Monthly Archives: March 2007


I have a bloody superb hangover. Yesterday evening I met Swinsehead in a boozer by Clapham Common. We had a lively evening, 5 pints I think and lots of lovely heated conversations, largely around music, and by the time we left we were laughing at our shoes. After being literally shoved onto the tube I arrived home just in time for the System of a Down doc plugged in yesterdays blog.

Right, first off, for the cunts who have never seen SOAD live they don’t have the vocals jacked up that high, they are one of the loudest outfits I’ve seen and the BBC fucked about with sound levels in order for the viewing public to hear certain lyrics. Nor are the audience 12 I hasten to add. It made the live stuff seem puerile and frankly absurd, buy their albums and hear what they’re really like, go on…

Having said that, that wasn’t the point of the documentary. What was investigated was the Armenian genocide that took place from 1915-1917; I was shocked at how much I didn’t know about this atrocity, and the fact that it’s still not fundamentally recognised by certain nations. The doc then moved on to more contemporary versions of genocide, including the situation in Darfur which is taking place as I type this. The programme upset me somewhat. Actually it upset me quite a lot indeed.

On a further disturbing note it was my friends (with tits) birthday yesterday. Sadly due to her being sick with the ‘flu we were forced to postpone celebrations but, despite her ills with a deadline looming, she had to meet a couple of clients with a so-called colleague. So-called colleague, married with kids, has been of mild concern for a few weeks, this concern was passed on to my friend (with tits) who accepted that whilst he was a likeable chap she was aware of where lines were drawn etc., in short, it’s okay, don’t worry. I didn’t until yesterday when he gave her some presents for her birthday.

First off a bracelet worth well over £300, that’s obviously wrong, especially as she noticed his wedding ring wasn’t on his finger when he gave it to her. But here it gets dark, the two other gifts were underwear and a fucking web cam. A fucking WEB CAM (and underwear). He’s clearly fucking deranged. This also had presented my friend (yes, with tits) with somewhat of a problem. Obviously the gifts will be returned but this arsehole is vital to her employment, it’s not hard to see that spurning his advances may cause subsequent problems. Happy fucking birthday. I pointed out to my friend (w.t.) that the underwear came for La Senza (the cunt is cheap as well as tasteless) which is the company marketed by Theo Oppadopalis, or what ever his name is, from Dragon’s Den. Rightly this incensed her even more.

I have to apologise for the lack of spark in today’s Piqued. My hangover is making typing awkward and I need to get this done as I have a meeting shortly which will cut out my morning, and we can’t have the blog going up late can we.

This weekend is action packed, meeting up with friends tonight following an enforced drink with colleagues, which I could do without as the one nearest to me is getting right up my fucking nose. It’s my dad’s birthday today so tomorrow night we’re going out to get him all fucked up and steal his trousers. Actually I better give him a call now and leave you to it.

Don’t foget the doc on Hawkwind by the way.

essential tv (UK only)

I don’t normally plug but these two are exceptional…

Tonight: System of a Down on BBC4 10.30pm

“Film maker Carla Garapedian goes on tour with the hugely successful heavy metal band System of a Down, three of whom are of Armenian descent. Follow them on their quest to rock their fans – and to raise awareness of the Armenian massacre of 1915.”

Tomorrow: Hawkwind on BBC4 9pm

The main man, Dave Brock, is sadly absent due to ongoing disputes with Nic Turner

(‘Warrior on the Edge of Time’ in addition to being one of the best albums ever recorded is also one of the hardest to find. Once you’ve stopped laughing try and source it. You may have better luck with the live incarnation that is ‘Space Ritual’)


On Sunday afternoon I had the misfortune of bumping into Cunt outside the flat. I’d popped downstairs to get my bicycle from the van in order to bring it inside to get the fucking puncture repaired. I’d heard Cunt leave his cave a few minutes previously so assumed I’d have at least 10 minutes to spare… I’d broken the first rule with Cunt, never, ever assume.

Now for the sake of argument let’s say I’m called Peter Worhormamergeratroid, As I was about to enter the flat with my bike and at the time, flat rear tyre, a hooded figure approached me from the left, ‘Excuse me’, it said, though instantly I recognised the honking congested twattery from it’s maw, ‘Have you seen Peter Worhormamergeratroid..? Oh it’s you!’ I weakly indicated with my mouth that I was doing a version of a ‘smile’ in an act of UN style appeasement. I muttered something about my tyre and left for the comfort of my flat.

Yesterday evening, following a punishing cycle from work I was virtually in the exact same place as I was when Sunday’s encounter occurred and once again, I felt the shudder of horror to my left… ‘Excuse me’, it said, my eyes lolled in their sockets, (Christ, no, not again) ‘Have you seen Peter Worhormamergeratroid..? Oh it’s you!’

Once I had got into my flat and had fully recovered from both the cycle and the unnecessary retard-inspired déjà vu I had a pleasant evening. Wednesday night is ‘house’ night starting with Relocation (x2) followed by Grand Designs, which I fucking love. I organised myself for everything to fall into place at 8pm, I’d eaten, bathed, showed myself to the Andrex (not in that order nor all at once) and was ready to go.

Relocation (x2) featured a baffling couple that actually baffled me away from the subject in hand; she was a Swedish girl, certainly attractive and very, very smiley. I can’t emphasis this latter point enough, mid way through the show she’d had a miscarriage though judging by the following interview you’d have thought she’d done a gram of grade one sniff after being informed she was the sole beneficiary to the Ikea fortunes. She greeted every property with an ‘Oh Wow’ smile (even if it was a barn without walls in one case) and, well, I was rather taken with her. He on the other hand was a greasy fuck-ball with an attitude the Third Reich would’ve found too pithy. Yet they were married and she clearly thought he was the best thing since the Volvo. I don’t get it.

Sadly the couple in Grand Designs were Welsh. The house they built was hideous; the interior resembled a music mogul’s office circa 1983 though they had gone some way to using environmentally friendly materials, they used a lot of Lime which actually absorbs C02 from the atmosphere as it sets for example, despite being a fucking tiresome pain to use.

I’d decided to go to bed and read but after a while found myself in bed watching Lock Stock and Two Sdmokinhgwgfwe FUCK etc. Whilst not as bad as The Business, or anything Nick Love directs with Danny Dildo, the best thing about it, bar none, is discovering during the end credits that one of the cast members had died.


I cycled into work today for the second time this year. I have every intention of trying to sustain this throughout the summer; I did a whole year a couple of years back, but as I sit here now gasping for air having nearly shat myself cycling up a short 1 in 10 hill I’m not only dreading the ride home but the potential of tomorrow mornings too.

Exercise is fundamentally wrong and highlights the massive flaw in the design of the human. The pleasurable things in life, drinking, smoking, taking drugs, consequence-free casual sex and indeed being a lazy wanker sprawled in front of high tech free stuff, are all frowned upon by the heart, liver, lungs and if unfortunate, the penis (or fanny, ladies). Exercise which is supposedly good for you is fucking horrible, it involves overly complicated acts of inertia that are frankly painful, undignified and, if one gets it wrong, lead to serious injury or even death, having said that is it just me or does anyone else get a kick out of reading about an ex-jogger, every cloud and all that.

