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?