Monthly Archives: February 2007


I fucking hate banks, I spent over half an hour in one yesterday lunchtime trying to transfer money into my brother’s account. They wouldn’t do it over the phone and I was told that in order to complete the transaction I had to bring along my passport, a utility bill, driving licence, birth certificate, medical records, last bowel movement, plaster cast of my dads cock…It took fucking half an hour and I had to pay £24 for the pleasure of shifting MY fucking hard earned from one place to another. Wankers.

Following this rather unpleasant experience, I had to attend a meeting in the afternoon with a fucking huge music organisation, as I work for another fucking huge music organisation these things happen from time to time. I was meeting primarily to supply confidential information to the client, information that they really, really wanted, which isn’t too bad a job I suppose…

The only downside is that at some point certain costs need to negotiated and it’s from here I turn from the witty congenial fellow you all know and love, into a (perceived) hard nosed bullshitting high-roller who’d film himself pooing into Ronnie Barkers dead mouth if he thought it would earn him an extra couple of quid. Truth is I hate negotiating, if I like the client I’ll make the best offer I can even if I’m losing money in the process. Of course I’m still viewed as if I shot Jill Dando and fiddled with her mimsy before running off. You can’t win. I hate my job.

By means of cleansing myself from the false encounter of meeting a client, a plastic relationship if ever there was one, I took myself off to an exhibition. I was aware that the Hunter S Thompson collection of photographs at The Michael Hoppen gallery was due to close in a couple of weeks and had promised myself to go. Unfortunately the opening hours meant I’d have to take a day off, but by arranging my meeting mid afternoon and telling my colleagues I wouldn’t be back, I knew I could easily make it to the meeting, the gallery and be home at the usual time.

Despite having to motorcycle there in the pissing rain and not being entirely sure of the exact exit off the King’s Road, I eventually arrived at the venue after screaming for directions from the crevice in my visor. Though few, the photographs were sensational, if you don’t know who Dr. Thompson is, or rather, was, you’re obviously a cunt, but you’re forgiven for not knowing that he was a superb photographer…I felt sated on leaving and despite having to bike back in a really heavy pissing rain –and the lack of engine braking mentioned a few blogs back- I arrived home in excellent spirits.

I changed out of my sopping motorcycle gear (though I was as dry as a bone) and prepared myself to meet my mate from up the road in the pub. A jolly time we had too, despite his reminding me of a short story I was supposed to have completed, I toddled off home feeling refreshed and still enjoying the afterglow of the days various gains even if some were resolved by attrition.

Later in the evening, pondering on the Thompson exhibition with a bottle of wine and a spliff in my drawing room if you fucking please, I turned my mind toward the short story proposed by my mate. And fuck my old boots, within a minute the whole cunting thing spewed forth and it was done.

It now requires it to be physically written of course but, dear reader, is that not the fun part?

(the answer is ‘yes’ by the way)

Tonight, drinking with Swineshead, linked to the right of this page. I hope he doesn’t do what he did last time as it was disgraceful.


I have somewhat of a hangover, not a big one, an irritant. The blame lies squarely at the feet of a combination of Pinter, Music on TV and an oddity. Chuck in an extra few glasses on the basis I’m missing my brother and… I have a hangover.

When I left the office yesterday evening I cycled home with the bloke I’d arrived with. He followed me down the hill, expressing concern when we overtook slow moving traffic, and joined me when we peddled down the towpath by the small river. The weather was mild for a late February afternoon and bright, on the verge of being sunny, even. As we continued on to duck under the pretty railway bridge it occurred to me that the last time I’d cycled with anyone in a similar fashion was returning from school with my friend at 15. When I contemplated this fact it rather freaked me. I think it was because I was aware of existing in a moment of nostalgia that appeared real. For a split second I was actually 15, un-projected.

This gentle realisation underpinned the rest of the evening, it didn’t inspire melancholy nor was I irritated by a fragment of hindsight, it was, I suppose, one of those timescale quirks. Death-affirmation. Anyway, after a fine wank and bath I stuffed my maw with grub and had a long lazy shit.

With my bottle of wine and grass-packed spliff I watched Pinter’s Conversation which I enjoyed muchly, despite being highly critical of aspects of the script, acting, and the dreadful mockney accents that seem to plague his works, it was well worth it. I even taped all the luvvie crap that followed in order to watch Charlie Brooker, which was disappointing to the point of being a little shit. By now I was feeling the lovely effects of a quite sensational bottle of vino -a rather cheeky little Bordeaux wine fans- and was munted off my noodle on the chronic.

‘Tis here we enter the hangover to be zone. Welcome.

Channel 4 was broadcasting something about the 2006 NME ‘heroes’; I say ‘something’ because I was unable to get over the age of the editor, the way he looked and the tripe that spewed forth was so distracting it fractured my concentration. Laurene Laverne, who I used to adore was looking tired and, frankly, embittered though some of the music was attractive to mine ear and I was inspired to remain awake to watch Muse ‘Live at Abbey Road’. But before the Muse set, and bearing mind it was getting late, I had to endure a set by The Kooks.

My ex once told me a ‘kook’ was a Lancashire word for ‘poo’ and whilst The Kooks are far from being shit musically, they’re fucking dreadful. Firstly the lead singer really thinks he’s Dylan circa Blood on the Tracks, so much so any merit in their music is devoid of credibility by ‘Bob’, secondly the ginger lead guitarist is without doubt one of the ugliest cunts I’ve seen in my life, in addition to being poisonously ginger with skin so translucent you can actually see the veins in his fingernails, he was wearing a fucking orange scarf that magnified his coppery persona to such a degree I felt like I’d suddenly drunk 3 litres of Lucozade and eaten 7 bags of warm Cough Candy, that’s right, I actually felt sick at the sight of him.

And here is the nub of modern music, it’s not enough to just bloody well stand there looking all ginger (and smelling probably) you’ve got to do more, you’ve got to get off your arse, in thought and deed, and ROCK! If your band mate looks like a fucking giant mental carrot (in a scarf) kick him out the fucking band…

I fell asleep just before Muse came on. Blast.


As predicted, the boss is moping about the place like he’s just discovered the recipient of his glory-hole indiscretion was none other than his wife. There is a tyre sat in the corridor under a boarded up window, a large gap in the production department where Macs were once used and confused looking employees are wandering about aimlessly as if recently exposed to the T virus. A tall blonde policewoman has just appeared to investigate the ‘crime’, apparently one of a spree on burglaries on Saturday night, she looks like a twat.

In addition to my office woes I foolishly cycled in today, essentially, the chap I helped move yesterday wanted to use the fractured cycle path from his place to work and I agreed to be the Sherpa. This wasn’t a conscious decision, I agreed as I was leaving after dropping his gear off yesterday… it was one of those things one says to be polite as one is saying farewell, except my pleasantries had bones in it, and this morning I had to pick them out. The cycle in was fucking hideous. I’m still not recovered from the bastard cold and my throat feels like it’s been lined with wire wool prepared in brake fluid. My legs weren’t expecting to be called upon at such an early hour and they performed as efficiently as a woollen bicycle pump, if I may be allowed to continue the ‘cycle’ simile.

More pigs have appeared, there are now three of them in here and I’ve just put one on the phone through to the boss. A few Macs have been nicked, not being au fait with the workings of the Fuzz it strikes me as a little heavy handed? I don’t remember this much attention being paid to me when that cunt in the BMW knocked me off my motorbike and fucked off.

