Daily Archives: March 12, 2007


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)