As a child running about like a mental is ace, it’s not something one chooses to avoid (unless the kid is fat or disabled and even in these cases the desire to belt about may still be intact) in fact it’s something that can be perceived as ‘fun’ in addition to being good for growing bodies. That’s great. But as a child I don’t recall drinking 7 pints of Stella, smoking myself into a liquid spaceship and preparing to indulge in some protection free anal with some tart I’ve met in a bar. I’m not saying I didn’t do these things I just don’t remember it.

My point is this, surely it’s now as adults when we are deliberately damaging our bodies in order to enjoy our lives that we need the default ‘exercise is fun’ thing we had as kids? Doubtless there may be one or two people reading this that do abstain from all forms of narcotic stimulation, indeed, those that get their little endorphin kicks from doing something involving moving energetically, reading this in bemusement, making judgement, sneering, even… Well, good luck to you, really. Just stay away from children okay, you’ve been warned once already.

It’s a glorious spring morning over here in London, actually, in spite of the pain resulting in being privy to using my limbs and muscles to propel myself forth on the velocipede I was dimly aware of having some sort of contact with the natural world about me, as opposed to my usual bloody fast journey into work on board the Triumph. I noticed that there were pink and white blossoms on the trees, I could smell the passing woodland, watch little creatures darting in and out of the hedgerow as the low-slung sunlight twinkled off the stream by the towpath… It was, for want of a better word, ‘pleasant’. But whether it was pleasant enough to encourage a permanent future of cycling to work is hard to say.

Following a large poo I’m going to walk out into the sunshine and smoke a cigarette. I’ll ponder this matter then. Cause and effect dictates that tonight I shall have a few glasses of wine and spurn movement. If I make it in tomorrow, I’m going to take up crack.


I am bloody exhausted. It’s 11am and I’ve just rolled into work. I’ve a serious meeting in just over an hour and I look as if I’ve been living in the fucking woods with Ben Gunn.

For some inexplicable reason at 3am this morning, following just under 3 hours worth of sleep, I woke up and I’ve been a-cunting awake ever since. It’s preposterous, my own body conspiring against me; I mean what is the point? Presumably this has something to do with the reduced alcohol consumption (and possibly the changing of the clocks)?

Yesterday I’d had a busy afternoon at work. I left bang on 5pm as I had to get back home, change, get to the tube via the bicycle shop to procure a new inner tube and levers in order to meet my brother at 5.45 in the usual boozer in Clapham. It was a sublime evening; despite the trees still being naked and the immature spring light it could’ve been summer, the sky was azure and climate temperate. We sat outside for a while and sipped Grolsch until the beginnings of dusk where we thought it sensible to grab a table before all the garden punters came in. His missus met us and we shared a bottle of wine before I fucked off home at 8-ish feeling jolly but not anywhere near as fucked as usual. Indeed, I was sober enough to efficiently install a new inner tube, replace the wheel and have the bicycle ready… I intended to ride it today but due to the fact that I can barely see on account of no sleep, I thought the healthy life giving benefits it would’ve afforded my body could fuck off, I mean if it’s not going to help me why should I help it? The bastard.

It’s a beautiful day, the best we’ve had here since last October. But I’m feeling so shit I don’t care. What is really fucking annoying is that if I’d drunk a bottle of wine when I got home (I had a glass) I’d have slept like a rotten log, probably.

The worst part about balls out insomnia is the optimism. You are genuinely convinced at every fucking turn you’re going to sleep, assuring oneself you’re drifting off when you’re simply blinking in the dark, initially, then getting increasingly aware of the crepuscular light breaking into dawn then, god help you, day… Actually such is my state of knackeredness I can’t be arsed to do this… join me tomorrow where I hope I’ll have recovered.

Oh, pop off to watchwithmothers (link to the right) and read my critique of Brit film The Business, go on then. I have a meeting anyway.


Fucking Monday. I think I spent most of the weekend worrying about it, let’s face it, come 4pm on Saturday you’re already descending towards the bastard. It’s like being lowered slowly down onto a naked pensioner, you really don’t want to, you can see it coming, feel it getting closer and sooner or later you’re going to make hideous contact with it. Here I am back in the chair.

For those that regularly read this blog, I’ve decided to do away with the weekend one. It’s okay to do in the winter but with advent of fairly decent weather, longer days etc., (and the return of various motorsport fixtures) it’s a bit of a tall order. I’ll do what I can though.

Speaking of weekends… I left here on Friday, knackered. I usually insist that whatever state I’m in I haul my botty into town and welcome the weekend in. Not this time, I politely declined an offer by Swinsehead to eat some Japanese food in Soho preferring instead to return home and eat alone with a bottle of wine, largely because I couldn’t face the journey. At about 8-ish my mate from up the road called and suggested we have a couple in a local bar with his missus. I accepted, but stayed for just two as I was still feeling fucked and not socially inclined. On my return home I had a few more wines, watched a film of no fixed abode and hit the sack.

My hangover wasn’t too bad on Saturday, I got up, made tea, grilled a kipper and played with myself for half an hour. Much earlier than usual I did the weekly shop which was hindered by a large groups of mentally disabled adults (range of problems, I could clearly identify Down’s Syndrome, it was like a box of Quality Street, range of varieties but mainly fucking coffee) who’d been let loose by some work-shy carer. They moved as one barking unit in a group oblivious the world around them, which is fair enough as they were actually mental. What isn’t fair on me (and I presume other shoppers) was that there wasn’t someone there to ensure that they were being made aware of the world around and to stop the honking fight that nearly ensured over Cote d’Or and/or Cadbury in ailse 32.

Still, little could dampen my spirits. I was due to spend the afternoon with a lovely friend (with top bollocks, lads) and no sooner had I unpacked the shopping, cut the lilies there she was waiting outside. We went to a nearby shopping mall, a place despised by both but there were places in it that were of use and of mutual convenience -besides the mundane and ordinary have a habit of become highly entertaining when we’re out and about- a particular favourite being inappropriate public swearing, really it’s the key to a great day out. We had to get various gifts for a range of upcoming birthdays, my dad, her niece and, indeed, her, inter cut with some clothes shopping and trip to HMV for some tunes (Gang of Four and Enter Shikari, the first is fantastic (of course) and the latter I’m getting to grips with). On the way home we stopped off at a bar for a glass of champagne and a g&t and all too soon it was time to go our separate ways.

I got home at 6 and I arranged the evening with my mate from up the road and an old friend who always ensures the night will be thoroughly drunken and very long. We met in a pub near Tooting at 8-ish and drunk Old Speckled Hen, strong English ale which goes down smoothly and acts quickly. We three engaged in topics of the day, bantering about politics and laughing out loud at unpleasant jokes. The evening was a success and at about 12 we split, my old friend and I went back to the flat as we had an appointment with spliffs and shorts. He and I pushed on until dawn, both of us experiencing white-outs and near evacuations all under a barrage of grinding raucous rock music. When he left the sky was beginning to wake, I think it was 6 or so but because the clocks had gone forward it could’ve been 7 or 5. Either way I was obliterated.

I got up at 3pm the following afternoon still feeling ravaged. I had a bath, made a roast which went some way to sorting me out. I was due to meet my brother but the meeting was postponed, just as well in many respects and I bravely decided I was going to have an alcohol free evening, a tall order indeed on a Sunday with the naked pensioner becoming ever closer. Needless to say last night was shit, I felt restless and obscure, I couldn’t sit still, the TV was annoying, reading was a chore and to make matters worse I wasn’t remotely tired when I forced myself to bed at midnight. I lay awake for an hour and a half fighting the urge to take in a whisky.