Last night was very pleasant, after completing my blog -it was finished at 7pm but it took me 2 hours to get the cunt posted much, as you may imagine if you’ve been following this blog, to my utter annoyance- I had a fucking ace bath, it was one of those ones that was just exactly right, the lighting, the ideal depth and temperature of the water, the little moment of delight when I lobbed my creamed beef into the flannel. I’d already prepared dinner (chicken breast, sausage, baked potato) so it was a question of getting out of the bathroom, steaming the veg and collecting the food/wine from the kitchen and flopping in front of the TV with a film, Le Boucher, what was all in foreign and that. I would like to point out that I seldom watch TV in the lounge and eat simultaneously as I think it’s fucking common, but it was Sunday and yours truly was exhausted.

The film was excellent despite some gaping continuity errors (please note the cherries in brandy) and a dreadful special effect involving a cadaver’s hand. The lead actress was spellbinding (Stephan Audran) though I was never convinced that such a beautiful creature could ever be a headmistress. Both leads perpetually smoked, the male lead’s (Jean Yanne) script was a little indelicate with regard to the fact he’d been a soldier but all in all, it was a satisfying affair. I won’t go into any more detail as this sort of talk is better suited to Watch With Mothers, link located to the right of this very page.

I’m barely recovered from the bike ride in, my usual 10 o’ clock cigarette has been postponed as my lungs are really very upset. Also, the pigs are hanging about by the door and I don’t want to go anywhere hear them in case one of them tries to engage me in conversation. I have a naturally guilty persona, so aware of this am I that I am inclined to compensate for it and in doing so make matters very much worse for myself…

For once I’ll keep that tale to myself.

weak end

I’ve just returned from helping a mate out at work move his stuff into a new flat. Sunday afternoon totally ruined as I was rather looking forward to sitting about in my pants playing on the PS2, something I haven’t indulged in since my brother moved out last year. But no, owning a white van isn’t all about driving round London like a cunt, it’s also about getting put upon by friends, family and colleagues, the latter I resent the most simply because it’s bad enough having to associate with most of them at work during the week. Spending ones leisure time with them isn’t on, so the pant/PS2 was sacrificed in favour of driving about in the pissing rain. Unluckily for my colleague my back is like caramel today so I couldn’t lift a finger to help him.

My fucking cold made a surprise return on Saturday morning. This may be because I hardly got any sleep. My mate came over with his two and a half year old son at 7 on the Friday, a lovely little chap, bright, full of beans with an obsession with fish. We three ate some roast chicken (I stuffed carrot, celery and onion up it’s arsehole this time, I must admit the lemon worked a little better so I hope you’re taking notes. I internally suggested to myself that onion and lemon would be favourite next time…) The little fellow crashed out at 8 after belting about the flat like a small tornado, I was subsequently exhausted but got a second wind after my mate and I got into the wines. We caught up over the evening which was accompanied by ‘Hostel’ a little disappointing on account of the very un-special effects but it had it’s moments, namely the brunette birds tits. At around midnight he joined his son leaving me with a bottle of wine and the TV, which, as fate would have it, was choca with rock. I watched a set by the much-hyped The View, essentially a group of very competent children regurgitating The Ramones, one of my favourite bands. There are a whole bunch of these bands at the moment; whilst I’m pleased that ‘rock’ is back, no one is actually doing anything particularly interesting leaving it to established acts to make headway. Anyway, by now I was whacked off my nipples so I was rather enjoying it. No idea what time I went to bed but it was after 3. The little lad woke up at 7, I was sleeping next door and as soon as I heard him I knew my time was up.

I managed to stir despite still being a bit squiffy, the boys had some breakfast and after a fond farewell, and some minor objections from the toddler, departed to the London Aquarium. Apparently he had a fucking brilliant time but screamed the place down when it was time to leave. I don’t know if his son enjoyed it (boom boom tish). After they had gone I went straight back to bed, I’d been invited to a party that night and was rather hoping the cold would dissolve in bed. Despite still feeling rank when I re-awoke at 2pm I did make the weekly shop where something rather odd occurred. At the checkout I was missing a bottle of Fleurie, I know I’d bought it because it was the only one of the 6 wines that I had specifically bought on account of itself rather than it being a considered discount choice. Anyway, it wasn’t on my till receipt so I figured it had rolled under a bunch of bags at the till. As I was walking away I glanced back and noticed that the fat women who had slammed down her groceries on the conveyer with such aplomb I’d shot her a glance of hate, had purchased the same pair of oven gloves as I (my last pair caught fire last week). When I unpacked the shopping at home the oven gloves, much to my annoyance, were absent. Again, I checked my till receipt and no oven gloves were mentioned. The fat cunt had been lifting stuff off the conveyor when I was packing… it beggar’s belief doesn’t it? What a fucking bastard. I hope her fanny falls off.

By 6 I still wasn’t feeling 100 per cent so I had to ditch the party which was a bloody shame, I spent the night in lolling about in front of the TV and radio sampling the wines that hadn’t been lifted by a mental. At about 11pm I got a call from my boss, the last person I was expecting to ring, who was at the office waiting for the police. Some turd had thrown a brick through the window, climbed in and nicked all our Macs. Without going into too much detail these machines store clients artwork so I so looking forward to tomorrow unravelling that little lot. Just what I need. Not.

Right, I’m done, off to eat a roast, have a glass of wine and if I’m very, very good, I’ll wash my winkie very fast in the bath.

broken stuff

Whilst my cold may be dissipating like the dreams and desires of young Iraqi lad with aspirations of being a surgeon only to return home from school to find his house blown to smithereens, incorporating lumps of his father and baby sister, and his mother weeping as she trawls through the wreckage in a desperate bid to find a trinket or an artefact she can exchange for food, my fucking motorcycle is playing up and so is my computer.

The bike is particularly irritating, I’m not going to bore you with details because, a. you wouldn’t understand and, b. I enjoy being patronising. Essentially when I shut off the throttle it’s not immediately responding, the upshot is frankly, fucking dangerous, especially when one is passing over the crest of a hill going a little over 30 (65) and is confronted by a queue of traffic that has no right or reason to be there. When one shuts off the throttle the engine acts like a big fuck-off brake, manual braking doesn’t really work if the throttle is open and the clutch engaged, as it didn’t yesterday on my return from work as I approached the much-advertised rear end of a Renault Clio. I had to take emergency action by overtaking the Clio and the following stationary traffic in addition to avoiding the flow of oncoming traffic, by selecting a (fucking narrow) 2-foot gap between the two and regaining some sort of control therein.

The only reason I’m mentioning this is to give you some idea of how hard/cool I am, despite nearly bursting into tears at the next set of traffic light and shaking like I was coming off 5 years of being addicted to the horse.

Today my angst is computer based, my raison d’etre for being in a fucking office is emailing mates, Swineshead (link to the right) in particular as he seems to follow the same embittered view of the human condition as I. It really is the bloody limit, I mean working in an office for a fucking living is bad enough, but being denied the basic human right of discussing the bilge on last nights television is frankly beyond the pail.

