Monthly Archives: April 2007

100 and after

The alarm went off again, I was dimly aware of it having deployed earlier, maybe, but this time it went off I tried to focus on the cloudy red digital display that gradually converged into a recognisable time… it was 9.48, the train for Scarborough set off at 10.45 from King’s Cross, I did some mental maths whilst my stomach churned slowly over, ‘yes,’ I thought, ‘unless we leave NOW…’ My friend (with tits) was soundly asleep next to me, I tried to wake her but the most dreadful frown creased her forehead, ‘we gotta go’, I said breathlessly, a panic developing in my neck, ‘NOW, WE GOTTA FUCKING GO’. Unsurprisingly the ‘I’m not fucking going anywhere,’ whispered in response did little to assist my fear, after a full minute of quite pathetic pleading and, I’m ashamed to say, emotional blackmail. My friend (w.t.) arose, the frown was of such intensity she resembled The Borg as she shoved passed me to the bathroom, 9.54, it was going to be close but we could do it. We hastily dressed, grabbed the pre-packed bags and shoved them into her car. The idea was to move the car to a space in south London where they don’t have resident parking restrictions, the road parallel but one was such a place, it was near the tube and…we arrived, the brand new residents permits signs and ticket machine signalled disaster, it was 10.08, we were fucked.

The previous evening I’d met up with my brother in the boozer in Clapham we usually enjoy on Sunday, Swineshead popped by for a couple but my bro and I managed a healthy 4, plus a quick squirt of scotch to see us on our way. At some point in the pub my friend wt had called to say she was in my flat. I suggested that she took a bath and by the time she’d got ready I’d be back with wine and pizza. I got back at 9-ish, she’d prepared for tomorrow sorted herself with a few G&T’s so I made some food and we opened the wine. All was going swimmingly until I suggested we watch a bit of YouTube. For nearly 6 hours we indulged in a rigorous session of selection/clicking, drinking and, at times, intensely heavy conversation that was both devastating and optimistic. By the time we went to bed I noticed that there was one glass with maybe 2 fingers of wine left, the rest had been drunk. Not the smartest move in the world…

‘I’ll drive’, she said. I looked at her face, her large dark glasses concealed the worst of the noticeable damage, we agreed to go a Starbucks to get some coffee and food before we set off. Under the illusion that both of us we were ‘feeling better’ we pointed the car in the direction of up t’North and set off. The traffic was dreadful and our moods matched but after a shouting match and a fit of the giggles we both settled into the journey ahead. After 2 hours we cleared North London and launched on to the M1, up until this point things had been okay.

After 10 minutes on the M1 my friendwt became very quiet. Unless pissed off about something this wasn’t like her at all, and she wasn’t. ‘You alright Myfwt?’ I asked, ‘I feel sick P, in fact I’ve got to stop at the next services in order to ventilate my stomach.’ This worried me, I didn’t want her to feel sick and being a fairly new driver I was already aware of the pressure she was under to undertake such a whacking journey. I too wasn’t feeling great, despite already having smoking 3 cigarettes the thought of even looking at one now was enough to open the back of my throat.

We stopped off at a service station, Myfwt nipped off to the loo and half an hour later she returned looking pale and wane, ‘feeling better?’ I enquired gently, ‘a bit, enough to press on’. We got some more food for the road ahead and set off again. A short while later I had the most awful panic attack, it was of such intensity that I was unable to apply my usual process of enforced logic into the equation, it wholly refused to lose it’s grip, Myfwt was getting nervous but not as nervous as I, I don’t recall having a panic with such strength and certainly not for such a protracted period of time. I was simply unable to grab enough oxygen so I sat on the front seat gasping like Albert Steptoe following a 100 Yard dash and quite suddenly, and very unusually, I let out a burp that would’ve upset the Undead and threw up.

I managed to grab a Starbucks coffee cup in the nick of time so I didn’t make too much of a mess but I was dimly aware of the occupants of passing vehicles pointing at a white-faced yob ejecting poison from his jutting lower jaw. Myfwt rubbed my back as she heroically drove on and shortly I’d settled down, the panic swilling around in the coffee cup and dribbling down my fingers.

We slowly settled down into the journey, it was a beautiful warm day, perhaps a little too warm for the drive and the condition of the passengers but, at least, not raining or foggy. At the same time we both became dangerously soporific, I was actually starting to dream with my eyes fluttering on the edge of unconsciousness, for the sake of my driver I remained awake but at a service station near Nottingham we parked up and slept for 30 minutes. By now it was getting late, we’d already missed high tea at the hotel but were on target for dinner, maybe a drink beforehand…

We pressed on, by now we were both beginning to enjoy the journey, the beautiful scenery as we hit Yorkshire, the glare of oil see rape, fat crows, rooks, gorse and endless communities of tress was enough for both of us to independently remark on how wonderful it was to be outside of London, or any city for that matter. At about 6.15pm we arrived at the hotel in Scarborough located on the cliff of the North Bay overlooking the sea. Hastily we unpacked, showered, changed and met the family in the large lounge by the bar.

