiday weekend.

I wonder if anyone has been looking for pictures of Carol Voderm…. oh

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Ken

One thing I don’t get, motorcycles horns. The regular reader of this tripe will know that I’m a privileged owner of a snarling fucking beast that looks as good as it goes, bit like my mum. So why, then, when using my horn in anger does it sound like one of those whiney farts one extrudes when one is backed up with yesterdays breakfast?

Take this morning for instance, when riding in some right wing yobbo (I know of his political persuasion because he was driving a Rover and despite the time of the day was togged up in a Chelsea football shirt allowing the world to witness his revolting Bulldog tattoo simpering on his forearm, which was as thick as my leg, rather like this fellow I concluded) just before he pulled out on me as I was passing him by.

I leant on my horn which squeaked into life causing this herbert to actually fucking smirk. Humiliated, frankly, I braked and let him carry out his preposterous manoeuvre and slotted behind him. I revved my engine and he looked in his rear view mirror.

Then he gave me the finger.

Quick calculations followed, we were travelling at about 20 mph, the road was clear in the opposite direction, there was one car in front of him about to turn left at the apex of a left hander, I pulled out from behind his car, accelerated hard past his retarded vehicle and in doing so kicked the cunts wing mirror off, shot in front the car about to turn left (thereby concealing my registration) and disappeared up the road like black streak of death before he’d even have had a chance to inhale to scream. Great stuff.

I had an appalling day in the office yesterday, business was virtually non-existent and co-workers were hell bent on aggravating me. In addition the weather was beyond contempt, it was colder than Hitler’s heart and wetter than a squids bum. On my journey both to and from work it rained with such intensity that my waterproof trousers fucking gave out causing my scrote to moisten. I was glad to get home I can tell you. Yes.

In the evening I wandered up to my local in order to meet a friend for a couple of pints, we returned back to my gaff in order to eat sushi and drink wines. A delightful evening passed in front of youtube, The Apprentice was spurned but doubtless a review will have already appeared on WWM (link right)…

Right, it’s the London elections today. Vote for Ken’s for fucks sake, I know he’s not perfect but he’s head a shoulders over the competition, in particular that blonde bastard Boris. Don’t be fooled by his charming bumbling bimbling buffoon act, inside is a hard right wing fuck face with delusions of his intelligence.

Can’t believe this is on youtube… (bear with it)

bloody rude

It’s not really in my character to be overtly rude to someone, obviously if there is justification, a motorist trying to run me off the road, an angry gentleman mucking about in the street, then I may take appropriate action. But last night on the tube, whilst stealing the northern line map that runs across the top of the car, some bloke was staring at me all funny like.

As I rolled the map up and popped it in my bag I turned to this chap and said, ‘what you fucking staring at’ much to my surprise, as, indeed, was the recipient of this loutish behaviour. ‘Nothing’ he said meekly. I felt like a right cunt all the way home I can tell you. (the map, by the way, was hastily mounted after midnight on the wall by the stairs, I saw it this morning, it looks fucking shit)

I’ve no idea what inspired this hooliganism. It may well as a result of being thrown out of The Intrepid Fox by a furious member of the bar staff during drink up time. I’d like to point out that both myself and Urbanwoo (link right) merely needed to micturate before we went home and the staff had called last orders and immediately hit the bog lights. I insisted that they turned them back on, which they did, but as we left a group of punters were rowing with the staff and we were ordered to leave before being subject to a tirade of abuse.

Previously Louche (link right) Uw and I had met up in a boozer on Dean Street to discuss a project of sorts, all was going swimmingly until the place became full of footballs and people that like it and things, so we left to pound the streets until arriving at The Crowbar, a heavy metal bar of some note, though long past it’s heyday, and swigged Speckled Hen from bottles. Here we laughed at the world, we three are involved in a similar activity which requires support from those I the know, something impossible to grasp if you’re not. In time this obscurity will have its veil lifted allowing you all to pique…

It was a splendid evening and certainly made up for a bland disappointing day in the office. Business is slow and I have to say, it’s making me a bit nervous. Notwithstanding, my week continues to be choc full o’ engagements, I’m fully booked until next week one way and another which isn’t good for finances or internals organs but, well, as Uw said last night, one is a long time dead.