Still, it’s Friday. My weekend planning is coming into fruition. Tonight, unusually I will have a toddler in my flat, his dad is an old chum from the halcyon days of being a student where we managed to survive three years at art college by getting pathetically stoned daily and drinking so much that the late, awful, George Best would’ve raised an eyebrow. I’ve not seen him for a year as he lives up North in poverty, probably. The fact that my college chum has a child is worth a mention. He was never a fan of children when were students. One Saturday afternoon we received a knock on the door and were confronted by a rabble of six year olds collecting money for charity. My chum answered the door and the conversation went something as follows…

“Awight mister, we’re collecting for children in need…”
“Children in Need! You mean You, don’t you, collecting money to spend on sweets and fireworks.”
“No! Children in Need, off the telly…”
“You are children in need.”
“You are children in need of a fucking good kicking.”
And with that the door was slammed in their respective grubby faces.

I must say, I’m looking forward to seeing him, and his little boy, even if dad has unhelpfully informed him that I’m a pirate.

I’m not by the way, I get sea sick.


Well at least I managed to cough my disc out of place. I’m fucking z shaped this morning and I still have this motherfucking cold which is now so bad I’m considering setting up a fund for myself.

I managed to make it to the pub last night though. It’s been a successful week of pubs due to my mate from up the road being off work for the week. When I got home I wasn’t feeling in the mood for a large meal, my appetite has been quashed due to my new diet of snot. I wonder if I should appear on Dragon’s Den and just vomit it up over Peter Jones after claiming to have revolutionised dieting? Doubtless the cunt will think I’m plagiarising bulimia and I’ll leave with nout. Anyway I had kippers and toast, it was perfect.

Still feeling like something in the dark corridors of Resident Evil, I decided, like with my (albeit misjudged) Snakes on Plane decision to watch something un-taxing, The Hunt for Red October was on BBC3, seen it loads of times, fancied it again. It was only as it was starting that I began to question why I’d seen it loads of times and why I was looking forward to seeing it again… And then it dawned on me, claustrophobia. The idea of being in a submarine is, to me, one of the most appalling places I could imagine being in, to be able to watch a film that deals so starkly with a pet fear from the comfort of my armchair in my room makes everything rather pleasant. I wriggled in my chair with delight, then my fucking mind continued wandering without express permission from its owner as to why I was claustrophobic.

After missing half the film in deliberation I narrowed it down to two incidents, both occurring when I was about 7. The first is with my dad when he took me to his offices in Hammersmith to show me around, meet his colleagues, you know, contribute to the whole dad/son thing. We got into this two person lift to get to his floor, dad warned me that the lift was temperamental but as he’d never been trapped in it, no problem. Of course the fucker got stuck between floors, dad remained calm for about a minute until he began yelling at the top of his voice, kicking the door, pressing alarm buttons all the while glancing at me with a faux expression of reassurance, at the time I wasn’t particularly fussed as I was with dad but his reaction gradually seeped into my psyche and I left the lift some ten minutes later with a brand new fear.

This new fear was nurtured a few months later in a cubicle in the school loos when, on leaving, I was shoved back in by the school bully whilst his little cunt of a mate, using the gap between floor and cubicle, grabbed my foot and attempted to drag it out preventing any form of escape irrespective of the larger bully who had me in a headlock. That little incident was the final straw and ever since small spaces have not been my thing and I live in constant fear of respiratory failure, despite smoking.

But there is an upside to this, both bullies died before they were 15, the big one nicked a car and crashed it into a tree and the smaller one picked on the wrong person and had his head beaten in with a heel of a shoe a few years later. Oddly, a later bully who eventually became a close mate, he even dated my ex, hanged himself, indeed, his brother drank himself to death a few years after that. It would seem that bullying me isn’t a good idea, simply, because you’ll die prematurely in nefarious circumstance, and so will your immediate family.

I’ve had 3 lemsips today; they’re proving to be utterly useless, even worse I’ve an afternoon of meetings today. Oh well, at least I’m not dead.

I rock


really its flu

I feel as if Harold Shipman has injected my head with bathroom sealant. My cold is in full swing but worryingly, I’ve yet to hit the green thaw stage where one perpetually drips mucus indicating the colds passing. I am happily sneezing, gasping, groaning and coughing like I’ve been smoking asbestos, my skin can’t decide if the contents inside my body are hot or cold and my fucking hair is being vindictive by flopping into my face as I’m trying to type this.

Last night wasn’t exactly one for the memoirs either. Supper was planned with military precision; it took into account my cold and the need to replenish the vitamins and minerals that were swept away over the weekend. Grilled chicken breast with steamed Savoy cabbage and broccoli combined with fried onion and shredded bacon, splash of Worcester sauce and Kikkoman, plenty of cracked black pepper… it tasted of air, had the texture of wool and if it wasn’t through sheer willpower and my innate understanding that a cold equals no dairy, I’d have order a mega stacked pepperoni four cheese defibrillater from the local Pizza bucket from up the road.

My attempt at smoking a joint ended in a lung catching a glimpse of Snakes on a Plane, a film so utterly devoid of any substance you could’ve bottled it and flogged it outside Lourdes as a cure for cancer. I was beyond care, I sat in my leather armchair and gawped at it, partially aware that my mouth was ajar and my tongue had dropped inside my lower lip as if I’d been starved of oxygen at birth, perhaps if I had been the film would’ve made more sense? Either way, it was doing a fairly good job of keeping my mind off creeping death so, dear reader, imagine my distain when the fucking rented DVD clicked, farted and froze about 2 thirds of the way through, just as last weeks offing had done.

Now, I don’t know about you, if one has watched ‘most’ of a film the desire to sit through ‘most’ of it again just to check out the end is somewhat diminished, actually it’s beyond diminished it’s been sapped of all life. I rent my films from a postal outfit called LOVEFILM, despite leaving LOVEFILM about a year ago and moving to the relatively sublime Screenselect because the vast majority of the formers DVD’s appeared to have been previously handled by the primates at Bristol Zoo. I had no problems with Screenselect for a good year until, at the end of last year, they were bought out by LOVEFILM, and since then it’s been shit business as usual.

Carefully I removed the DVD from the machine and making sure it hit the side of the table, I frisbeed it across the room with such force it exploded into a million tiny weeny little shards of fuck. I took great delight, despite the fight from being dragged down to the carpet by my swollen head, in collecting all the fragments then pouring them into the return envelope, taking care to circle the ‘damaged disc’ box on the front of the pack before dropping it into my rucksack and retiring to bed with a thing called a book -no chance of that freezing or jumping I thought as I carefully reclined on my bed- having said that, I wondered what Samuel L Jackson was going to do now the pilot was dead and no one could land the plane.

Has anyone got a Lemsip?

a tish u

I am in humourless cheer. I was riding into work with the usual pigs bladder on a stick atop my creaking spine, when it occurred to me that it wasn’t actually a hangover that was causing my unflinching gloom. I noticed that the area in the back of my head, the part that fills with the hideous globs of hangover soup, was actually clear, yet the front was a chunky porridge o’ fuck. I ran through last night drink menus, I’d had sufficient but hadn’t over indulged. I sneezed inside my helmet (and no I didn’t spray snot all over the inside of my fucking visor, this isn’t a Will Farrell comedy, this is me biking to work in a fucking bad mood and sneezing, so piss off, yeah) gracious me, I pondered, for I appear to be with a cold.