There were about 40 of us in total, my parents, auntie’s, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews and extended family, some of which I’d never met, and in the middle of it all, granddad, 100 years old and a day, not looking a day over 70. Apart from having a few issues with eyesight he’s a sharp as a nail. I felt a deep sense of pride. Myfwt and I hastily greeted as many family members as we could, everyone knew of our journey problems as I’d been in regular contact with my bro and my mum so conversation was anything but stifled.

The hotel itself was akin to a smaller English version of The Overlook hotel, it was an anachronism, a functioning time warp but pleasant enough, faded opulence mixed with gaudy fixtures and fittings strained the eye, yet it was comfortable and the staff friendly and weird in equal measures. The food was basic but fresh, quite delicious in hindsight and following pudding my granddad gave a reminiscent speech peppered with risqué jokes whilst a passing reveller dressed in a wig and a dress pressed his genitals against the glass outside.

We took our drinks back to the lounge and carried on drinking as guests slowly retired to their rooms. Finally, at about 2am there were 5 of us, my cousin and his wife, another cousin who’d I never met before and Myfwt. We chatted about families, pharmaceuticals, fashion and ordered more wines and whiskies, then a platter of sandwiches to stave off the inevitable hangover. At around 4 am we staggered off to our respective rooms and before my head hit the pillow I was out like the proverbial light.

Myfwt and I skipped breakfast; we were late surfacing from the pit but arrived in time to hear my grandfather provide history on the family, from the stowaway Jewish German boy that was my great, great grandfather to the wife beater that was my great grandfather and finally some tales of the early life of my grandfather from Burma to my grandmother and his illustrious career that led to his short friendship with Winston Churchill. Before leaving for London Myfwt and I walked down the cliff to visit the vast array of amusement arcades that faced the beach. I’d not been there since I was a boy and was surprised to find that many of the 1 and 2p slot machines I played 30 years ago were still in operation, and just as fascinating, but for slightly different reasons. The seafront was packed with families, ice cream, inexpensive tat, rock, candies, hot dogs… everything that a seaside town can offer without a hint of irony or self deprecation…truly wonderful and aside from the odd cluster of tearaways maintains an innocence and charm about it almost too obscure to adequately put into words in such a short period of time.

We went back to the hotel, grabbed our already packed luggage and, before wishing those that remained a fond farewell, left for home at 1pm. The journey back wasn’t dissimilar to the one there, but there was no sign of the desire to puke or panic. The pressure to not arrive anywhere at a specific time was a blessing and as soon as we left the coast the sun yawned through the clouds until the sky was a deep blue.

Due to the weather and the splendid roads Yorkshire was packed full of bikers, it certainly made the journey back a lot more interesting than the one down, though a little frustrating as I wanted to be one of the pack. We bought food from service stations along the way and in one godforsaken place near Northampton Myfwt took a well-deserved nap as I smoked staring at the poor bastards about to board a National Express coach. We passed Silverstone at almost the exact time the crowds that had been attending the British Superbike championships were leaving for home. Utter joy as hundreds of machines screamed past in both directions, I clapped like a wanker, the hairs on the back of neck sat erect as fat groups of heroes wuzzed by.

The final part of the journey was exhausting, both of us were having problems staying awake but after nearly 6 hours we arrived back at the flat following a short visit to get some soup and wine from Tesco. I ran Myfwt a bath whilst I sorted supper, by now it was nearly 9, we ate in front of the TV both of us quite subdued, speaking for myself I was feeling melancholy due the passing of a splendid weekend and a few other matters not for here. I decided not to drink any wine, despite the desire to do so.

Seeing Frank this evening, something pleasant to focus on, which is just as well because I’m feeling less than happy sat here at work. I’ve also noticed that I’ve managed to write quite a few words without swearing much, surely that’s a fucking first…

Happy Birthday Pop.


1 day before 100

Yesterday afternoon crawled past, the prior evenings festivities gradually faded away as I sat at the fucking desk trying to connect to my workload. After an age it was time to leave, I jumped on the Triumph in the pissing rain and arrived home relatively unscathed, the shower had past by mid trip and the spring breeze had seen to the subsequent damp.

Sadly, it wasn’t just me that had noticed the passing of the clouds, after parking up my bike and covering it over with the canvas, the fucking front door began to open and my heart sank to the soles of my feet. Cunt’s fucking idiot head appeared, baseball hated up, big black cheap sunglasses and an expression you may see on a masturbating primate. Behind him his cadaverous partner dragging a perfectly silent blank faced infant locked down in its buggy. I made the necessary pleasantries as my mind screamed ‘escape’.

Cunt said something incomprehensible whilst I poked at his daughter’s cheek in order for it to react with a fundamental emotion. It looked at me as if I were unpleasant food. I weakly asked Cunt to repeat his question; it was ‘are they Armani?’ Bit like asking Ghandi if his sandals are Jimmy Choo. He was referring to my dark glasses, ‘No’ I replied, managing to get past the entire family in under 30seconds, nodding inanely as the bastard conversation was twisted in my favour culminating in an outstretched arm bearing a single key to freedom.