IMPORTANT.

HAPPY TO HAVE PEOPLE POST IN HERE BUT PLEASE REMEMBER, WE DON’T DO REAL NAMES

boknaymes

I noticed that Gei Halliwell has ‘written’ a children’s book (if you are of a nervous disposition you may wish to do something else, I noticed the news item yesterday and to avoid biting the side of my desk and smashing the phone over the back of my head until my teeth were off, I hit a zone of zen like calm that has now permitted me to deal with this matter on an adult and mature basis).

So. Ms Halliwell’s book, the one she’s written, is a children’s bok, I mean ‘book’ and it’s called (deep breath, ready? Fucking hell..)

Ugenia Lavender

Hang on

Right, sorry, just had to pop to the loo

Phew, right. In addition to this the 34 year old vacuous cunt ex Spice Girls has signed a SIX BOOK DEAL……………………

In other news for fucks sake, I’m not hungover, my sideboards are completely ridiculous, but I’m keeping them, and last night was… A SIX BOOK DEAL, SIX, SIX SIX… Lavendar Bluebell Peaches Trixibell Apple (Apple??? APPLE!!!!!!!!!!)… Jordan and her husband, former pop star Peter Andre, have named their baby daughter Princess Tiaamii. Tiaamii - pronounced tee-ah-me - is taken from the names of Andre’s mother Thea and Jordan’s mother Amy. Jordan explained to OK! magazine: “Her name is Princess Tiaamii. Princess because she is our princess and Tiaamii was Pete’s idea because it’s taken from our mums’ names. “We love it because it’s unique, plus it means something special to us. I’m going to get a tattoo on the back of my neck with a crown and ‘Princess’ underneath.”

uHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Aanisah: Macy Gray (also mother to Tahmel). Astrella Celeste: Donovan and Linda Lawrence (also parents to Oriole Nebula). Atherton Grace: Don Johnson and Kelley Phleger. Audio Science: Shannyn Sossamon. Aurelius Cy: Elle Macpherson and Arpad Busson. Blue Angel: U2’s The Edge and Aislinn O’Sullivan. Calico: Alice and Sheryl Cooper (also parents to Sonora Rose). Camera: Arthur Ashe and Jeanne Moutoussamy. Diezel Ky: Toni Braxton and Keri Lewis (also parents to Denim Cole). Fuchsia: Sting and Frances Tomelty. Gaia: Emma Thompson and Greg Wise. Gulliver: Gary Oldman and Donya Fiorentino. Heaven: Lil’ Mo (also mother to God’Iss Love Stone). Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily: Paula Yates and Michael Hutchence. Hopper: Sean Penn and Robin Wright. Ireland: Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger. Jaz: Steffi Graf and Andre Agassi. Jermajesty: Jermaine Jackson and Alejandra Genevieve Oaziaza (previously married to Jermaine’s brother Randy). Kal-El Coppola: Nicholas Cage (Kal-El is Superman’s original birth name). Kyd: David Duchovny and Tea Leoni. Lark Song: Mia Farrow and André Previn. Lennon: Liam Gallagher and Patsy Kensit. Liberty: Ryan Giggs. London Emilio: Slash. Luna Coco Patricia: Frank Lampard and Elen Rive. Marquise: 50 Cent. Memphis Eve: Bono. Moxie CrimeFighter: Penn Jillette (also father to Zolten). Ocean: Forest Whitaker (also father to Sonnet and True). Pilot Inspektor: Jason Lee and Beth Riesgraf. Rocket: Robert Rodriguez (also father to Racer, Rebel and Rogue). Rufus Tiger: Roger Taylor also father to Tiger Lily and Lola Daisy. Saffron Sahara: Simon and Yasmin Le Bon (also parents to Amber Rose and Tallulah Pine). Sage Moonblood: Sylvester Stallone and Sasha Czack (also parents to Seargeoh). Satchel: Spike Lee and Tonya Lewis Lee. Seven Sirius: Andre Benjamin and Erykah Badu. Shiloh Nouvel: Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Suri: Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. Tallulah: Bruce Willis and Demi Moore (also parents to Scout and Rumer). Willow Camille Reign: Will Smith and Jada Pinkett-Smith. Zola Ivy: Eddie Murphy and Nicole Mitchell