In addition, or as a result, I’m stone deaf in my right ear and for some reason I have a petulant semi. It’s one of those days already, it’s non-weather outside, the metrological equivalent of beige, the office is half empty and those that are in are sending vacuous bastard e-mails round which I have to open to check it’s not business, only to be confronted with a long list of ‘funny’ ‘really-they-said-that in court!’ things Lawyers never said in court so long as I have a hole in my freckle and (now) a bendy woody.

Last night I met my mate from up the road for a pair of ales in the local, I was back home in plenty of time to bathe (hey, I always clean under the fosh) and prepare supper before a documentary I’d been looking forward to about two sixteen year old American twins…(sounds cool huh, eh lads, eh? Phwaor) who shared the same body. *pop*

For the first 15 minutes I was frozen in state of surrealism. One body, a little wider than average but for all intents and purposes ‘normal’ with two heads sprouting out the top. There was something a little Zaphod Beeblebrox about them, as one of them was ‘quieter’ than the other, but largely, they were both perfectly normal bright young women, just in the same body…same body…same bod…

…Anyway, what transpired was quite a touching and, if I may indulge, inspiring documentary, especially if your sister is sat on your shoulder and you parked your breakfast unanimously, about two perfectly normal 16 year old girls, doing what two perfectly normal 16 year old girls do, but sharing a tit each. Their condition was unique and on account of their very attractive mother (come on, I was expecting the equivalent of Pat Butcher: burns victim) and rather dashing father, had been protected from the probing proboscis of wide-eyed doctors. What was also rather moving was the way their school chums and teachers treated them and when necessary, protected them.

Obviously as the girls were getting older other more fundamental questions had to be answered *winks* and when I was brushing my teeth this morning the answer came to me. Two bisexual men will solve any possible problem, but I shall leave it to your imaginations to figure that one out, it won’t take long I promise.

So back to me, as I’m more important and my problems far outweigh those of the two little tarts in tellyland, three colleagues in near proximity are talking fucking shit at volume and it’s shortening my already very short fuse. Really, I don’t know about you but I think the thick should be fed to the poor whose subsequent shit should be used by farmers, but only farmers in the third world, yeah. Peace y’all.

(I now have a full blown erection, blast)


The weekend has caught up with me. I’m not hungover as such, it’s just as if my blood has been replaced by marmite.

Following a foolish and unnecessary, though highly entertaining, visit to the pub Sunday, I returned in time to watch a very poorly conceived documentary on the 9/11 conspiracy, it sort of failed in it’s attempt to undermine the main conspirators claim that the world trade centre buildings were full of bombs, focussing instead on other tish and fipsy, which, it can be argued, it largely resolved. Don’t let me present myself as one of those tools that thinks that everything is the work of nefarious American agencies, for me it a simple case of asking a question and not getting an answer, possibly for very good reasons… I then watched another conspiracy-esque affair on the death of Kurt Cobain, I never thought for a minute he was murdered by Courtney, or any of that shit. What we were treated to was a very sad little tale about a man who, essentially got what he wanted, then realised he didn’t.

I never saw Nirvana, girlfriend issues prevented me from seeing him at Reading (about the only one I’ve missed in 15 odd years). I had tickets for a show in Portsmouth which was cancelled when he got sick in Italy. I was a huge fan of Nirvana way before they became huge and was given Nevermind 3 months before it was released by a mate in the industry. Cobain’s death affected me quite badly at the time.

Sitting here in the office I’m trying to work out the best way of initiating some sort recovery, or even bailing completely. For some reason I put a large bag of onion rings into my rucksack last night, they’re doing nothing to take the edge off my pain; it’s like eating a load of STD’s.

Some cunt has fucked the coffee as well; it’s weaker than a baby’s tinkle, which tit did that? I intend to find out then intimidate them, even if it’s that work experience girl in the corner with a pornstars arse.

Decided to hold out for the bloke that brings the sandwiches, I need a Coke, the sugar, caffeine and fizz will fix me. Jesus, I’ve nearly finished the bag of STD’s, actually it may not be wise to pour a load of coke over them, they might swell in my guts, and I could literally explode.



I am sat gently shaking in a dark corner of my lounge, I feel utterly dreadful.

I’ve just returned from Sainsbury, a particularly enormous Sainsbury that I usually navigate with ease, breezing from aisle to aisle, sweeping comestibles and consumables from shelves as if I were Shiva, pausing only at the vast booze section at the end of the store to carefully oversee the war of attrition that occurs between price, quality and desire. I always win.

Today the whole trip was fucked. Suffering as I was from a hangover the size of Europe, I flopped, fumbled and floundered, crashing into products, trollies and people, my huge red sweating face wobbling atop my creaking windpipe as I tried to keep a grip on sanity. A panic attack sat in my chest, inches from bursting forth in a spume of mortal fear, a little bit of last nights booze squirted into my mouth following a wet retch in full view of a horrified 4 year old, I attempted to smile, the child stared at me in disgust, then her mother joined in. She looked at me as if I’d just bunged a turd at a nun.

The weekend had begun civilly enough on Friday. I met with a close friend in a pub near Leicester Sqaure for some drinks, along with some of his friends, one of which was a charming well read chap, who, it transpired, researched questions for a popular highbrow entertainment show on the BBC. After a while and more pints than I care to recall we ended up at The Groucho Club and here it begun to get messy. Cocktails were ordered over beer, French Polish specifically, my stupid idea, arrived with White Russians. People began to drift off until only my friend and I remained. We decided to leave at around midnight, both of us thoroughly rotten and from here on in my memory is somewhat confused.

Essentially, my friend ran into some writers outside the French House, one of which had just had his debut novel published and was clearly the toast of the town. He and his entourage were all very engaging, drinks began to pop out of nowhere, glasses were shoved into my hand and I soaked up the atmosphere feeling quite at home. At some point we arrived at Black’s, I recall getting a rocket from a very pretty blonde barmaid for having smuggled in a bottle of beer, not that I remembered doing so. I apologised profusely and she accepted my reparation with a warm smile. My memory following this is shot but I must have got a cab in the wee small hours and returned home, obliterated.

The hangover on the Saturday was one of the worst I’ve experienced. I felt like porcelain in a vice, all of my plans were iced, I just stayed in bed feeling as if my internal organs had been replaced with manure. There was an additional concern, I’d arranged to meet another old mate, who, until we’d met last summer in a fucking garden party (both of us are about as much ‘garden party’ as Anne Frank is to drum kits) 15 years had passed without either of us having any contact with the other.

Not prepared to cancel the arrangement, though sorely tempted, I found myself in a local bar cradling a pint of lager feeling like Anne Widdecombe’s vibrator. This was wrong, so wrong, my liver must resemble a small walnut and here I was drinking. ‘I’ll take it slow’ I muttered to myself. My mate arrived a little after 7 and we swiftly engaged in conversation, playing catch up and generally re-discovering each other. Second pint down I was feeling largely back to normal, indeed, I was feeling quite good and had started to relax and enjoy myself. My mate from up the road arrived with his girlfriend and then there were 4 of us…and drinks promotions. Then music, then pool. Then dancing, all of us fucking dancing, I don’t do ‘dancing’ but there I was moving over the floor like a shitty puppet with some of the strings cut. To my horror Cunt from downstairs appeared, alone, dressed in a fucking pinstripe suit and tie for the love of Christ, he was moaning about how a barman in another pub had actually turned his back on him when he went to order a drink, choosing instead to quietly clean glasses. That speaks volumes to me. Needlessly to say, we left almost as soon as he arrived, no one wants to be close to poison. By now it was after 1. My friend and I got a pair of chicken kebabs and we arrived back at the flat full of beer and cheer. Foolishly (again) we continued drinking (my mate saw his kebab later following a disturbing sound from the toilet, he sounded like he was being bummed by Idi Armein). I let him hurl in peace and he returned to the lounge as white as a sheet grinning from ear to ear. He crashed on my sofa and at about 3.30 I went to off bed.