I met up with my mate from up the road, (heron known as Frank to inject some personality into my mutterings). Frank and I drunk Spitfire and discussed families, his partners father had just died and was having to deal with the aftermath which was, as one would expect, calamitous. Frank was doing a good job, however, and the relationship had taken a more positive step through a duty of care. After a few pints he and I shuffled off to our relative flats, I passed by Tesco to grab some basic items and arrived back home in time for a bath before House, which I’m oddly addicted to. I’m not a massive fan of American TV (apart from Family Guy) but for some reason this pulls my chain.

After a supper of broccoli and sausages baked in a cheese and onion sauce I flaked out in front of the Snooker but was forced to retire shortly after, shattered.

I couldn’t be arsed to cycle in the morning so I took the Triumph. The office is half empty and someone is trying to fucking sue me for ‘breach of contract’ which could only be the case if he or I were so fucking stupid Cunt could beat the other at Snap.

Meeting up with friends tonight (including the one with tits) and preparing for a trip up North to celebrate my granddad’s 100th birthday over the weekend… It should be a good one so tune in on Monday to see how pissed I got.

Oh, today’s tune, don’t fucking turn this off because you don’t like the look of the beginning, deal with it, one of the best bands in the world. If you don’t like it now try it after a few wines.

Ladies and gentlemen, pray silence please…


late/never

Yesterday evening following a pretty hectic day at work I climbed into my bosses Volvo, a work colleague/friend and the bosses wife joined us and we pootled off to town as we had to attended the launch of a large music event that takes place over the summer.

Suited and booted as per instruction we were all in fairly high spirits, largely down to the forthcoming hospitality. About 10 minutes away from out destination I got a call from my mate in NYC inviting me on a fully paid up trip to The Cannes Film Festival. At first I didn’t think I’d be able to make it on account of my mum’s retirement bash but the (dates don’t coincide as it turns out) real issue was that my boss heard the call and vetoed the trip on the grounds that the dates would prevent me from meeting a fucking deadline.

Needless to say I’m less than impressed by this directive and am trying to figure out a way round it…

We arrived at the venue, free champagne and wine with little fucking pointless canapés being handed about by shy pretty girls dressed in 20’s clobber was a boon. A speech was made and the mingling began. After a couple of hours my friend from work, her boyfriend, a music journo and I all slipped off to a friendly half empty boozer near Baker Street after meeting each other with the other handful of smokers outside. We drunk steadily, the banter was friendly and interesting and at some point later I found myself in a black cab on my way home.

I woke this morning feeling shit, aware that last night was essentially ‘work’ I stayed in bed until 11am before lazily getting dressed; clambering aboard my Triumph (the bicycle can get fucked) and arriving here about an hour ago.

This explains why today’s blog is both late and short, I need a fucking blood transfusion.

Lazy offing today and yes, I do like them so fuck off


piquedonory

I had a day off yesterday. At about 11am my friend (with tits) who was suffering an epic hangover popped by following last night’s drinks in the bar in Wandsworth. I made a sofa bed up which she flopped in after a small sick-up in the bathroom. After a few minutes of tlc I made her some spaghetti hoops on toast which served in some way to initiate basic recovery. Just before I was due to go to read to the kids she dozed off. I left her asleep on my sofa, grabbed my lid and left for school.

I arrived at my mate’s school at one pm, as arranged. I parked up the motorcycle under the scrutiny of 150 little people who stopped what they were doing and turned to face me. It was like the end scene from The Village of the Damned. Feeling slightly nervous I signed the visitors book and was directed to the staff room. I met some of the teachers and my mate took me to his classroom with a cup of tea. I was given some basic advice on how to conduct myself with regard to questions from the kids, how to inject some educational value into the reading with reference to words they might not get and to ensure they were thinking about possible plot options for the sake of retaining their attention.

After lunch the kids filed in, as expected, gawping at the new boy in the class who sat nervously chatting to the teacher clutching his 2-page story. The kids were between 8 and 9 and all manner of colour and shapes, the last time I’d seen so many kids of that age in one go I was one of them so I was rather surprised when it all felt oddly familiar. My mate slipped into his mode as a pro allowing his charges some degree of free expression as they recovered from their exuberant lunch break, but making it known that he was the gov’nor. (For those of you who know whom I’m talking about you should be dead proud of him).

After I was introduced to them my mate set them some tasks to be completed following my story. The classroom was arranged so they could sit in front of me, which they did, inches away from my face and I began my tale (which you can find on this website in March’s archive, I think, It’s called ‘Bill’s Midnight Feast’). It went down remarkably well; they seemed engaged, excited, even, and laughed at the poo and fart jokes accordingly. At one point they were required to pull the face of Bill needing to take a trog following the spontaneous expression pulled by a little girl at the front, they all heroically complied. I was rather taken with them actually and whilst wondering why on earth I wasn’t a teacher was given some background information on some of their home lives and remembered why. I couldn’t take the strain emotionally, they’re all so vulnerable and the thought of them being neglected or even physically harmed is too much to contemplate. I also acknowledged how lucky I was growing up. It was sobering stuff that I’m still digesting as I write this.