east of orange

On Friday, that’s Friday, the day of inebriation by anyone’s standards, I didn’t drink. Not a drop, nada. Zip. Instead I watched The Darjeeling Limited which, oddly, I’ve enjoyed more in hindsight than I did at the time, before reading voraciously and going to bed, all sober and straight. And shit.

Saturday I awoke, completely free of any malaise and set off in the warm sunshine in my white van for perhaps the last time to see Myfwt and load a bunch of her furniture into the gaping maw of the white and dropped her off at her sisters gaff where it was unloaded. This task was rewarded by a pub lunch with my brother, sat by the river we had a couple of pints and a burger and nattered about stuff as nature buzzed lazily about us and bits of tree landed in our beer and hair –it was lovely. We walked back in tee shirts and got thoroughly stoned on our return, a bit too stoned for comfort. After he wandered off looking all the worse for the charis I installed my new Orange Livebox which promised to delivery super speed broadband, it’s marginally faster than my old modem, the Orange cunts have sold me a fucking monkey.

I met up with Frank early evening and we trundled into town to meet an old mate who is due to be married shortly, having a pass out he was rather keen to fulfil drinking duties but Frank and I weren’t really in the mood, initially. After a few in a West End boozer, quite a few, we were there until last orders, Frank left us so Rob and I wandered into some dreadful nightclub populated by teenage cunts listening to the most disgusting music imaginable. By now a bit pissed Rob and I spent a good hour being thoroughly unpleasant about all and sundry sipping buckets of gin and tonic, I believe on one occasion we sarcastically danced, it’s all rather vague.

I managed to catch the last tube home and somehow returned home with some shopping I’ve utterly no recollection of purchasing, the evening ended at some point because I woke in up bed on Sunday morning dying of a bastard in my head. I ate some kippers with tea and toast and watched the start of the Grand Prix and following a horrific incident with Kovalainen hitting a tyre wall head on at 150mph and being briefly convinced I’d witnessed a fatal (he’s got concussion, that’s it) I headed of to the Eastend to visit a friend at a gallery near Brick Lane.

When I alighted at Whitechapel I was greeted with a very peculiar scene close to The Blind Beggar where George Cornell got his comeuppance. Rolling around in the gutter were a bundle of limbs and yelling heads, most notably a single arm was repeatedly pile driving a fist into the centre of this screaming creature. Convinced I was watching a stabbing I stood stock-still and watched, it’s not the sort of thing one sees on a daily basis, I surmised. I was intrigued by the outcome.

What I wasn’t expecting were that there were two protagonists; both female and the other bodies involved in the disruption were men preventing any further violence. This was easier said than done. The women were very cross with each other, and the language dear reader, well I shall spare you but it was jolly course, ‘come here you such and such, I’m going to kick you in the wotnot, you’re a prostitute (or words implying such amoral business) you is going down, you is’ They were both spitting and snarling and as soon as the incident seemed to calm, off they went again, pulling hair, biting and properly punching the fuck out of each other. I stood there with a fucking huge stonk-on, watching, just watching…

The gallery was shut (the website said it would be open) so unfortunately we wound up in an Eastend boozer for the remainder of the afternoon. The Eastend is very different to sarf London, whilst I am familiar with the latter, despite fighting crack whores, the Eastend does have a very pleasant edge to it, it seems much more inspired, the place is populated by some genuinely odd characters but the young hip types give it a most congenial edge.