Sitting here now I still can’t understand why when I don’t drink I feel as if I have been. I’m still dizzy, my head feels like it’s resting in a vice and I’m tired. I know it’s not a hungover-hangover because by 6pm last night I was so sober I went to the van to retrieve my bicycle in order to remove the rear wheel and fix a fucking puncture. I even took time to note down the size of the inner tube. That’s how normal I was (that’s normal right?).

On the plus side the week is choc full of drinking appointments so hopefully I won’t have to deal with sobriety for much longer, frankly it’s a pain but if I’m to carry on writing Piqued for a long while to come, suffering the odd night off is essential. Even if it is bollocks.



The highlight of my journey to work on the Motorbike is passing by Lambeth Cemetery. It’s a very beautiful plot and has a wonderful sense of gothic otherness about it, especially in winter when the mist seeps between the snaggletooth graves, in the spring the flowers beam through the silence of death. I find it absurdly comforting.

This morning I nearly found myself in there. As I was approaching the grand entrance a fucking Hearse began to perform a right hand turn cutting directly across my path, at the last moment he saw me (how on earth he failed to spot 2 large burning headlights is of concern) and braked sharply. I too braked hard and as I passed by was in the perfect position to hurl a tirade of abuse at the gormless driver, this was negated on account of the fact the Hearse was with a stiff passenger and following it were a pile of dour looking relatives. See? I do care.

I don’t have a hangover this morning and I’ve no idea why. Last night I met my mate from up the road and we enjoyed a few pints, chatting about the Budget, slavery –in its contemporary incarnation- and discussing other words for knobcheese (He-dam, Purple Leicester etc.,) Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a couple eating. First off, unless it’s lunchtime and one is desperate, eating in pubs is weird. I don’t care how fucking good the starter is, how many times the words ‘gourmet’ and ‘gastro’ are used in the menu it’s a strange, weird even obscene thing to do. Pubs are for getting pissed in, bag of crisps maybe, not adverse to the odd roasted peanut but pan-fried scallops in a balsamic jus, up your arsehole.

This couple were eating. They were in their early 30’s late 20’s at a push, fairly average looking pair; she had the upper hand in the aesthetic stakes dressed in black (which probably means she had an arse the size of Croydon, I couldn’t see as she was, a. sat on it, b. it was dark) and he looked like a wanker. What was remarkable about this pair is that they ate the entire fucking meal without speaking. Not a word.

I’ve chosen to be single, now at times I do question this decision but observing a couple eating in silence and not saying a fucking word acted as one of those little epiphany moments. They’d obviously had a row or were about to split up. He was eating like a Russian peasant who’d not seen bread in a week; she presided over her meal with the same expression as if picking snot off her tits, probably. Whilst discussing bullying with my mate I ran through a short spontaneous list of reasons to be single and had the foresight to note them down when I arrived home.

There’s one right there, being able to come and go as one pleases, sleeping alone in a double bed is fucking brilliant, especially in the morning, having a loud poo without so much as a passing thought to the sensitive ears and noses of others, eating what one wishes as and when, no rows ever and not having to appease oneself, 24 hour masturbation schedule, free use of the remote, hi-fi, radio etc., I could go on, actually I will. Making plans without negotiation, negotiation, period. Periods, having to deal with spontaneous acts of irrationality/hostility, expense, awkward silences which is just one of the things the couple sat eating in the pub were experiencing backed up by a selection of the above.

I left the pub feeling rather pleased with myself and celebrated (again) with a drop of wine and a spliff. Better still, it’s Friday and the weekend’s plans are becoming apparent. Doubtless I’ll update the blog on Sunday so you can read all about it then. Right, I need a shit so leave me alone.

bored at home

It’s 9 o clock a.m. and I’m sat at my desk at home.

I’m not going into work until they sort out the fucking broadband. Almost immediately after I posted yesterdays blog the bastard office system collapsed and with it my entire reason for being at work. In addition to not being able to do an actual ‘work’ because my e-mail died, I wasn’t able to chat to any friends, keep my eye on the news, check for new weirdness on bmezine, go into chat rooms and insult fucking fundamentalist Christians… I felt emasculated.

This morning I called up work and requested a colleague call me when the system is fully functioning and until that point here I shall remain. So there.

Actually, its just as well I’m not around people today, my hair looks fucking idiotic and I’ve been forced to grow some chin-rubble in order to at least give the impression that My Hair is the ‘new direction, yeah’. I’ve been considering dressing in a manner as seen in the back pages of the Guardian Weekend magazine, you know, white Converse (no socks) black kilt, long pink t-shirt, tight orange waistcoat and brown Mac over the whole lot, essentially, as a cunt to justify or at least undermine the impact of my bloody head. It changes hourly; one minute it’s just looking a bit shit and the next it’s freakishly obscure pointing in every fucking direction with not so much as a nod to symmetry or grace. Last night I came so close the shaving the whole lot off, I was prevented only by the cold harsh reality of growing it back, that I’d have to suffer at least 3 months of the stage where I resemble Tony Blair.

Apart from my head last night was rather jolly, oh, apart from nearly choking to death. I was enjoying a rather excellent supper of roast potato’s, broccoli (the key to life kids) and chicken breast wrapped in streaky bacon in front of Dragon’s Den in the kitchen. There was a couple of chaps who’d invented this excellent device for cunts who leave everything on stand-by not realising it burns almost as much electricity if said device was on. Device aside, I was more impressed by how fucking ugly these two chaps were. One of them looked as if every other tooth had been removed (and the ones that had remained were the colour of wardrobes) from his fat head and the other was quite simply ‘Lurch’ made more Lurchlike by having ginger parts nestling within his baffling white beard-thing. From some unfathomable reason I was privy to my brain flashing up an image of both of them stark bollock in the very early stages of a bout of buggery, to make matters worse both were being coy.

A mixture of amusement and shock caused me to gasp a tendril of bacon into my windpipe… worst nightmare possible, I didn’t have enough air in my lungs to cough it up so I opted for standing up as if I’d been bitten on the balls by a Birchill, sending the stool crashing to the floor and zipping over to the sink (it’s amazing, even at the point of death I didn’t want to make a mess, I swear to god, one of my cells is a bit, well, lavender) leaning forwards and scraping the bundle of food from my mouth. Mercifully the other end of the bacon string was wrapped round some other part of my supper and I felt the obstacle move clear of my life-pipe. I remained over the sink gasping for a minute then poured myself a glass of wine. I’d intended to do another booze free but that went right up the wall. I was alive! And tonight I shall celebrate! (by watching Grand Designs and it’s sister show on More4).

Christ I’m bored rigid over here. Speaking of rigid…

small one

I parked the bike in its usual space in front of my van; as usual I opened the sliding door of said van, retrieved my bike cover and tied it down. I faced the front of the house. For here on in one has to run the gauntlet, I have to negotiate 3 doors; the third is the one to my flat. Until I closed the flat door behind me, I was in Cunt territory.