I awoke this morning in a similar condition to the previous morning, not quite as bad as yesterday. A 2 wanks hangover as opposed to yesterdays 3. My friend had already left as the poor sod had to face an afternoon at work. I stayed in bed for as long as possible, ate a boiled egg and waited until I was sure I was in a fit enough condition to drive. I hadn’t counted on not being in a fit enough condition to shop.

I’ve just unpacked my shopping. I’ve managed to buy just about everything I don’t need and none of the stuff I do, I bought 2 tins of mushy peas. I don’t know if I like mushy peas.

I feel dreadful; I’m off to the pub with my mate from up the road.


I want Jeffrey Archer dead.

And I’m not talking passing away quietly in his sleep; I’m talking death by a thousand female fingernails, that every scorned woman on this planet, led by his fragrant wife, strip the little fart naked save his socks -purely because it would look funnier- place him on a lonely hillside in north-east Scotland and literally let them rip.

Last night on TV I witnessed the most abhorrent act of failed subterfuge that, by circumstance, dropped the trousers on a persons character as swiftly as if he’d reached into his underwear, removed his fetid dank tool and wanked green pus into the face of Felicity Kendal.

The Verdict, broadcast last night on BBC2 exposed ‘Lord’ Archer for the snivelling little poo-bud we all know and despise, but then went on to reveal the mental machinations of something so inherently disgusting I nearly popped my TV out the window onto the street below.

Briefly, he was part of a jury deliberating on the guilt of an alleged gang rape by a footballer and his mate. The misogynistic little creep was clearly over compensating for his crepuscular past and from the outset he’d decided that the best way to ingratiate himself to the viewing public was to side with the rape victim, whether the evidence was in her favour or not. Ignoring his lascivious attentions toward a young blonde, the show was punctuated by vomit inducing acts of faux compassion and philanthropy that, to a trained eye, barely concealed his schadenfreude.

But it wasn’t until the final deliberation of the jury that he really came unstuck. On account of the 12 members of the Jury failing to make a decision on the guilt of footballer and his mate, the judge decided to allow a majority of 10 or there would have to be a re-trial. And here it gets interesting.

Nine members of the jury had concluded there was insufficient evidence to call a guilty verdict, but 3 others, including Archer, were pushing for it. As it stood the jury was hung, but if the foreman could change the mind of one of the 3…

Two of jury stuck fast to the guilty verdict, but Archer, never one to turn down the opportunity to be the centre of attention decided (and already smarting from being hilariously interrupted mid-speech by the court Usher) to, all of a sudden, accept the fact that, after all, there may be a shred of a possibility they didn’t actually do it, and the fucking little turncoat went with the majority. But it wasn’t actually the evidence that swayed him; it was that he didn’t feel a re-trial was fair on the two MEN, who had been charged with rape. Never mind the victim he’d been so keen to see justice done by for the entire fucking show, that went out the window in second, all of a sudden, she wasn’t given a second thought.

Please take an extra few seconds to think about this, to look at what has happened here. Incidentally, why is he still ‘Lord’ archer, he’s an ex-con, not to mention a cur, with a life peerage, surely this title should’ve been stripped from him? The Cunt.

Oh, please ignore any typos or errors in this post, I couldn’t face reading it back.

v d

I had a meeting with a client yesterday afternoon. Due to a communications cock up it was 50/50 she’d make it, but mercifully, she did. We sat in the bar in the Queen Elizabeth Hall and I sipped tea whilst she perused some confidential information I am not allowed to let out of my site. I felt like something out of a John Le Carre novel.

Being Valentine’s day there was something rather nice about being on the South Bank away from all the business in the city, the sun was bright, the air was crisp and despite the fact that, in essence, I had my Valentines day (of sorts) the previous evening, I was feeling a little more than adequate, good almost.

I relished the train journey from Waterloo back to the edge of London; I was distracted from reading my book about Japanese women slicing up stiffs in a bath, choosing instead to watch the day dwindle from the carriage window as the world passed by as if in a state of somnabulation, the shards of remaining light cut through the passing cityscape and transformed the criss-crossing rails into liquid mercury, the sky to the west was flooded with a glorious blood-orange hue as the sun descended silently behind the horizon.

When I got home I had a wank. After a bath I set about preparing supper. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I ripped the remaining meat off the chicken carcass I’d enjoyed the previous evening and placed the bones, skin and remaining flesh into a large pot, added some stock, wine, seasoning, parsley and shoved the lot in the oven. The manually recovered meat and drumsticks were consumed in an orgy of grunting and growling, I felt like a fucking Roman Centurion.

I planned on cooking the carcass and all it’s mates for a good few hours, so I slipped off into the lounge with a glass of wine and a fatty and divided my time between the TV and a book. I was feeling perfectly relaxed, indemnified, even.

At about 11pm I checked on the carcass. The bones and flesh had become sticky, slightly charred, and the dark liquor was beginning to thicken. I tested a sample, I’ve rarely tasted anything so rich in flavour and so perfectly balanced. It was sublime. I went to take it out the oven and dropped the whole cunting lot.

Without wishing to go into too much detail, I managed to pull the oven shelf from under the pot that fell backwards into the oven. It took a tad under an hour to clean the whole lot up. I didn’t say anything; I just got down on my hands and knees and got straight to work. I didn’t even mourn the loss of what was to be chicken soup, ‘I can make it again’, I thought, aware that my display of sanguinity is the antonym of my self.

I returned to the lounge, drained my wine, grabbed my book and shuffled off to bed putting the whole matter behind me. That is until I came to write this blog.

What a fucking shithouse.

feel the luv

Thank fuck, it’s Valentines day.

What’s even better is that my spine feels like it’s made of Wendslydale and I was lucky enough to come into work by public transport, something I always enjoy. I particularly relish commuters’ bad breath, sneering teenagers and old folk that move as quickly as still photography. And I love Feb 14th, I really do.

Last night a very close friend came over for dinner. I made a roast chicken for the first time in a device called a ‘chicken brick’, a ceramic balloon cut in twain in which the chicken lies (NB It’s best the chicken has passed away) and brushed with a little oil. I rubbed garlic over the inside of the brick and took time to shove a lemon and lime right up the (dead) chicken’s arsehole. The brick is then put into a cold oven (I know, crazy) and cooked undisturbed at a high temperature for an hour and half, leaving plenty of time to sod about with roast potatoes, root vegetables and have a jolly good poo.

Now, being an optimistic sort of a chap, I have to admit, even I was a little sceptical this alchemy would actually work, but, by the Lords of the New Church it did! In addition, the bloody brick makes it’s own gravy, you don’t have to do nuffin. The subsequent meal went down as well as tramps cider, so good was it in fact, that my friend did a Sunday-afternoon-dad and feel asleep on the sofa. Wasting no time at all, I drunk and smoked heavily knowing acknowledgment the evening had been a triumph. I even smacked my lips, what ever that means. I’m sure Pete Doherty could tell me.