Following the story the kids were given sheets of paper with some simple questions about what they’d just been read. They were also asked to design a book cover for the story, which will be judged in the pub, probably. I suggested that a bar of chocolate would be an appropriate prize, the reaction from the kids was akin to informing Albert Steptoe he’d just won the Pools. Just before I left I saw some of the designs they’d come up with, seeing how their imaginations had responded to my tale indeed, just seeing my name in all manner of childish fonts was inspiring. So much so I’m going to try and write some more children’s stories…

After an hour and a half or so it was time to go, I said goodbye to the children who after some coercion from my mate noisily thanked me. A little mixed race girl escorted me out of the building, she was shy, polite and, as I’d discovered, troubled. Her mother was a drug addict and she’d regularly miss meals at home (she’d not had breakfast this morning) and was required to give up her bedroom when one of mummy’s numerous junkie friends crashed over. That’s why I couldn’t do the job my mate does, but for the sake of at least one part of infant community, you should be glad he doesn’t feel the same.

Early in the evening my friend (with tits) came over and crashed out in front of the TV whilst I popped to a pub to meet my schoolteacher mate. He’d brought all the kids’ post-story work in order for us to judge the competition winner. As it turned out the little girl that had escorted me out the school was the winner, but we had a fine time checking the drawings reading the reviews that ranged from the frankly bizarre to surprisingly adept. Oddly the basic plot for Bill’s next ‘adventure’ arrived on my walk to the pub yesterday evening.

After a few pints I bid my mate a fond farewell and slid off home. It was nice having my friend (w.t.) there when I arrived back, I made some supper (sausage, beans and mash, which seemed appropriate) and we squandered the rest of the evening in a most pleasant manner, chatting, smoking and in my case, the odd glass of Claret.

This morning, my friend (wt) gave me a lift to work as I have a fucking work-related function that requires me to wear a fucking whistle and I didn’t fancy public transport. I’m sat here looking as if I’ve just been released from Wandsworth nick and, as I type this, its not only Bill who needs a poo.

This one is for Joey, I saw this performed by this pop group on the day he died…

Turn it up


shorty

 

At about 3am this morning I decided I really should go to bed. Fucking YouTube had forced me into an addictive connection of music. Virtually everything I asked for popped up in some form or another leading on to more and more tempting avenues, really it’s worse than being an extra in Christiane F.

 

I’d had a pretty lazy Monday, I was still aware that I’d not had my full weekend quota of sleep so I lazily flopped about the office achieving enough to sustain my income. Physically I was aching from the weekend, the balls of my feet are wrecked though the Sunday am hurl, I suspect, was largely responsible for my malaise, despite this I heroically cycled to and from work.

 

I made dinner earlier than usual as I was expecting a visit from a friend, my first ever girlfriend in fact. I was a world weary 14 and she an experienced 13 year old when we met, we’ve been in touch ever since. She now lives in Switzerland because her partner is so loaded it’s more cost effective in terms of tax, so seeing her is somewhat of an event. She brought a bottle of wine over and we chatted over a glass before getting a taxi to a champagne bar near Wandsworth Common. Earlier in the evening my friend (with tits) invited me out to hook up with her and a work colleague, I’m afraid I imposed the trip on my visitor because I am particularly fond of my friend (w.tits.) and didn’t want to spurn an invitation, besides, I wanted to check out her (married with kids) work colleague as a bloke-bell had gone off (we do have them ladies, it’s not just you that get flap tingles when something doesn’t seem ‘right’). Not that I suspected anything untoward on her part I hasten to add.

 

We arrived in good time and the 4 of us chatted and drank steadily. My friend (w.t.) was a little squiffy but most certainly in good spirits; her work colleague and I made each other’s acquaintance whilst my visitor and my friend (w.t.) twittered away as birds do. They know each other of old which makes things so much more amicable. I was chatting to my friend (w.t.) colleague who seemed rather nervous about his newly acquired companions.

 

After regaling a story about a hard living friend of hers who’d attempted suicide by taking handfuls of pills, drinking almost 3 bottles of scotch and waking hung over free 3 days later, my visitor had to leave as she was due back to Switzerland the following morning, I saw her to her car and off she went into the night. It was lovely to see her, there is a chance she’ll be back in London for good shortly, we’ll see.

 

Short entry today as my friend (w.t.) is on her way over and this afternoon I’m reading the kids story I posted on here to a classroom of 8 year olds. I need to straighten up. But at least the hard work I put in researching today’s tune will be of some value, indeed, the next week is covered.

 


stags n’ trees

I woke Sunday morning; it was about 4 am in unfamiliar surroundings. My mind asked me a question. ‘Are you going to vomit, sir?’ It pondered briefly, ‘Erm, yes, yes I am…’ I had enough time to choose between the sink and the toilet; I opted for the former, with a polite hand to the mouth I cleared my throat and then expelled purple lumps in 3 dreadful 10-second sessions. Shortly after I returned to bed, still unsure as to where I was. It certainly wasn’t home.

On Friday following work I’d decided that I was going to have an early night, not drink wine and do a spot of packing. There was a chance that I would meet my mate from up the road but sadly, his missus’ father had just died and he was required to be on hand for obvious reasons. Being the OCD infused berk I’m capable of being, I arranged one essentially packed rucksack with a plastic bag inside containing the exact items I’d need to leave in the hotel when I arrived at tomorrows destination, the rest of the stuff I’d need on hand when walking in the countryside so keeping the bag light was a priority too. I was due to meet a couple of friends at Waterloo for a quarter to eight the following day so I duly set my alarm, checking to make sure it was loud enough to stir me from my pit, and settled down for the evening.