Finally, I couldn’t finish today’s Piqued without a quick mention of Humphrey Littleton. On Friday a national treasure shuffled off this mortal coil and the world will be a poorer place without him. In addition to being a superlative jazz trumpeter he was possibly one of the funniest men to have breathed. I will miss him.

cormack addiction

Cormack McCarthy has completely revolutionised my travelling on the tube. A few years ago tube travel was beyond me, my claustrophobia and tendency to throw random screaming panic attacks prevented me from even contemplating putting myself in such an environment. Due to sheer necessity and some helpful guidance from Frank I slowly learned to deal with it, even overcoming being stuck in a tunnel for 5 desperate minutes where I was convinced I was going to completely lose control of my faculties, this included having to prevent myself from fucking the bloke next to me just to take my mind off my own mortality. And I don’t even do cock.

These days I bound down the escalator and stand mustard-keen on the platform and wait, book in hand, for my carriage to rattle out of the smoky dark and arrive at the very spot -first car, last seat on the left- that allows me to walk on in one step and seat myself in a second. In a flash the book is on and I’m right there, no longer on the tube but way yonder watching a foreign sky, alien plains waiting for death in every shadow. I know I have a solid chunk of 25 minutes to remain in this state, I don’t notice the stations, the travellers, noise or smell, I’m locked far away. Twice in the last month I’ve missed my stop due to being completely absorbed.

Once I had alighted from the tube at Leicester Square, the book drifting out of my being as I ascended into the warm sunshine, I met up with Frank in the pub off Seven Dials and began drinking in earnest, Harry joined us, then Den, who’d managed to get to the bar without noticing us and was waiting outside for us to show up, and finally Liam. The conversation in hand revolved largely about the thing that I’m unable to discuss on here for the present, without wishing to go into detail I’m fortunate to have such sympathetic friends and I drank with a refreshed combination of inspiration and raw fear.

Harry who’d just returned from Berlin needed to grab a cab back to South London as he’d a pile of luggage, I joined him for the ride. By now I was a little fucked and can’t remember too much, I was home and in bed before 1am, of that I’m sure, having failed to eat.

The weekend is shaping up well; swathes have been delegated for social exchange and areas left blank in order to write. My movements tonight are uncertain, I may even stick at home for once, who knows.

After the edited Friday list a tune from Jane’s Addiction. I leave you with my best wishes and a genuine desire for you to have splendid weekends.

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green worry

The matter that’s causing me some concern, the sleepless nights fellow, the terror of which I’ve mentioned recently? That? Well it now has teeth and a face in the form of a time and place, in just under a few weeks the ordeal will be over, post-ordeal seems an impossible place from here.

In addition to being fucking irritating being all cryptic and what have you, this may have an effect of Piqued, if posts are a little short for the near future you’ll know why.

But life goes on yeah, after getting home I rammed my face hole with the second half of the fisherman’s pie I made the previous evening. As with most pie related things, they’re often tweaked by their cooking and having been left to cool and chill (I mean ‘chill’ as in fridge ‘chill’ I don’t mean fucking ‘chill’ as in ‘pill’ and I resent having to include this caveat into today’s post because this country is chock full o’ cunts) and last nights sensational offing was no exception.

Tube to Clapham, bus to Battersea. I caught the fucker just in time and passed the vast expanse of Clapham Common, viewed from the top deck, as dusk gathered. Little groups of people were engaging in torpid exercise or were gathered in some sort of post activity de-brief, it was a lovely evening and my enquiring mind recalled the last abstruse dark lines of Blakes ‘Echoing Green’ “And sport no more seen, on the darkening green” with a fucking stiffie.

I alighted at Battersea and walked the high Street to the pub and met up with my cousins, one a photographer of some note and the other a doctor… well, of some note too, we were joined by the doctor’s charming wife and my bro and we caught up. My Dr. Cousin had injured his arm and was self prescribing some tranquillisers and drinking, my photographer cousin was blasted on Guinness, it’s jolly nice to know that this whole ‘getting out of your head thing’ isn’t just my peccadillo when it comes to the family, I have support. Oh, do remember, most doctors DO smoke.