I woke this morning with the dulcet tones of my friends mobile, set about 2 hours before mine, informing me that it was the start of a new fresh day, but wait, not any day, Valentine’s Day! I farted loudly just catching the tail before it licked brown all over my Egyptian cotton sheets. Actually, I’m pretty sure it was the fart that was responsible for putting my back out.

Anyway, once in work (I didn’t mind that the bus was late, that the tube sat on the platform for a full 17 minutes, gradually filling until even the Nazi’s loading for Belson would’ve raised a brow of concern at the plight of the occupants) I celebrated the prospect of facing an entire day with an embittered handful of failed actors and musicians not wanting to be there any more than I do. I wished it could be Valentine’s Day every day.

So, to the meagre parties that bother to check out this dwindling blog, to you all, and yes, that does mean you mum, Happy Valentines day.

Your cards are in the post.

cream crackered

I am in a foul mood. I woke up at 5am this morning, no reason just ‘bing’ and there I was, suddenly conscious, not even dozy just wide awake.

I ignored the half full bladder o’ wee, I’ve learnt that the trip to the loo in the small hours can negate any possible sleep from thereon in, so instead I positioned myself in the ‘most likely position to sleep’ position and waited for the inevitable drowse, the soft lull to gooey, zuzzy land…

That evening I’d been out for a few pints with my mate from up the road who was recovering from a cold, despite coughing an internal organ out of his face midway through the evening. We drank ales at a sensible pace and I returned to my flat feeling just right. I bathed (you should’ve seen me, girls, I was all glistening n’ shit) shaved and flung on my usual slob togs, a large black Motorhead hoodie and pair of black Adidas ‘jogging’ pants, and made sausages with Piqued’s Brocolli Cheese N’ Onion Bake ™ which is a masterpiece and, come to think of it, probably the reason I woke at 5am.

As I shifted around in the sack trying to find the optimum position for repose, I wondered why there were no technical terms for different ways one lies in bed… for example, lying on ones left side with all limbs under the sheets could be a ‘gauche hot arm.’ ‘A flat back double internal’ is lying on ones back with both arms by ones side inside the duvet, ‘a flat back double cool’ would indicate the arms are over the duvet…and so on. So, whilst undertaking a tricky ‘right cool arm’ and employing the ‘classic scissor-leg kick’ I deliberated the possibility of a coffee table book in which celebrities volunteer their favourite sleep positions. Amanda Redmond enjoys a ‘gauche cool arm with a hot scissor-leg kick’ Callum Best digs his ‘front crunch double hot with a 180 head roll’…you get the picture. Oh ™.

Either way, such conjecture didn’t help me slide into slumber, so I lay there, ignoring the breaking of dawn, the first twitterings of birdsong and my ever-expanding bladder. The last time I noticed the clock it was 7 fucking 30, at some point between then and 9.15 I drifted back into sleep, failed to hear my alarm and arrived late for work looking like I’d just been dug up.

I’m knackered and cross and mutt and jeff in my right ear to boot. Bollocks

bloody ruined


When I got in on Friday the cunt downstairs wasn’t home. My spirits lifted considerably when it occurred to me the downstairs was locked up and, in hindsight, had been so for the past 24 hours, indicating he was just away. Not dead, sadly.


Lately on arriving in the downstairs hall after work whilst fumbling for my keys, his fucking idiot head sporting an obsequious grin popped suddenly into view. I watch in despair as his gob macerates the air around me and meaningless guff fills my ears. Usually he’ll slide out of his lair like a serpent and continue his uningratiating drivel with his back to my door so I’m unable to flee into my property and escape his socially inept persona. I hide my hate with a rictus grin, it’s the delicate mantle I employ to prevent me from grabbing him by his hair and slamming his face unto the wall until it comes off. I don’t listen to a single utterance from his fat, cracked lips and respond only in order to hasten the removal of his useless carcass from the entrance to my upstairs flat.


The matter of him being away was excellent news as I was expecting a visit from an old friend, we’d not seen each other in a while which would certainly do nothing to dampen our typical abuse of alcohol and anything else that happens to be available. This would probably mean noise into the wee hours and I didn’t want to give Cunt grounds for revenge.

That evening my pal and I drank in the local until midnight and, as usual (despite protests from both of us) we risked the shitty kebab shop that on our last outing had seen my companion noisily vomiting into my sink at 2am on a Saturday morning.


Back at the briefly silent flat we continued until 5 am, this wasn’t intentional, my memory of the evening isn’t too clear but I recall blaring music, dancing and belly laughing over ‘other’. My friend has a young family and the following day was keen to set off as soon as possible, this meant my usual lie-in would be disrupted but I figured that the Sunday would offer me a period of catch-up.


The hangover wasn’t too bad despite the excesses of the previous evenings boozing, so I did my usual shopping trip in the local store with a fairly clear head and returned fully laden with the weeks provisions.

I had planned a drink in the evening with a close mate from up the road but the plans were scrapped due to his having a temperature. I wasn’t too fussed; I don’t mind a Saturday night in. I was preparing dinner when I received a call from another old friend, indeed my oldest friend, who was at a loose end. We organised to meet at the local as I had done 24 hours earlier, with the intention of having a couple of pints and returning to the flat to discuss matters of the day. This we did and the evening passed off very pleasantly, he staggered off into the night at 3-ish and I went to bed, relishing the lie-in, made all the better by the lack of Cunt.


I shouldn’t have been so hasty. At roughly 10 o clock I was woken up by a horrific sound of thumping, shouting and top ten chart music, the fucking builders had arrived and amongst it all I identified Cunt’s humourless attention seeking chortle. He was clearly over excited, not being used to one person let alone four in his vile company and was taking full advantage of an audience. From where I lay it actually sounded like he was flirting with them in the hope they’d down tools and collectively masturbate into his cavernous mouth. I tried to ignore the noise but it was impossible, the bed was actually vibrating to whatever they were doing down there so I was forced from my pit to face the day. What was particularly risible is the bastards all left at 1pm and Cunt, still over excited from having human contact, decided to tunelessly ‘play’ his fucking guitar and whine, with no regard to any known scale or timing, loudly, over the same unhinged and repetitive strumming ‘pattern’.


Seriously, if this blog comes to an abrupt end look at for me on the news, I’ll be the bloke who murdered the retard in the downstairs flat in South London using only his teeth.


My back isn’t good today so I’m in a less than favourable mood. In addition I have some sort of stomach disorder, I’ve been shitting through the eye of the needle for over 48 hours and I have cramps. Having a bad back and the cacks together isn’t good, the continual sitting down, standing up, the resulting twisting and bending to clean ones nipsy is fraught with pain. And there’s the real possibility of farting my disc out.

I think the source of said back grief was a combination of spending more than 5 mins in the van, gingerly walking through slush to the shops at lunch and the surprise realisation yesterday, in the office, that unless I was on a toilet in precisely three seconds I was going to fill my trousers with reduced Guinness. This desperation to make it to the chod-bin before one explodes can often cause one to forget about ones cocked vertebrae, don’t you know.

The stomach condition was temporarily relieved last night when I met my brother in a pub in Clapham. We had a few beers and, despite refusing to go to the bar or pay for a single round, we had a good night. The cunt.