I woke Saturday morning sensing something wasn’t at all right. Like an utter cunt (with a spot of dyscalculia I hasten to add) I’d set the fucking alarm for 7.35am, not 6.35am as intended and flew into a full on panic. For the last few weeks a steady trickle of e-mails had arrived on my desktop keeping me fully informed of arrangements and schedules, the hotel and train tickets were booked, the party of 13 had been allocated various duties, if any, and all in all everyone was ready to go. Except for me. I was in my bedroom trying to understand how I’d been so fucking stupid, in need of a sedative. Suddenly a solution offered itself to me that was almost as annoying as magnificent. Why don’t I get on the bike and ride down there? Why hadn’t I considered that in the first place before spending 40 fucking lost quid on train tickets?

I had a quick cup of tea and made some toast and marmalade. The Doc Marten boots in the rucksack I’d packed for walking would be perfect for the bike ride; my jeans were adequate for the time of year so I wasn’t even required to pack anything else save a few related bike documents. I checked the route on the AA website, seemed straightforward enough, grabbed my lid and set off. I fuelled up and put some air in my tyres and 5 minutes later it was just the bike, the road and I. The weather was ideal, warm without being too hot, clear, bright and sunny and despite a few reservations on punctuality (we were all due to meet at the hotel at 11.30) and indeed my route, I felt quite calm. As soon as I got onto the A3 I started to enjoy myself, because it was still relatively early and the weekend traffic was sparse, and on account of my clear head and desire to get to my destination as soon as possible, I didn’t hang about.

For those who don’t ride a powerful motorcycle trying to describe the sensation of moving so quickly through the universe on a machine is quite hard. The air is clear in every possible direction, the merest movement has a direct consequence to the forces of gravity and ones physical response therein. It’s a sublime, delicate feeling of literal freedom as one balances on the cusp between joie de vivre and death. A3, M25, M3, I was making good time, I was cruising at 100mph occasionally taking it a little further when the conditions dictated. At Winchester services I made some adjustments to the rear chain and after encountering a fucking issue with the c-spanner that nearly required the services of the AA (for the second time that day) smoked a cigarette.

I set off for the last leg of the journey and stumbled across the destined hotel, located in the New Forest, in record time. Ignoring the problems with the rear chain, door to door, I’d made it in just over an hour. In fact I was the first person to arrive, ironically I thought.

Mostly in pairs the crew assembled at the hotel. Genuine pleasantries were exchanged, we checked-in and went directly to the nearest pub at midday, we pooled our cash and drank 4 pints of real ale. It was a great crowd, I knew most of them quite well and those I didn’t, I recognised with fondness. The stag himself had arrived with his dad and was full of beans, another of the crew had organised a walk through the New Forest taking in interesting aspects of our location as we went. It may seem like a strange thing to do for a stag weekend but it was a wonderful idea, I hadn’t walked in such a large group and in such stunning scenery for a decade, the weather was excellent, the company charming and everyone was a bit pissed to boot.

Among our group were a couple of wildlife buffs who we able to alert us Londoners to aspects of interests of worth, being spring the scenery was an explosion of colour and perfume, in addition to lively banter and chatter the going was good too, it was quite perfect, as I sit here in my flat writing this, dreamlike almost. That may have had something to do with the HSB too.

After a few miles we stopped for lunch at a traditional English Country pub in lovely surroundings. I had a fucking enormous lump of beer battered cod that was excellent by anyone’s standards and another 4 pints of real ale, I believe it was called ‘Landlord’, it was delicious. The booze had little effect on our pace; at least, I was unaware that it did. We rambled happily on though a decision was taken to curb the length of the walk, probably as a direct result of imbibing. Even now we’re all unsure how many miles we’d walked, between 4 and 7 seemed to be the general consensus, personally I think it was closer to the latter but I am from the city so don’t ask me. Anyway, by now things were getting a little vague. Someone suggested we return to the hotel to change for dinner…

Early in the evening we arrived at the final hostelry of the day. Another lovely traditional English pub with low wooden beams, a warm atmosphere and a carnivorous kitchen. Ales were slipped away and at some point I opted for a game pie for dinner, which was excellent, so good was it that it was finished off by friends whose meals hadn’t been to their satisfaction. Needless to say more drinking entered proceedings but by now having bonded with everyone the evening took on a life of it’s own, serious conversation mixed with trivia, jokes (mainly off colour) and for my stag pal and a few of the crew, darts. From where I sit now typing this I am left with the indelible vibe of a truly joyous evening, I don’t think Jesus himself would’ve been able to assemble a more congenial group of people. My only regret is to have stuck with my original intention of avoiding red wine after all those beers…

The jolly red-faced pissed landlord served us into midnight and then it was time to go. Sensibly the stag had already nipped off back to the hotel with his dad with a few of his crew. The remainder of us undertook the short walk back to the hotel with a magical bottle of wine and a few half full glasses. On arrival there were a couple of peroxide blondes, one big, one not so big but both as plain as wooden laminate watching television. One looked distinctly like Pat Butcher from Eastenders (A British TV soap opera) and someone, not sure who but I don’t think it was me, pointed this out. They left. We followed shortly as it was late and most definitely time for bed.