My bro and I took the bus back after loudly relieving ourselves in a public street like a pair of a fan of the footballs and we went our separate ways. I was home by midnight with just enough left to endure a taped Apprentice which made me do at least one good laugh despite my intrusive imaginings of how I’d like to despatch the West Country Matt Lucas Look-alike, at this moment in time I hate him more than all the atrocities ever committed by man on his fellow man/woman/child in the history of human existence –fuck my Congo moan earlier this week, give me him bound and gagged and an lazy Sunday afternoon…

I never really got on with this lot in terms of ‘Metal’ but this bastard song has been going round my head, here, catch…

georges beard

It all fell off, nothing to do with me. I wasn’t even pissed either. The trim turned into an hour long series of ‘you sure?’ dashing twixt lounge and bathroom, on each visit a little more of my beard was shorn, every time I returned to my armchair I wasn’t convinced it was right so in a moment of sheer wilfulness I shaved the fucking lot off leaving only a magnificent pair of furious Georgian sideboards that run under my jaw –all I need now is a winged collar and syphilis.

The worst aspect of this temporary hirsute-holocaust, in addition to looking like a huge Murray Mint, is that I can feel air. It’s like having a piss outdoors when the wind suddenly licks around ones member and it feels inordinately cold because it’s an unfamiliar state of affairs purely because one doesn’t walk about in the great outdoors with ones cock exposed to the elements, not on St. Georges Day anyway (we’ll come back to him). My face has become sensitive like a vast helmet (as in ‘cock end’, not ‘crash’) if someone calls across the road I can feel their breath on my shorn skin, every pore of my face is aroused by the mildest whiff of a waft, perhaps from under a door, or the tiny beating wing of a yellowhammer, yonder, under the gathering storm clouds of complacency, yeah.

The weather yesterday was the first warm day we’ve had in this country since that odd day at the end of the British Superbike season last October. Of course as soon as there is so much as a hint of heat every fat white underclass wanker in Christendom strips down to their fucking pants and takes it on themselves to wander, slowly, through public places. Tooting yesterday looked like a chessboard, burkha vs. blubber.

Doubtless these flabby tosspots are the same types that bedeck their grotty houses with the cross of St. George, or ‘I am a racist’ flags. (Some) people moan on and fucking on about how we should celebrate St George’s day like the Irish do St. Patrick’s and what have you, but it would be impossible to do this without the whole fucking thing being completely overtaken by bullet headed men getting completely inebriated before singing ‘send the buggers back’ and beating the fucking shit out of each other and whomsoever happened to pass by.

Because it’s very hard to separate the St.Georges Cross with right-wing thuggery, for the time being at least, we’ll just have to accept that we’re not mature enough to have national St Georges Day celebrations, yet…

But there is a solution, a way to claim back the St. George flag for all the decent tolerant English citizens, of which I’m one.

Marketing.

St. George was a Greek speaking Turk, he’s also the patron saint Aragon, Canada, Catalonia, China, Ethiopia, Georgia, Greece, Montenegro, Palestine, Portugal, Russia, and Serbia. Lets tell all those flag waving cunts who crawl out their tax-paid for houses to moan in Ladbrokes, MacDonalds, Weatherspoons etc., about immigration, how it’s their English right to indulge in all-day St. George inspired piss-ups, that their patron saint was a wog… Then the rest of us can enjoy a nice day off with moral impunity.

My ex girlfriend who was Japanese thought this was our national anthem, if only.

packed owt

For the first time in weeks I was able to see a cured Myfwt. She popped over at dusk and we ate, watched a splendid programme on medieval cathedrals and got a little pissed on Pinot Noir, her commitment to quit the fags went out of the window and we had a jolly old night. This morning I’m vaguely hungover, the flat smells like it’s been used as a doss house for navvies and I’m here in the bloody office wondering if I can sleep under the desk for an hour without anyone noticing.