The first door is never locked and makes a squeak when it’s opened, I usually squirt the hinges with WD40, I made a mental note to deal with that next time he’s out, small things like that can alert Cunt and invite conversation, well a fundamental form of it… the second door requires unlocking, it’s a nice smooth lock, door opens silently, good, good… short dash down the hall to my door, the most dangerous of all the places to be in his territory. To the left of my door is his door to the newly refurbished open plan kitchen conservatory dining area bathroom etc., to the left of that door is another door leading to his filthy little bedroom. As one is wrestling with the crappy little Yale lock to sanctuary one is aware that Cunt could pounce from 1 of 3 doors, 2 to the left of me and the entrance door behind, must, get, key, to, turn, in, lock…

The Yale lock to my flat isn’t happy, the cylinder is jerky, there is a knack that sometimes inexplicably fails, and the locks not bloody turning… I could hear footsteps, many footsteps and voices to the door directly to my left, sweet Christ… they’re getting closer. Key engaged, come on Piqued, just one more try… the voices were inches away, Christ no, I could hear Cunt do a laugh thing, 1 foot from my own face. Less? And at the very point the lock engaged, the split second the door came away from the frame, Jesus, I could smell my fucking lilies… and there they were the whole bastard family, dad, mum, Cunt, his g/f and right at the back a 6 month old baby sat looking gormless in a large Davros style pushchair with flashing lights and beeping buttons.

My heart sank, I cracked open an amateur theatrical beam and nodded inanely as the grandparents passed by. Cunt stopped and invited me into to meet the small person. British reserve required me to accept the offer and I was introduced to a tiny little bald thing that stared up at me with an expression of vague disgust. How the fuck had this happened? He was responsible for this innocent little child, how had the universe allowed this?

Small mercy, the small person didn’t look like him. I bent down to place my finger into the hand of the infant and it smiled. Jesus. It’s real. I had to get out; I had to go to my flat and rest. It was all too much to take in. I made the necessary compliments to its parents, winked at the kid and got out, my mind reeling from the consequences of the new arrival… In order to counter the shock of seeing Cunts genes I instead deliberated on how would this effect me. At least, I supposed, that Cunt won’t be playing his guitar and honking his tunes at x O Clock? Conversely, I’d be required to keep the volume down on the hi-fi. The latter wasn’t an issue as I have headphones, the former was better than getting into to bed with a pissed up Nelly Furtado. The more I thought about it the more I realised that the arrival of the small person could be a blessing.

I began to prepare supper keeping my ears open for noises downstairs, I could faintly hear the baby cry, the volume was perfectly acceptable. Even if it screamed the place down I wouldn’t be affected, ace. A close friend (with tits) was due over shortly for supper. My heart lighter than air I popped a sensational haddock, prawn and pea gratin into the oven and waited for her arrival.

I actually felt good, I felt…Fuck! I felt happy! I felt…

Oh Christ no, no.

All of a sudden this hideous groaning honk complete with epileptic guitar twunged from beneath my feet, I hadn’t reckoned on this, not him performing to the small person. In between the coos and laughs I could just about identify ‘Californication’. Or was it? My poor ears strained to hear key lyrics, or at least something that sounded like it…”First born unicorn, Hard core soft porn”. Yes, he was singing Californication to child of 6 months old.

Christ help all of us, whatever your denomination pray for the small person. Hope is all we have.


I feel fucking shit.

For a kick off the weather. Last week it was rather nice over here in London, it was actually quite warm, very sunny and everyone was aware of the days starting to get longer. The social atmosphere had subsequently changed; people began to engage with one another, that included half arsed smiles to strangers, half-arsed they may have been but there was ‘something’ there, yeah? A glimmer of a hope?

Now it feels like we’ve been plunged back into the middle ages, the sky is the colour of a geriatric residents hair, the fucking wind has teeth in it -biking in this morning I felt like I’d been peeled and submersed in bleach- and London has returned to it’s default mode of frowns, fuck you’s and stiff middle fingers from vehicle windows. I don’t think women under the age of 30 exist anymore; they only seem to appear when the sun is out.

I knew last night was going to be shit. The hangover from the weekends joys were still fussing over me in the afternoon, so I took the decision to abstain from booze in the evening. This rarely occurs and to be quite honest it’s a frightening prospect to spend an entire night gawping into the face of sober reality, to the point that I decided that I would drink just to stave off the potent of doom that exists when one isn’t giggling at the rapid succession of quick-fire jokes in ones brain.

I got home and arranged the bath to coincide with a rather pompous literary programme on Radio 4, it had it’s moments and I surprised myself on a couple of occasions because I’d actually read some of the books being discussed. After a highlight-of-the-evening supper, which I ate with fucking water and Jeremy Paxman I rolled a small joint, I ignored the Fleurie that was threatening to rape the Tempranillo and Cab Sauv unless I drunk him, and ended up watching a baffling programme on Channel 4 about the genetic modification of barnyard animals. They called the programme ‘Animal Farm’, ooh, how clevah.

It was utter shit, Giles Coren, food critic, represented the ‘No, Gen Meat isn’t on yeah’ and this baffling hoity toity type who spoke like a cross between Joanna Lumley and a Cornish fisherman who was all in favour of the glowing bunnies and bald chickens. The arguments for and against were made utterly irrelevant by me deliberating over the important issue of would I or would I not have a go on Cornish Lumley. For what seemed like an age there wasn’t a crucial ‘deciding’ shot of her arse, though earlier I’d pretty much established her tits would be a bit saggy but not enough to negate the crux of the issue. After what seemed like an age a good 2 second shot of her buns as she exited a cow shed concluded that I would, and I switched over to catch the end of a thoroughly depressing BBC2 Programme about a young women who’d been killed by some teenage yobbo in a souped up Trebant, or something.

As the evening dragged on the desire to drink waned slightly as I was being geed on by the reality of having made it thus far without one. Besides I was exhausted so I went to bed at 11 and watched Japanorama in bed. Shortly after I fell asleep and dreamt of the Artic Monkey’s foolishly eating a variety of huge fluorescent cakes in a vast hotel in Shibuya, they made such a mess the little bastards. Actually, I was frankly shocked and disgusted by their attitude and may well have to reconsider purchasing ‘Favourite Worst Nightmare’, ironically.

muthers 2

Saturday was a busy one. I did the usual shop under the cloud of a (guess what?) hangover and returned home to discover that a very old mate from college days had arrived earlier than planned. We had a few cups of tea before meeting up in the pub for an hour with another old mate who was passing by on his way from work. After some more tea back at the flat my mate left and within half an hour I was back in the pub again with my mate from up the road (it was mate city I can tell you) and yet another old mate who’d just accidentally informed a customer in his shop of the fact they were a ‘fucking freak’. We three were in the right mood for St.Patricks day and Guinness was drunk without mercy until x o clock. A good night indeed, though I actually don’t remember much after I returned home, despite being dimly aware of scribbling on my desk.

After returning from the dreadful meal in Woking we arrived back in London at 4 o clock, my brother his missus and I decided it would be wise to round the evening off in the usual Sunday evening boozer. We had already enjoyed a few glasses of wine with the ‘meal’ so sensibly decided to continue on the red stuff. All of were feeling less than comfortable on account of the leather consumed in the fucking restaurant but we persevered, had a very enjoyable natter and the bright sunny day was gradually replaced by dusk and the beginning of the night.