I was quite pleased I had thrown up on Sunday because my hangover wasn’t half as bad as by rights it should’ve been. But there was one snag, a fucking scary one at that. The puking had enflamed the back of my throat which meant it was almost impossible to swallow, subsequently I had a faultless panic attack and the only thing that prevented from me from calling the emergency services was applied logic. Still, I was so worried I wasn’t going to be able to eat without choking I avoided breakfast as even sipping water was problematic. It’s not 100% now but much better.

Some of the chaps had to get going for the station but a few of us, including our stag, checked out the Hotel and walked down the road to a field occupied by a few cows and horses, one of which had a cock the size of drainpipe and judging by his tumult tremulous condition, looked as if he was ready to use it. Mercifully he wondered off in search of a suitable orifice and we set up the wickets for a game of cricket. Being shit at sport and having a jot of back pain I hung about before making my excuses and leaving. After wishing everyone a fond farewell, especially the stag, I jumped back on my bike, filled up at a local gas station and shot off home.

The journey back was just as quick as the one there, and just as enjoyable, particularly as there were many bikes out in the sunshine and riders passed me with nods and the occasional wave. On the way back I stopped off at my parents, just in time for the motorcycle racing on TV. I sat watching it with dad while mum fussed about in the kitchen and garden. It was jolly nice to see them though I was happy to leave after a couple of hours to get back to the flat and take a well deserved bath.

Shortly I’m off to meet my bro and his missus at the usual boozer in Clapham, it’s a gorgeous evening and I’m sure will conclude the end to a wonderful weekend.

Congratulations Mr. Stag, looking forward to the big day.

(Oh, a mate has suggested that I use fake names in the blogs as, apparently, it’s getting hard to follow at times. I’ve thought about this and when necessary I will, thanks Harry)

Today’s Tube offing is a classic, nice vid too


getting my shit together

My evening begun in excellent circumstances. I mean even the tube journey to Clapham Common was acceptable. I was due to meet my bro in the pub at 6 but we arrived at the same time on the tube platform, we walked up the road in the warm evening sunshine to our pub of choice and, after waiting fucking hours to get served, discussed the matters of the day, namely Cho and his guns o’ doom.

The pub in question is frequented by those awful media types that hang out in hip clubs and bars at the weekend, actually, I’m not entirely sure why I like it, perhaps because the atmosphere is, despite being poncy, congenial and that the clientele are largely polite and, for want of a better word, respectful. Last night for example, following a few ales, I opened the cubicle door in the boozer loo with some force, in error, and smashed a chap right in the face. When I pulled the door back I’d actually managed to push his glasses up his nose slapstick style, without missing a beat he looked me squarely in the eye and said’ sorry’.

I arrived home before 9 pm in reasonable spirits, I wanted to watch that programme about a nonce on channel 4 which I’ve reveiwed in Watch With Mothers (link right, just there look—>) and in order to do that I had prepare myself for the following day before it began, because I’m odd like that, and make something to eat.

This morning I cycled in again, that’s the whole week, first time I’ve done that in just under 2 years. Subsequently my back is feeling better and I feel quite prepared for the weekend’s shenanigans, essentially a stag-do with walking involved, expect a full review next week.

It’s fucking dead in the office this morning, a handful of staff are gawping into monitors, including one new member in his mid 20’s who is both ginger and balding, a deadly combination and to happen in one so young is a tragedy. It’s got me to thinking how I’d cope with such an affliction, it’s not as if his disorder is offset with rugged good looks and a dazzling personality. He dresses like a New York bum and the only time I heard him talk was when he was asking another member staff if they could get hold of a poster for Showboat. Fucking Showboat! What sort of a man even says the word out loud, let alone admitting to liking it so much they want a fucking poster of it. He must be good at arranging flowers. Anyway, he sat across the way blowing his fucking nose like a granny, not doing any work and generally being all weird. (Why doesn’t he just fucking shave it off?)

I’m going to get through the day, get back home and prepare for tomorrow, preparation includes not going to the pub or drinking too much as I need to be up at fucking 7am to get to the station to hook up with the chaps to take the train…

Oh my congratulations to the son from my mate oop t’north as he’s just taken his first shit in a potty. Well done lad, lets just hope you don’t have the same odour affliction as your father who can down passing sparrows.

Imagine going bald AND being ginger, Jesus.

Oh, on the subject of afflictions, yes, he’s Welsh but he’s also jolly good and partially responsible for one of the 20th century’s most important bands. If you’re very good I may well present some of the stuff of the first band Jools mentions…


sunshine and firearms

Everyday in every way I’m getting better and betterer…

Mercifully, I met my mate up the road for a pint yesterday evening, he needed it as much as I on account of his dedication to his missus who is having a pretty ropey time. The pub was rammed full of football types who seem to spend a great deal of time looking utterly bemused and clasping their foreheads as if needing confirmation that there is at least a possibility of a brain on account of the top bit.