I woke up to the most awful thing on the Radio, Myfwt had already left so I was left to shudder alone hearing the most dreadful acts of horror I can recall since I saw my dads winkle when I was 5. It was to do with what they do to women in the Congo, actually, go here http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/today/ and download ‘Thompson in the Congo’ and check out how they treat their women folk, it puts a certain degree of perspective on ones day to day life and in addition to my passing malaise I’m still vibrating from recently acquired knowledge that I’m finding awkward to shift, like a petulant poo. It’s fucking unbelievable, frankly.

My schedule has tightened again; I’m finding it hard to see a clear path to June without a single day spare. Also, the thing I was worrying about last week, the cryptic thing of which I cannot speak? That? Well there has been some sort of confirmation as to its occurrence, so in addition to feeling hungover and disturbed my guts are simmering with fear. All will be revealed in a few weeks so until then I’ll be forced to allude to this auspicious aspect of my existence from time to time.

This evening I’m due to meet up with my brother at the Clapham hostelry with his mate Al, I don’t foresee a big one as I need to keep the boozing under par, this week I’ve many engagements and if I want to survive the summer, I’ll need to be careful now.

Little ditty today from Stiff Little Fingers, best thing to come out of Northern Island since my granny, with some hilarious footage of the troubles. Just found out they’re playing as part of the Meltdown Festival, in addition to Ministry, Dead Kennedys (the following day) looks like I’ll have to chalk that up as well, it’s a tough life, I just hope my liver can keep up.

harkney

Friday’s social engagement was rather off the cuff -if you’ll pardon potential puns that have utterly no bearing on what I did on said day. I digress, I’d not planned on travelling to visit Swineshead and his missus in Hackney but when the invitation appeared out of the blue I accepted.

This involved a journey by bus and tube after work which took almost an hour and a half, but being accompanied by a jolly good book I didn’t mind, frankly. I met SH when I alighted the bendy bastard bus I was crammed into just as night fell, we grabbed some beers and returned to his flat where we joined shortly by two more friends and there I remained virtually until the morning. We spent a pleasant evening nattering and listening to some music (oh, and drinking and doing fucking drugs yeah) and I think I managed to behave myself. It had been agreed at about 11pm that I would be cabbing home, SH kindly offered to pay half my fair and serendipity occurred.

I was after 3am when I got into the cab. London was asleep and we travelled from one side of it to the other, despite there being virtually any traffic the journey took an hour or so. But I couldn’t have cared less; it was wonderful. The buildings passing by oscillated between a single line of motion before suddenly flashing into two permanent hypnotic parallels punctuated only by the dazzling steel and glass monuments of the city and a breathtaking crawl over Tower Bridge which is as invigorating a feeling as standing looking over rolling green country. Apart from when I said ‘goodnight’ to the cabbie this was the only moment we spoke, each of us said ‘beautiful’ before we roared through a deserted South London and home to bed. Fucked.

Despite the quantity of intoxicants I was all right on Saturday afternoon, which is when I resurrected. I ate a kipper and made my way to B&Q to procure a large picture frame for the poster of the movie ‘On Any Sunday’ which I can see from here. It’s Sunday afternoon incidentally… (it was a fucking devil to frame) and made my way to bloody Sainsbury to grab some shopping, it was an arduous hour, I really wasn’t in the mood and I couldn’t find the shit I wanted.

In the evening Jamie came over and we went directly to the pub. Unfortunately Jamie wasn’t feeling 100% (I suspect he’s acquired a version of the bug that turned me into a puke geyser a few weeks back) and this malaise wasn’t helped by the fact the pub was rammed to the gills with barking south Africans and some wanker and a keyboard playing Bingo Hall tunes causing the south Africans to shriek along. It was like the apocalypse; Jamie and I could barely communicate over the fucking din so after a modest 3 pints we left them to it and fucked off home.