Early in the evening I took the tube back home. I fell into conversation with a tramp whose face resembled a cauliflower. He wasn’t having a good day, I had no spare change but gave him some tobacco which he immediately rolled and smoked there and then in the carriage. Other passengers decided that it was prudent to not raise objections, this guy had nothing to lose, the poor old sod.

Needless to say today I had a hangover, such was its severity I opted to take the morning off. After writing the blog I went to work, something I was loathed to do but I felt slightly better for having completed the very blog you’re now reading.


My apologies for this blog being both late and for not putting up the ‘weekend’ blog. I knew it wasn’t going to happen, Mother’s Day you see.

It was rather a jolly day actually. I met my brother and his missus at Wimbledon station at 11-ish and despite the train being a mile long walked right on to their carriage, sister & bro-in-law picked us up at Woking and drove us to this huge mansion house in the middle of ‘just fields’. As soon as we approached the entrance I could see in the distance a squadron of bent over old bastards and knew instantly that the food was going to be shit. Indeed entering the large dining room was dissimilar to starting shift on a geriatric ward, even the distance whiff of piss was apparent.

Still, nice seeing the folks, despite the vacuous offal we were served there was at least wine, the pudding wasn’t too bad and it was nice to catch up. We’re quite a close family in many respects and its extremely refreshing to be able to speak freely in company without having to self-edit, my parents are very open minded people when push comes to shove, despite having a little penchant for this god fellow.

My hangover was waning as the meal wore on, the previous evening I’d met up with my brother and Swinsehead on Soho for beers. It’d been a terrible afternoon and I was only too happy to get as many pints down my neck in order to solicit some sort of recovery. I had just come out of a rather lively meeting, following my late arrival on account of South West Trains ticket fucking machine. I was already running late because I’d been privy to witnessing a dismissal, which was actually harrowfying. My boss, not content with just ‘letting someone go’ had decided to rip this guy to shreds before telling him, literally, to fuck off. The recipient of the bollocking begun to shake and blink rapidly, he muttered something about his wife and tried to escape the tirade of yelling by requesting ‘a breath of air’. It was fucking horrible, unnecessary too, whilst this guy deserved to be dismissed, the manner of it’s doing was utterly unnecessary.

By the time I got to the station I wasn’t in the best of moods despite it being Friday afternoon with neat solid plans for the evening, then I came across this South West Trains ticket fucking machine. Due to a lack of any form of customer care, consideration or anything remotely approaching basic standards of civility the entire rail network is populated by too few machines in lieu of human being’s, you know, those things with legs and faces that will at least offer some sort of suggestion as to what one does do when a South West Trains ticket fucking machine eats your debit card without any fucking reason or explanation… The best I could do was yell ‘CUNT!’ at the top of my voice looking heaven wards, march to the front of a large hostile queue to inform a solitary bemused women that ‘the machine has swallowed my fucking card’, she shrugged so muttering obscenities I walked the short distance up the street to the fucking bank, cancelled my card and returned to the station.

…Due to some sort of a fuck up the rest of this blog is sat on my PC at home. I hope to have it up later today, if not, it will be shoved up tomorrow

master chalfont

Last night was food TV heaven. I’ve not been following MasterChef despite a friend doing rather well in the ‘heats’, as they say. I did watch most of them this week however, the 3 finalists, a fat gay bloke, a fat bird and a tall neurotic undertook what was to be rather an emotional conclusion, even the presenters were filling up, it was quite extraordinary that ‘cooking food’ could illicit this reaction…

Anyway, the fat gay bloke was head and shoulders above the other two contestants and thankfully he won. His food looked utterly wonderful and judging by the reaction of the jury was the taste equivalent of a rim job by Joanna Lumley circa 1972. The fat bird (also, quite sadly, with a touch of the ginge) had this distracting habit of going blood fucking red and the slightest hint of inertia. It was so off putting in fact I’d have insisted she wore some sort of masking device, perhaps Dicknose from Slipknot would be in a position to help? Her food looked messy too, a bit like her frankly. Subsequently I couldn’t help musing on the condition of her clout, it’s okay, Freud could join that one up (I bet it resembles an Orang-utan’s armpit).

The tall neurotic was struggling to keep his emotions in check. He wasn’t doing too badly until he came up with a pudding so vile (it had black Olives and fucking Fennel in it if you please) it’s a wonder the cunt wasn’t sectioned. He knew he’d fucked up and deserved to loose, still, on hearing he’d lost wept with such force it’s a wonder he didn’t force his balls up through his eyesockets.

After MasterChef there was a highly entertaining programme on ‘food fact’ on Five. I discovered that wine is actually fattier than beer. Apparently the beer belly is a myth, beer is drunk socially, beer lowers ones resolve when it comes to pigging out and the upshot is a (not beer) gut. The wine information was of some concern though. I’m rather partial to a glass and at the same time paranoid my gut is getting bigger. Sadly such news didn’t halt my intake, it was Thursday evening I giggled to myself and poured another glass, I know, I’ll cut my hair.

It just happened. One minute I was smiling inanely at the TV screen and the next I was stood guardsman erect in the bathroom with a clump of hair floating towards the wooden floorboards. Now, I’m sure you never done this, it was a new experience for me too, but realising that you’ve just made the leap of what constitutes social acceptability to what doesn’t, is a fucking shock. I tried to balance the other side, I was making it fucking worse, I nearly vomited in horror, I was making permanent and irreversible damage to my once gorgeous locks, I should’ve never have got it cut last week I said out loud. It had looked shit from the off but at least I’d been a few weeks from it returning to some sort of normality, now I resembled at 50 year old accountant with a predilection for little girls pants.

I considered going online to find an emergency 24-hour barber, does such a thing exist? Perhaps I should just shave it off? Yes! I’ll shave my head! No. I will continue with the self-cut, I was close to tears and felt all hot and weird. After nearly half an hour of fucking heart stopping barbery some semblance of symmetry was attained. Still, I looked fucking ridiculous and was dimly aware of a breeze on my neck. The windows were sealed shut. That part of my body had never been exposed to air before, my stomach did a 180. I gawped at myself, it occurred to me I looked like that bloke from the Thompson Twins, a band I despise with a passion.

There was nothing I could do. Sitting here typing this I feel like an utter berk, just in time for the weekend. I’ve considered nipping off to the fucking hairdressers but concluded I’d be just throwing puke at shit . No, I’m going to have to ride this one out for fucks sake.

Oh, Salami has donkey in it.

green nigel

I most certainly have a hangover today but its a rather nice one, I feel a little bit wasted without feeling ravaged, I feel at one with the universe and its sublime contents.

Morning. It’s a beautiful day.

Last night I met with my brother in a pub. For once he was there before me but before I get on to all that I must mention the sunset over Clapham Common, it was fucking gorgeous, a proper blood orange fellow between the trees that was glowing darkly enough for one to gaze upon without fear of ones eyes popping and melting down ones fucking rosy cheeks. It gave me quite a lift actually and I was even aware of feeling vaguely, well, ‘happy’. This emotion may have had as much to do with the fact I was marching to the pub on an early spring evening to see my brother…

So, there we were. The conversation ranged as usual between the trite, serious and hilarious, the ‘serious’ part was indeed quite serious and revolved around another conversation I had earlier with a close friend (with tits). It was extremely helpful and set me up nicely for the rest of the evening, as did 3 Grolsch and a large Makers Mark ‘n Coke. I zipped back on the Northern Line, which was unusually full for that time of day and cause for mild concern frankly. Were all these people working past 8pm? What twats.