On my return home I bathed, cooked up some dinner (surprising even myself because by this time I was a little tipsy and half forgot/remembered I was cooking) then clamped my headphones round my sweet little head and rocked the fuck out. Big mistake, half a bottle of wine was shoved into the equation and joints were sucked without regard to my increasing state of delirium. I re-discovered mid period Rush, decided that most of Metallica’s St. Anger is actually alright (I must have been squiffy) cooled my boots with Ian Brown and concluded with a Best of CBGB which is 2 CD’s of brilliance and joy.

I went to bed at some point between midnight and 2 and woke at 8.30 with my back trying to tie a knot in itself. I arrived late at work and started to write this. Mid way through my boss summoned me into his office to conduct an interview, I look like shite, am in a petulant mood, my back hurts and as I was called in by the boss I was fighting the flow of the Dirty Thames.

The female interviewee was genuinely startled by my presence. I humourlessly informed my boss that I couldn’t sit down because of my back, what I didn’t tell him was that I was also concerned that sitting down would release the vice-like arse-clamp currently preventing me from spraying his office with effulgent. The boss clearly wasn’t comfortable with me standing over him as I peevishly responded to the usual tit for tat questions of the shrinking interviewee.

Most of the jobs we do here revolve around classical music, it’s a badly kept secret that I don’t have any particular interest in this field so the boss made a quip along those lines. Instead of just going along with it my addled, pickled brain, back pain and shit drain all conspired against me. I shoved my hands into my pockets, turned down to face her and said, ‘I fucking HATE classical music’.

She looked more than a little distressed and my boss gawped at me with a mixture of shock and, worryingly, concern. He sensibly excused me. On my return to my desk I paused at the conveniences to tinkle liquid fire out of my bottom.

I feel ill.

mum and dad went to a show

For the last couple of evenings on channel 4 there have been programmes revolving around ‘extraordinary’ children…

Now, before I get into too much detail about the shows, I have to explain how I came to be watching these programmes in the first place. Well, on Monday and yesterday evening, I met my brother and friend respectively at 6pm in two different boozers in South London, and I just so happened, on both occasion, to be back home in time to have a bath and eat before 10pm. The reason I’m explaining this is so I don’t give the impression that I lay about all night watching relatively meaningless, sensationalist documentaries, though in explaining this I’m probably doing the exact opposite that, indeed, I do spend all night laying about watching relatively meaningless, sensationalist documentaries. Well, I don’t. I digress.

The first doc was probably the most harrowing because it was about blind couple and their dozens of kids, two of whom were pre-teen sisters who basically ran the household. Initially, for about 5 minutes, I was warmed to the cockles of my heart as I watched these two brave little girls tackle the endless chore of caring for a load of toddlers and still having to answer to the disabled needs of ma and pa. Ma by the way had a beard, and as the programme continued it became apparent that ma was a bit more than blind, she was a little, er, slow as well. Dad was no rocket scientist either, but over mum, could’ve been.

The house was a tip, the kids slept where they fell and the diet was appalling, an example of this was when one of the girls was sent off to fetch ‘supper’ for the family, fish cakes and chips; she wobbled back on her bicycle laden with fried food, but still had to say thanks to Dad who did nothing more than gather the family round the table. The two babies were helped to eat their chips. Babies. Chips.

The couple, not content with 8 kids they couldn’t care for in any way shape or form, were trying for a 9th (one had already bought the farm at 5, we were treated to the entire family visiting David’s little grave, not quite sure how he died either, mmm). ‘It’s okay,’ they assured the documentary maker, ‘when we get old there will be loads of them to look after us, so the pressure doesn’t fall on one child alone’. In essence the blind couple exploited the shit out of the two oldest girls, who, in turn, hated each other. Great. The little one had even tried to kill herself, much to the amusement of the older one, hilarious. Ma and Pa were vaguely concerned about the suicide attempt, but more concerned with having another kid.

Last nights offing wasn’t in the same league in terms of ‘concern’, well, it was a different sort of concern… children competing in ballroom dancing competitions, little girls dressed to the nines, covered in fake tan and full make up, performing erotic, adult, dance routines in revealing gaudy outfits in front of old men and screeching mothers, largely, single pushy mothers.

The little girls were all teeth and (no) tits and the little boys that partnered them all had an air of Wayne Sleep about them, despite being under 10. It was harrowing stuff. But, again, it was the parents that concerned me the most. Only one of the little girls actually seemed to have a passion for what she did, the rest, one felt, were no more than toys for mum and dad. When their little doll-like pristine charges danced, the parents didn’t seem to derive any sense of pride or joy, instead they aggressively yelled at them from the wings, and when they failed seemed more angry than disappointed for them.

So there you have it, two depressing programmes broadcast on consecutive evenings that I half watched (a bit squiffy) under the guise of ‘extraordinary’ children when it was really about ‘arsehole’ parents.

Worse still, I’ve got the shits today, and I squarely laying the blame at the feet of Channel 4 for upsetting my constitution whilst I ate.

office 50%

Christ, it’s one of those days in the office where half the staff are absent and those that are in, including me, are thoroughly fucked off they too didn’t opt out.

Being off work when many are off isn’t too bad; it’s like being lost in the crowd in a mire of absenteeism. Obviously from my point of view (I’m one of the directors in this place, for what it’s worth, which isn’t much save the bonus) it’s particularly annoying when one is in and ones fellow director and CEO are absent, as in the case today. In addition to my annoyance of actually being here when I could’ve had a scott free day off without losing a single brownie point, I’m also in charge, which turns me instantly into a belligerent cunt…

We have a new member of staff. It turns out this fellow used to be the Headmaster of a very well and known and respected Private school in London, but he also used to be an alcoholic which may explain why he’s here.

He’s a short and round type of a chap with a grey comb-over, he has a kind face and sharp eyes, his glasses sit on the end of his nose. He’s built for scholarly gowns. He must have worked hard as a young man to get to where he was, enjoyed the benefits of being made headmaster of a reputed institution, reaping the rewards of being a distinguished academic whose achievements were reflected in the sheer excellence of his charges, not to mention the extortionate fees…

Then he finds himself being instructed how to turn on a fucking computer by yours truly, in a bad mood and certainly not minding his language, secretly relishing the minutiae flinches he makes when a profanity is uttered.

It doesn’t matter what he was before he came here, we’ve a handful of characters in this place that have had led illustrious lives, some known to the wider public, but it concerns me not. For whilst they are here they are not what they were, they are no more than another worker in an office, like me. But not like me. For today, I’m in charge.

sucked disc

Last night I watched Jacob’s Ladder on Film4

It hasn’t aged that well, and crosses a dubious line between cult and classic but has some fantastic bits in it, even if the whole doesn’t gel, anyway, this is really one for Watch With Mothers (click on my links) so let me get to the point.

There are a few scenes played quite beautifully by Danny Aiello as a Chiropractor / Osteopath, (angel?) the films protagonist, Jacob, suffers from a slipped disc and is being manipulated and cracked with some force in order to relieve the pain, make him mobile again.

When I first saw the film some 17 years ago I remember watching that scene with incredulity, the violence of the treatment and the sound of bones that cracked like rifle fire seemed a little, well, ‘Hollywood’. This time I initially watched it with a pillow jammed in my mouth, until I realised that it doesn’t even scratch the surface of the horror of reality. I put the pillow down a sucked hard on a glass of Temparillo and pondered my predicament in October 2005.

