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.