I hurried home in time for Grand Designs, that’s right, I actually quickened my pace so as to not miss the start. It was quite a disappointing one for the simple reason that the project wasn’t complete by the time the programme ended, it was also set on the restoration of a barge thing and the male protagonist was a obtuse miserly git. I couldn’t be arsed to cook so I grabbed a handful of crackers a large dollop of the fucking expensive duck pate and a lump of Parmesan… lets quickly pause to consider this, I think it’s one of the best bastard things I’ve even eaten in my life, I was actually punching the air as I masticated, even thinking about this now I’m having to swallow back to prevent shorting the office electrics.

By this time I’d eaten I was feeling extremely relaxed and fancied a shot of reality, nothing much to report on the 10 o clock news save one item that got me thinking. Blue Peter (well respected kids programme on the BBC, been running now for 40 odd years) was caught fraudulently appointing a competition winner after the phone-in system collapsed. Essentially, on discovering that the phone system had collapsed putting whole competition in jeopardy, they grabbed a kid passing the studio, advised him of the answer, got him to phone in from a nearby studio and then declared him the winner.

Sensibly the media haven’t supplied any information/images on the kid that was embroiled in the scandal, but imagine being in his or her shoes? How the fuck are they supposed to react to this? Do they feel guilty or responsible, perhaps it’s the reverse and they’re feeling the first blushes of celebrity frustratingly out of reach by the very system that caught them up in the first place… This bugged the shit out of me for some time. I wonder how many kids are claiming to be the Blue Peter Fake Winner? Lets face it, it would make a bloody good t-Shirt, imagine being the actual Blue Peter Fake Winner and someone walks past wearing the Blue Peter Fake Winner t-shirt? It made my blood boil just thinking about the injustice of it.

You see, this is what happens when you mix Parmesan and pate on a Wednesday night. The drinks, subsequent wine and horrifically strong skunk had nothing to do with it.

The T-Shirts are £19.99 btw including P&P


Cunt came back again last night around fucking 10. That’s the second time he’s left his g/f and kid at his parents in as many days… I can’t understand why a person with a baby wouldn’t want to be with said baby (let alone his sick g/f) even if he had seen it (and the g/f) regularly for the first 6 months of it’s life. For me hating a person is one thing, losing all possible human respect for them is another. Sweet death take this one into your arms.

Speaking of children, relatively fortunate ones, a primary school teacher has asked me to write a short story for a bunch of 7 year olds. For the last few years I’d been toying around with this story about a flying bed. Thinking I could lazily adapt it, my ideas ran into a series of dead ends until I was forced to veto the fucking flying bastard bed idea. But last night something came to me that could well be an entertaining little tale. I will consider publishing it here after I’ve told it to the kids, some time in the next couple of months. Maybe.

Needless to say I celebrated the passing of the idea, which was akin to passing a turd the size of King Kong’s finger with a wee snifter and lo and behold, I’m sat here with a hangover. But there is something else; I’m feeling generally unwell. For the last couple of days I’ve been feeling exhausted, shattered. As soon as I begin to relax at home my chest feels like is harbouring a London Pigeon, my appetite is sporadic and causing me to make peculiar eating choices.

I ate nothing during the day yesterday apart from a Kit Kat in a meeting, I had no appetite and no desire, despite being fully aware I should eat, to eat. When I returned home I tentatively ate chicken breast and broccoli, bloody good it was too but it only served to resurrect my appetite, then I went into a frenzy of eating. At about the same time the idea for the book was drawing into a coherent story I ate a fucking large bag of Onion Rings, I actually couldn’t stop. The eating was matched by an increase in rate for smoke and wine, even after I’d finished the bag I still had this pathetic appetite for some more, I began to eat a large bag of Salt and Vinegar Chipsticks but after only a few mouthfuls spotted a forgotten-about bag of Bassett’s Sour Worms.

The Chipsticks were instantly spurned in favour of what must be the ultimate sour gummy comestible. Over the last few years Haribo have crept into this market and whilst the Tangfastics and Sour Strawbs are a force to be reckoned with, Bassett’s Sour Worms, with their retro almost graphically challenged packaging, are a fucking sensation. For a start the long fat worms are quite soft to chew and the balance of sour ‘burn’ and fruity flavour is enough to make your eyeballs rotate, they are literally unputdownable. Just before I’d finished the entire fucking bag I’d written the structure of the story in my notebook.

By now it was quite late, I drained the scotch, washed up and went to bed. The minute I lay down I realised that I’d made an huge mistake, taking a vast quantity of sugar before one sleeps isn’t a good idea I surmised in hindsight. For the next hour and a half every time I began to pass from what constitutes ‘awake’ and ‘asleep’ I’d suddenly sit bolt upright in bed, my heart break dancing in my neck, gasping for air. On at least three occasions I’d take the whole bastard freak-out to the bathroom and splash water on my face and wrists in an attempt to subdue the rush. As a result I think I’ve had no more than 4 hours sleep and in addition to feeling ravaged, I’m tired, petulant and moody. Just like I’m having a period.

This morning, before pulling off to begin the journey to work I started my motorcycle up. The exhaust pipe on my Triumph isn’t strictly legal as it breaks noise laws, bearing this in mind, I positioned the pipe so it was no less than 6 feet from Cunts bedroom window and revved the bastard up for a good 3 minutes, ignoring twitching curtains from neighbours across the street, I let rip with gusto.

It was the best I’ve felt since Monday. It’s beautiful day to day.


I had a meeting yesterday afternoon for a potential contract on a new magazine. I arranged to meet the chap under the clock at Waterloo at 3pm. He was to be seen with a copy of the magazine so I could identify him, I’d already advised him I’d be wearing black so I’m not entirely sure why when I approached him he looked at me as if I was going to stab him in the winkle and fuck his eyes in. It’s this haircut I’m sure…. Having said that the meeting went really well and I got the contract. YES etc.,

I took the train back to work in the afternoon and arrived more or less in time to leave for the day, perfect. I met my mate from up the road early evening and we enthusiastically chewed the fat. It’s a recommended way of starting the week we’ve discovered, gives one something to focus on in the midst of the horror of a Monday morning. After I’d returned, showered (couldn’t be arsed to bath) I ate well and settled down for the evening. It was mid way through Traffic Cops when I heard a noise from downstairs, a cough, Cunt’s cough. My heart sank, he was back.

Through the course of the evening his presence whilst apparent wasn’t overbearing, I lolled softly in my fug of smoke and Shiraz, TV on, book open as usual…then at around 10pm there was a sharp knock on the door of my flat. Fuck. It could only be Cunt! I will have to communicate with him in some way without the conversation deteriorating into me leaping up and down on his fucking head, laughing. I swung opened the door. The cunt had posed himself a la James Dean on his doorframe, he looked up as if I was holding a camera, really, he loves himself. He asked me if I had a light, the bloated words oozed out of his gob, apologising for disturbing me with mock insincerity then feeling the need to make conversation with me when it was clear that I’d not accepted his faux fucking insincere spite cunt fuckhatedeath…

Sorry. Anyway, here’s the story. This is the measure of Cunt. You have to understand that I had to translate the following from a creature that really would find communication easier by blinking once for yes and twice for no, I did this for you, so listen up.