As we passed by Jamie’s van he remembered he’d brought my bass from back his home and we took it upstairs. Whilst the bass was as gorgeous as usual the case had acquired a rather nasty musty mouldy niff, noticing my undulating nostrils and sour visage Jamie mentioned that ‘something was dead under his shed’ just before he flaked out on the couch. Shortly after James, by now recovered from showering my gaff in sweetcorn, tripe and carrots last week, popped by for a cup of tea and to show off his new pimp mobile, the thug. We three, well two and a half, watched Taxidermia which probably didn’t do much for Jamie’s constitution despite it being responsible for much belly laughing.

After James went I too crashed out and awoke mid morning with a headache noticing the flat reeked like something had died and melted on a radiator. Jamie, looking frail, took himself off home and in my sorry state I managed to put the bass case into the loft (which resulted in more loft based shenanigans, really, it’s all fucking rock and roll at my gaff) clean the flat (devils horns) nip out for an Observer (mosh pit) and prepare bacon and eggs for breakfast (choke on my own vomit). After a good old fat shit I was feeling human again, I lolled in front of Scraphead Challenge before reading, writing and doing some of this crap.

Toward to end of the afternoon I prepared a roast, spuds, chicken breast, broccoli what have you, making a splendid gravy from the skin on the tits. Needless to say I ate without the accompaniment of booze, a day off for me. I’m (more) sensible these days when it comes to such things. Anyway, it was fucking lovely, a sensation.

Feeling drowsy Sunday evening was spent in front of the TV and under the cover of broadsheets. I intended an early night because today is Monday, for fucks sakes, it’s always Monday these days, but instead I finished off The Road (Cormack McCarthy) and hit the lights way after 1am. Oops.

Hi.

mr fox

Last night I met up with my mate, the one I was convinced had carked it some 5 years ago, in the Fox in town. We found a spot and stayed there all night, from day to dusk to night, catching up. The place swelled about us and we talked about the missing years and caught up. We left pissed and grabbed the tube. Bizarrely two of the girls in The Fox, not the usual fare of Suicide Girl-esque tats and tits type, were in the carriage in front and we had a conversation through the open window as the train roared through the pitch black of London rock, I cannot recall a word of the conversation but I remember that, after saying goodbye to my mate, he got off and as the train pulled away from the station he was running next to the carriage knocking on the window pointing down and crying ‘my bag, next stop!’

I alighted at Kennington aware that I was stumbling drunk and took a piss in the street. This state is purely down, ironically, to my having cut right back on my boozing, I just wasn’t used to 5 pints of lager. I called Myfwt who is still convalescing with Chicken Pox and received a message from my mate who was waiting for me, and his bag, at the next station. After a bunch of shit with lifts and platforms and what have you I ascended the stairs at Waterloo to a very anxious mate, 5 mins from his last train, and gave him back his bag. Needless to say he was rather chuffed.

The tube journey home passed in a flash, I sort of remember getting in and crashing onto my bed. I’d not eaten a bloody thing.

Mercifully it’s Friday, the office is strangely deserted and I have a few plans for the weekend to come. Tonight is clear though, I’m rather grateful for this because I’m not feeling Top of The Pops due to a mild hangover. I’m still surprised how such a relatively small quantity of booze has effected the day after. It makes me wonder how I was coping before when I was drinking more than, well, that.

I noticed that 40,000 US cunts have turned up to watch the fucking pope goosestep. Spurning the whole US policy of killing as many Arabs as possible I was slightly pleased to see that he is actually facing up to the (albeit easier) issue of sexual abuse of children in The Catholic community. All his has to do is look gormless and say ‘I’m sorry’ but he has at least acknowledged that his unpleasant religion is one of perverted lasciviousness, so it’s a good start. Nice pope.

Following the now almost non existent Friday list due to so many revolting Catholic-type peds/pervs out there I’ve something special, while the Dead Kenneyds sessions may be over (for the while) here is them playing live back in the day, the last song is as close as they got to a ballad, it’s dead pretty.

It remains for me to wish you all pleasant weekends, with the exception of those that arrive on here looking for images that, by rights, should instantly result in their being blinded, castrated and erected on a fucking pole.

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