It was my brother’s birthday and the family had just had dinner in some godawful restaurant in Esher. After we left he and I were crossing the road when all of sudden a shocking pain shot up my back from my coccyx to the base of my neck and I crumpled into the road completely paralysed. I called for my brother who noticing that I was about to be hit by a succession of cars raced over to me and dragged me onto the pavement. The paralyses took a few minutes to clear and with aid I was able to get into the car and back home. The following day I woke up unable to move, it was only when I had treatment from a recommended practitioner in Ealing was I informed that my disc was hanging out like a panting dogs tongue. I’ve subsequently learned that I was one of the worst cases he’d seen and that he was initially convinced that surgery was the only answer. Indeed, I was literally zig-zagged, my hips had shifted a full two inched to the left of their usual position, a friend pulling my leg about my being a hypochondriac turned white when I showed him what shape I’d morphed into.

The procedure that, after 3 months, twice a week, saw me able to function without a stick wasn’t dissimilar to Jacob in the film, indeed, I recognised some of the techniques employed. The pain however was something out of my orbit, not so much from the treatment but day-to-day living. I regularly fainted trying stand up; it took me hours on occasion to get out of bed, or off the floor. The pain was diabolical, and I’m speaking from the aspect of having been hospitalised as a result of a kidney stone.

The damage to my back was caused by a motorcycle landing on it when I was 12 during motocross practice, I was temporarily paralysed but made a full recovery, so I thought. I’d always been aware of an occasional dull ache in the lower part of my spine but being forced to the ground unable to stand was, in addition to being fucking painful, frightening. For instance, I remember one afternoon lying on my lounge floor needing a piss and not being able to get to the toilet or a phone to call for help. I could be stuck like this until I expired, I thought…

But quite possibly the worst aspect of my condition was during a visit from a particularly close friend, an ex-girlfriend to boot. She and I had one too many wines, and I found myself stood upright, supported by my stick, being fellated by her as she sat in all her glory on my sofa. The usual ecstasy of having ones cock sucked by a beautiful women was interrupted by crippling pains shooting up my spine. The subsequent buttock clenching symptom of arousal simply served to aggravate the slipped disc, to describe it audibly ‘ah ah, ARRGH, ah, AH, Jesus Fu…AH, AH… aaRgHH!’ made for a wonderful/hideous five minutes, which became hideous/wonderful as I approached ejaculation and making the money shot a bridge too far.

Which was really shit as she wanted me to spunk all over her tits too.

enter sandman


It’s been a fairly non-eventful weekend, not unpleasant, just nothing much happened.


After getting in on Friday, and after resigning myself to a self-imposed Friday ‘in’, I wasted no time in re-assembling the parts of the bathroom that had been removed due to the painting of the bathroom floor. The paint seems to have cured which is a bloody good thing. The night following the second coat the fumes were so powerful that not only could I smell them in the bedroom, they had a severe effect on my dreams. I’m not very good at remembering dreams but I spent a good deal of Friday trying to shake off the image of being chased, painfully slowly, round a large 3 star hotel by a fucking massive yellow conga eel with a small fish flapping in it’s maw – pick the bones out of that one Sigmund.

Armed with a recently acquired sanding block from B & Q and protected in a baseball hat and cycling anti-pollution mask I set to work on smoothing off the fucking dreadful Polyfilla job I had done on the bathroom ceiling. (Actually it’s worth mentioning the B & Q incident that occurred on Friday lunchtime. After carefully selecting my sanding block and some more Polyfilla (I’d used three tubes already) I went to the checkout to pay. The ‘lady’ on the checkout really is the thing that came over the hill in that song by The Automatic, she’s the actual size of a Leyland Mini with a face like she’s chewing one of Ken Russell’s gallstones. But it’s her gargantuan tits that really inspire freakish awe; they are slung so low they actually sit beside her. It’s a truly horrific sight to behold. (Eh lads…)

In front of me in the queue masking my gaping mouth was a rather prim and well to do middle aged women attempting to screw a light bulb into a quite revolting floral table lamp. Jabba butted in…

“Madam, you need a mushroom bulb with a screw fitting. A Mushroom Bulb Madam… Do you know the first thing about light bulbs, do you know anything…”

My jaw dropped another centimetre.

“I beg your pardon,” Said the women. “I BEG YOUR PARDON”

A look of anxiety flicked over Jabba’s face.

“Let me rephrase that…” Said Jabba, the colour draining from her jowels.

“How rude, HOW RUDE, HOW FUCKING DARE YOU.” She cried in a cut glass English accent, “FUCK your light bulb, lamp and FUCK YOU.”

A manager peeped round the side of one of the aisles and thought better of intervening and disappeared again.

The women rushed out of the store muttering obscenities under her breath. Jabba watched her go then turned to me. Clearly amused at her work

“What’s her problem?” she said.

“If you’d spoken to me like that I wouldn’t have reacted with her decorum.” I said coldly, paid for my goods and left).

On inspection the kitchen ceiling was about as smooth as the North Sea in December. Within five seconds of beginning to sand the ceiling I was faced with two explicit problems. Firstly, gravity isn’t kind to a person wobbling atop a stool with one outstretched arm sweeping to and fro and secondly the sanding block was about as effective as wiping ones arse with a goose feather. Fucking thing had cost me 4 quid and all it had done was cover me in a ridiculous quantity of dust. I looked like an angry Victoria sponge.

I instantly aborted my mission and retired to the lounge with a bottle of Bordeaux and rolled a big fat joint. So not all was lost, thank god.

On Sunday after waking with a hangover the size of Chad due to a night in the local with a mate, I cooked myself Sunday lunch and decided that today would be the day I purchased an electric sander like a good chap. After a brief visit online, I found a perfectly useable machine for a tenner, complete with a little baggy to catch all the dust. The only downside meant this required a visit to Argos.

I fucking hate Argos, not because of Argos per se, in the past they’ve been very useful, it’s the shopping ‘experience’ that gets my goat. It’s frankly unnatural, the whole experience of browsing is obsolete, it’s a question of choose, pay, collect and fuck off. Argos is always about queues and lolling about on counters being deceived by instructions over the in-store public address system. ‘Would number 278 go the collection point, please’ ‘Would number 279 go the collection point, please’ ‘Would number 2 go the collection point, please…’ It makes no difference what number you are, it’s always a 10 to 20 minute wait, usually with your item sat helplessly on the shelves behind the criminally insane staff that work there. One stands amidst a gaggle of peroxide fishwives, resplendent in golden hoop earrings and white stilettos pathetically trying to get the attention of a spotty-faced sex case who had probably been working solidly all weekend save a 5minute wank break.

After an age I was back on my trusty Triumph and back home. I unpacked the sander, it certainly looking like it was up to the job, read the necessary instructions and prepared myself to get cracking.

I climbed the stool and turned the machine on, the volume before I’d even made contact with the ceiling was ear-splitting, the volume after contact would’ve drowned out the sound of a Harrier Jump Jet, er, jumping. Using the recommended ‘circular motion’ I got to work, for 5 minutes I stood sanding the plaster, my arms ached like buggery but I was spurred on by the fact that soon the job would be done…

…like fuck, this was going to take fucking hours.

So I gave up and wrote this instead.