Early last year Cunts g/f was over, she lives oversees. He got her pregnant on account of a basic lack of understanding of anything. Stunning isn’t it. She went back to her country and had the child. Apparently Cunt was there at the birth, hung about for a few days and came back. Now, I don’t know about you but already struggling with this. Anyway, 6 months pass and we’re in the present. It turns out that she’s over with the child (they shall be spared from my vitriol) but because of the building work in the flat, they’re staying at the parents of Cunt. I asked him what he was doing here, shouldn’t he be with them? No, apparently, the baby’s crying was keeping him awake…

Deep breathes everyone. Lets all relax and just accept that these things happen : )

Oh, the g/f has anorexia so Cunt’s going to ‘feed her up,’ I suggested that anorexia wasn’t about ‘feeding someone up…’
“Oh no,” countered the Cunt one “she’ll take food of me as she wants to please me.” (that’s verbatim kids)

Right, I’m nipping off now to place my testicles onto the coffee hot plate and beat them flat with a tape dispenser. Yes, I’ll do that.


It’s a lovely day, proper spring weather, none of this winter bollocks. Late yesterday afternoon I met my bro and his missus in Clapham, it was still light when I passed the common, a beautiful end to the weekend if you will. En route to the boozer we bumped into one of the bar staff, a smashing fellow who always ensures my bro and I are treated exceptionally well (free beer). We were warned that our destination was rammed solid, unusual for a Sunday but a pretty typical reaction to the clement weather. The marvellous barman arranged for the three of us to have a private table up on the balcony overlooking the beer garden and common. It wasn’t warm sat up there, but it was sunny and fresh and marked the beginning of the summer to come, I declared in my own head.

What on earth I was doing anywhere near a pub is a fucking mystery. I’d earlier been forced to turn down an offer by my mate from up the road and his missus for a quick pint in the afternoon choosing instead to return to bed. I woke an hour or so later to the sound of a text from my brother asking to meet up at 5. Feeling a bit better I accepted the offer. I ate some fucking expensive duck pate on toast, my appetite was non-existent but I was more than aware that no food + booze = vomit, then took the tube up to Clapham. It was a very bad journey, I was sat sweating and shaking gasping for air for its duration and on at least two occasions nearly made the decision to bail and opt for a bus or a cab.

Up on the balcony we had a splendid chat as the sun and temperature went down and after a couple of pints and a whisky, my brother and his good lady departed to some eatery or other leaving me alone with the evening. I’d already planned it round a documentary on BBC2 by the BAFTA award winning filmmaker Adam Curtis…last nights was the first of a new series (I’m not going to harp on about it, just make sure you watch It) so I had a bath (made myself fucking deaf for 30 minutes) and ate a fantastic burger which was so good I got a heavy dick.

At about 10 something rather peculiar occurred. I found myself stood in the middle of the lounge trying to work out what was ‘wrong’. Something wasn’t right, or rather, there was something ‘unusual’…I tried to shake off this persistent request by my mind to investigate this oddity, and was just about to give up when it occurred to me that I’d not heard a peep from Cunt. Nothing. In fact since Thursday I’d neither seen his obsequious little grin nor suffered the horrific nasal wailing that accompanied his futile attempts to wring coherent sound out of his little instrument.

There had been activity downstairs, I’d seen and heard the odd tradesman but the background of Cunt had been absent, no false laugh or the moronic tones as he imposed himself on anything with a face, no fucking slamming of doors because he’s the same motor skills as a Gibbon, nothing whatsoever to indicate he was downstairs at all, he might be dead! Nah, couldn’t be that, the workman would’ve found him. Shit.

Still, the realisation he wasn’t there gave me a second wind, a new lease of life. I cracked opened a bottle of wine and put my feet up. It’s been a good weekend I mused; I toasted myself, rolled a joint the size of my forefinger and put on some Ramones, at volume.

jolly good show

(This is late because WordPress were doing maintenence yesterday)

On Friday lunchtime I made a terrible mistake. It’s been a good long while since I darkened the doors of a hairdressers and for some reason better known to myself thought it would be a good idea to have a chop. My hair (was) quite long, I rather like it like that simply because I’m 101% Deathrocker and have this urge to display my fucking metal to the world. Anyway, forgetting myself I made the appointment and before I actually had to time to ponder my decision to undertake such a change, I was lying in a chair having my head massaged by a rather fetching black girl following its washing. That was the good part. After negotiating some sort of instruction to my ‘regular’ hairdresser he went to work and I left some 30 minutes later feeling, as one always does, like a self-conscious tool, hair glued stiff by Product which I always object to as it makes the inside of my crash helmet sticky. Speaking of helmets the resulting haircut looks like Darth Vader’s helmet, which means it looks like a helmet, as in ‘penis’. I knew it looked dreadful because when I returned to the office no one really commented on it despite being aware that I was taking a long lunch precisely to get my hair cut. Instead I was met with ‘oh, you’ve had your haircut’ and a sort of rictus-grin/frown.

After leaving work I hopped on the tube and met Swineshead (link to the right of this page, check Watch With Mothers too, I done writted in it) in a boozer in Covent Garden. The place was rammed but mercifully the aforementioned had managed to grab a table right in the back. Getting to and from the bar was a pain but we managed it… After being joined by his charming missus and her lively Italian friend we imbibed steadily but without pushing the boat out too far. The evening seemed to whiz by and all to soon it was time to go. The tube journey back was hideous, a loathsome creature boarded the northern line train at Leicester square and begun singing, at the top of his fucking voice, some sort of football chant about Chelsea or some such shit. The wanker just kept repeating it, over and over; one of his pathetic friends clearly not as refreshed or as enthusiastic attempted to join in. What got me about the latter was his reluctance to engage in such hooliganism yet he weakly undertook the task because he was a fucking cunt with no balls. I sincerely hope they both got knifed yesterday on the terraces by their own crew in their respective faces.

On Saturday I got up incredibly late, organised myself and did the usual shop, which wasn’t too bad on account of the lack of too much of a hangover. I returned home, unpacked, cut the lilles and before I’d had chance to finish my cup of tea I was off again, back on the tube and into town for the second time in 24 hours. I had been asked to join some close friends at The Groucho Club, yes, you heard me, The Groucho Club if you fucking please, for dinner to celebrate a splendid engagement. I arrived late after getting pissed about by various tube closures but just in time for an aperitif before we were escorted to the rather opulent dining room. The food was simple and delicious, just how I like it. I started with corned beef hash topped orf with the egg of a duck, salmon and haddock fishcakes for main in sorrel sauce, a triumph, and too much cheese to follow, a mistake as I was fucking stuffed. The wine was beautiful but the best part of the whole thing was the conversation. It was one of those evenings that just flowed, along with the booze of course.