We had a pleasant, albeit quite short evening, and I pottered off to Tesco on my way home. Despite being harangued by a short fat Pocahontas type, who loudly accused me of bumping into her with a lascivious grin (I don’t think, ‘I’m not, I’m trying to find the fucking bin liners’ was quite what she wanted to hear) I made it home safe and sound with everything required save the fucking bin liners.

I watched Grand Designs in the kitchen as I prepared a salmon, prawn and pea gratin (with a mustard sauce) joined by a glass of Chianti, which was pleasant beyond my expectations. Dinner was a triumph, the wine was going down well and then I made the fatal mistake of putting some music on. Subsequently I’m with hangover.

What I did catch last night was the news in which I saw videos of that fucking berk that shot up a bunch of his classmates. It’s odd, watching his videos reminded me of a WWF wrestler prior to going into the ring for a choreographed flop about with an equally faux-angry muscle bound fairy, except this chap took the time out between killings to set up the camera, video himself, post the completed rant to NBC prior to nipping back out to kill 30 kids. The problem is that I found the videos almost laughable and they sort of undermined the tragedy of what he’d actually done.

I’m also getting concerned about this obsession with the gunman’s ‘anger’ and how it’s being perceived through his writing. Personally I think the fact that a mentally unstable 23 year old kid can just walk into a fucking shop and buy a pair of guns may be more pertinent here but that’s just silly old me. Either way, I still find his videos vaguely amusing and I’m finding it hard to locate the hate button, which is rather odd. I’m also finding the timing, with regard to the college massacre, of almost 200 dead in Iraq yesterday (the most since the US security drive began) problematic too.

It’s a stunning day today, sunny, warm and the sky is a cloudless deep blue. The cycle into work was undertaken as if on autopilot due to the booze angst. For the past few days now, on exactly the same part of the towpath, I’ve approached and passed this tubby blue object on a bicycle. She’s gone for the full fucking outfit, lycra shorts/top, helmet, shades, gloves and proper cycle shoes. She looks like something out of Battlestar Galactica, but fatter.

Right pop pickers here’s your link. This one is a beauty; please pay attention to the ‘fans’


another day, another

Depressingly I’ve just predicted the future.

After reading about that little berk that shot up 32 people in Virginia I’ve been informed that the University authorities were ‘warned ’ about him a couple of years ago… Oooh, I thought, what have the authorities missed now! ‘Heads are going to roll’ I concluded before I’d even finished reading the article (obviously the NRA are perpetually exempt in all of this) what did he do?

Well, it turns out in creative writing classes he wrote ‘disturbing pieces’.

Has anyone read 120 Days of Sodom? I don’t recall the Marquis De Sade going on a Parisian rampage with a Flintlock Pistol; the only thing he abused was an anal dildo in the Bastille. Does this now mean that any child who writes things that aren’t to everyone’s taste will be scrutinised, compromised, investigated even? Come on people this is 21st century USA we’re talking about here, yeah. So the answer is fucking ‘yes’, then.

I’m feeling a little better today; the malaise is still apparent but somewhat suppressed due to nothing more than ones personal joie de vivre, sort of. I think my angst stems from the annual feeling that I’ve failed in some way; I never spent all those years studying to wind up at a desk with a boss for example, all my friends are either married, or with kids, or both. I think I’d quite fancy that sense of paternity; indeed, I’ve always been keen, even when my peers, now with 2 or more kids felt that the concept of ‘family’ was conventional and conformist. In fact, looking around, despite my family and friends of whom I’m very fond, I’ve got ‘me’. And this is why yesterday was so difficult because that connection with the self wasn’t apparent, in addition to realising that I didn’t just want ‘me’ anymore.

Well, it’s a fucking blog, it’s going to get heavy sometimes so deal with it.

Anyway, last night I had a bottle of wine, a couple of scotches and a few spiffs. I ate roast chicken and broccoli, pate and crackers and all in all had a jolly evening, eventually. I spent most of the evening giggling like a git at the TV, pausing occasionally to order my thoughts in terms of the days disconsolateness. One highlight was a programme on BBC3 called ‘Panic Room’ in which two people are persuaded to overcome everyday phobias by psychologists and the use of BBC f/x, props and resources. The Welsh chap who didn’t like fish (but did a bloody good Robbie Williams impression I hasten to add) vomited at the site of them. In fact, he even threw up in the actual panic room. His case was a lot more interesting than the enormous women who hated snakes, as it was clear as day she feared cock.

Oh, I’ve decided that Family Guy is better than The Simpsons too…

Special treat today my little Pique a Boos. It’s nearly 10 minutes long, two classic songs that, as they are on the album, run from one into the other. Please forgive the silly opening but when it kicks off it’s nothing short of illustrious.

(Best enjoyed with narcotics)


off colour with bells

I’m not right

I’m feeling disconnected, alienated and removed from everything including the fundamental self. It’s almost impossible to describe and I’m not entirely sure what has triggered this.

I had booze free one last night, ate before 9pm, watched TV, read, even went to bed before midnight, but was dimly aware of feeling a little, well, odd. Obviously I put this down to the lack of wine coupled with an exhausting day in the office (for no reason I hasten to add, there was this general malaise in here) and generally the passage that leads one out of one season to another.