After dinner we retired to the lounge for a few cocktails and what have you. French Polish, I couldn’t resist. It’s bloody strong, a troublemaker of a drink but really, darlings, sublime. As the evening wore on the clientele became more interesting. Being the place it is, it is at times hard to not find yourself staring at ones fellow drinkers/diners et al. They needn’t be famous, there are plenty of wealthy respected behind the scenes media types in there, writers, producers, directors etc., but unless one is a member or invited by a member you won’t get in. The upshot is that the place has an air of exclusivity about it, it’s a gentile environment but at the same time there is an undercurrent of creative tension, maybe a touch of the underworld, altogether its an atmosphere of perfect Bohemianism. Put it this way, when a group of distinguished looking men in their late 60’s arrive with an equal number of gorgeous 9 foot blondes a quarter of their ages it’s a cause for amusing conjecture as opposed to finger-pointing bewilderment.

After saying fond albeit speedy farewells to my friends as cabs were waiting, I was whisked home by Wassim, a thoroughly charming chap in a very sporty Mercedes. I discovered the more I complemented the power of his vehicle the more he hit the gas. At one point he kicked the back out circumventing the Vauxhall roundabout much to the shouts of encouragement from yours truly in the back seat.

I arrived home in one piece and had a nightcap to round the evening off…then I put on youtube to check out some music and had a couple more. I think I hit the hay at 5-ish utterly plastered. Today’s hangover is monumental but it was worth every pounding beat of my bloated heart.

(Congratulations you two, looking forward to the forthcoming shenanigans)


I’m totally fucking deaf in my right ear and therefore in a pitiful mood. This happens once in a while, it’s earwax based of course, not because I don’t clean my ears out but because I’ve been submerging my sweet little head in the bath for everyday for as long as I can remember, and somewhere along the way a piece of this crap has floated onto a vital part of the hearing system.

I feel as if half my brain is asleep, like half my head isn’t ‘working’ and it’s so fucking irritating. On my bike ride to work I called a women in a Mercedes a cunt for parking in front of me and gave a white van driver the bird and a torrent of abuse for not moving out of my way in a traffic queue. As I’m also partially deaf I was unable to monitor the volume of my yelling. Judging by the expressions on the faces of both motorists I think it was one under Brian Blessed.

Last night I met my mate from up the road for a pint in the local. On returning home I made myself deaf in the bath and ate an angry meal whilst slapping the side of my head in order to get some of my hearing back. It’s so fucking annoying, FUCK.

I’ve tried various treatments, Swim-Ear, Otex, warm Olive Oil, knitting needles, nothing works. I do have some Hopi Ear Candles at home but have yet been prepared to commit to an hour lying on my side with a burning rod poking out of my lughole, oddly. The bottom line is that I need to lose a morning making an appointment at the doctors to arrange an ear syringing. I’m loathed to do this, not just because it takes time but because the last time I was at the surgery I was humiliated by a doctor and I’ve not darken the doors since.

I was planning to fly to Tokyo and, as discussed in others parts of this blog, have an aversion to the whole metal tube/fake air deal. I decided to go the doctors and get some drugs off him, you know, for my nerves. Now, without wishing to put to fine a point in it, I don’t look as if I’m one to turn down a drink, let alone drugs. To make matters worse I had a hangover and, well, to be frank, looked dreadful.

I sat in the chair opposite the doctor who was already eyeing me up with more than a certain degree of suspicion. To help my case I upwardly converged to such a degree I sounded like a BBC News Broadcaster circa 1930 that I assume, subsequently, had the effect of making look like a public school rent boy. I began my pitch, which was perfectly honest in fairness to me under a glare of what can only be described as pure contempt by the seen-it-all-before doctor strange.

Under this pressure my speech began to wane, just enough for the perfectly silent Doctor to raise his chin by the merest degree forcing me to perform a body language ‘defence’ action, as soon as I touched my face I knew I was done for, my voice faltered, I stuttered and finally went bright red. By this time the Doctor was staring at me with such intent hatred I think that he’d have actually shat into his hand and flung it into my scarlet face if it weren’t for the Hippocratic oath.

Without a word from him, using nothing but mental power, he forced me to stand, turn and walk towards his door, just before I walked out of his office, I swear I felt his stare in the back of my head give me one final push.

I think those Hopi Ear Candles are in the bathroom.


I feel a lot more settled today that I did yesterday; I had a bottle of wine for a kick off last night and the resulting morning fug is both pleasant and heimlich.

Last night was a festival of TV, a daisy chain of delights, Dragons Den, Then Grand Designs, Buzzcocks, Newsnight and the highlight, a documentary on Blondie on BBC4. Throughout all of this I ate roast chicken, salt and vinegar ‘chipsticks’ and a packet of Bassett’s Sour Worms, which are fucking ace. I drunk wine, water and tea, smoked at will and even found a quiet spot for a wee explosion of creamed beef.

Grand Designs wasn’t as good as last weeks, I liked the couple enough but they sort of had their aesthetic wires crossed and the resulting building was a mess of old and new, neither aspect working. Subsequently the high octane Pathos-Factor was reduced to a mere trickle of vague concern… I think Pathos-Factor™ would make a good Saturday night TV show actually, I’ll get back to you on that one.

Anyway, Blondie. However thick/ignorant/musically-retarded/a cunt you are everyone knows Blondie. What you may not know it from whence they came. Last Autumn (or ‘Fall’ as they say out there, yeah) I was fortunate enough to visit CBGB (my apologies to friends who read this as they know of this to the point of wanting to cut out my tongue and use it as a peenie pad) in New York which is the birthplace of Punk, a lovely sleazy little place (go online if you don’t know about it, and think twice about reading this blog again) which sadly closed last October. Yours truly went to one of the last ever shows.

Blondie were famous through a mixture of luck and hard work, as is usually the case, they were seen as somewhat as a joke by their contemporaries (Ramones, Talking Heads, Patti Smith in particular didn’t like Debbie Harry) but the lead female was so utterly beautiful, in my opinion one of the most beautiful women to have ever fucking breathed, how could they go wrong? They came to mass public attention when there video for ‘In the Flesh’ was played on Australian TV by mistake, they became huge in the UK and the rest, as they say, is history. I’m not fluffing the story as the success part of the story, whilst interesting, isn’t as fascinating as the relationship between Chris Stein, the founder member, and Debbie herself.

Iggy Pop recalled a moment in the mid 70’s when both he and David Bowie were in CBGB trying to fuck her and even back then she’d politely decline on account of her relationship with Chris. Cut to 40 years later and there is Chris and Debbie being interviewed as if husband and wife, he looking dishevelled and aged and Debbie a shadow of her former beautiful self but still very attractive.

Physically she still has that classic beauty but something has burnt out, gone. It transpires that Chris and Debbie aren’t an item anymore, well, put it this way, Chris has 2 young kids with a female Joey Ramone look-a-like half his age, and Debbie tags along like a nanny or Auntie, trying to hide her apparent dislike of the mother of Chris’ children, the latter appears resigned to their relationship.

As far as I could work out, Debbie’s biological clock had been and gone (she was in her mid 30’s when Heart of Glass was number 1) Chris had wanted kids and being a man with a never ending stock of usable nut-cream had decided to make his genetic move with a subservient, leaving the love of his life in the unenviable position of just being there, tagging along.

As the credits rolled there was a little more of the film to go, an afterthought, perhaps shot even after the interview had officially ended. Debbie turned to Chris and said ‘We could’ve made it…’ he turned to face and said, ‘what, the band?’ she rested her hand on his shoulder and said ‘no, you and me’

It was heart breaking stuff and somewhere within a dreadful lesson about love and life.