Those weird little trips I described in yesterdays post, I had at least 3 last night, let me try and explain them. I seem to have a bunch over a few days in 4 monthly phases…First off it’s as if I’m trying to remember something in the midst of a rush. A familiar taste comes into my mouth and, in addition to whatever it is I’m trying to recall, I’m also trying to work out what the taste in my mouth is. For maybe 30 seconds this feeling is nothing short of euphoric but as it passes I become nauseous, sometime to the point I think I’m going to puke (on one occasion I did). The whole experience lasts no more than a minute.

Weirdness abounds though. Nothing seems to be right. I had really bizarre dreams last night, none of which I can recall but I know they were weird because when I woke up this morning I was aware that they had been. It was then I was convinced it was Friday and that tomorrow I was off for the weekend to the New Forest for a mate’s stag weekend, yet I’d not packed anything and was unsure as to what to do.

Once I’d established it was indeed Tuesday normality was decimated by how dark it was outside. For the last few weeks it’s been exceptionally bright, on occasion mid-summer warm. Not today, dark skies with a noticeable nip in the air, I should imagine the seasonal average but not what I’m used to as of late. The cycle to work was conducted automatically; I was desperately trying to remember exactly what I had done the previous evening, indeed, the previous day and even the weekend. My memory had all but disappeared, I knew I’d seen my friend (wt) on Saturday but had utterly forgotten what we’d done and I couldn’t recall meeting my bro for our usual Sunday drinks in Clapham.

I came into the office about an hour ago. It was virtually empty and those that had made it in were colleagues I don’t know that well. Even as I sit here now there are only 7 of us sitting in virtual silence. Nothing is happening to break this feeling of disassociation, but everything is conspiring against me to reinforce it.

My apologies to regular readers of this post, hopefully things will have settled down tomorrow but today, I can’t be fucked.

However, I would appreciate it if anyone else is feeling similar to comment.


off colour

I’m feeling rough, a bit iffey. I’ve just taken a shit, which, in terms of the time of the day is highly unusual. I never poo at this time of the day. What’s the matter with me?

In addition to the odd plop schedule I’m feeling dizzy and have just had one of those weird little trips. They are impossible to describe but, essentially, they begin all of sudden, they are wholly incapacitating and they are both very pleasant and vomit inducing all at once. They last for no more than a minute and I’ve no idea what the fuck they are.

I cycled in today and I am really paying for it. This is the first Monday I’ve undertaken such a task for over a year. I’m fully aware that I’m hungover, though not critically, but oddly it only came on 15 minutes after I got off the bicycle. This fact alone is making me nervous and on top of that I feel disconnected and weak.

I had a splendid weekend. I left work a little early on Friday in order to be in Covent Garden in good time to meet my bro. We convened at 5.45 in our usual boozer and had a few pints. It was a glorious evening, not too hot and the sun seemed to take a while to set. It could’ve been July. Just as dusk settled we decided to have dinner at Browns, I don’t normally do names but the food was so fucking awful its worth mentioning. Despite this it didn’t put us off from having a very civilised evening, the wine was jolly enough and we were able to finish off the night sat at the brass-topped bar trying to digest the muck we’d eaten. Shortly before leaving my bro’s missus came to join us following an unfulfilling night on the tiles with colleagues and we all managed to get on the last tube leaving from Leicester Square, which was rammed with drunks, like us.

I woke relatively early the next day as I was meeting my friend (with tits). She and I had arranged for her to come over for breakfast before we went off shopping. Following smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, coffee and toast we set off. It was a gorgeous day, bright, sunny, warm and we were in fine fettle. Following a successful exchange of garments in Wimbledon village she and I drove to Clapham Junction as I needed to procure a new suit for a few major events over the next month. I have a black one I bought last year from Marks and Spencer which is okay I suppose but not really up to the mixture of forthcoming shenanigans . After a bit of too-ing and fro-ing and thanks to the advice of my friend (wt) I ended up purchasing a rather snazzy number and matching tie that will be ideal, despite the fact it’s a very dark brown and I don’t really go brown (though I have been known to, eh lads. When I say ‘eh lads’ I don’t mean with lads, lads).

After we’d had a pair of drinks overlooking a glorious Wandsworth Common she took me home and left. I didn’t like that bit. Undeterred I went directly out to meet my mate from up the road and his missus in pretty beer garden near my flat. After a chat and a few pints I popped into Tesco to get some odds and sods. Unfortunately as I was getting into my flat Cunt appeared.

I need to make one thing quite clear. Cunt knows I have a posh degree; therefore Cunt will automatically talk bollocks to me. He’ll try to make everything, anything a reason for hypothesis in order to appear ‘clever’. Instead what I get is a stream of utter drivel, incomprehensible ‘philosophy’, as he struggles to upwardly converge intellectually as well as verbally. Physically he looks as if in pain, eyes rolling to the heavens as if praying for some sort of inspiration or divine intervention when it dawns on the cunt that having your keys cut isn’t the fucking basis for a new world order. The worst thing is he won’t fucking stop, I should imagine a part of his fucking head is perpetually convincing him to keep going, whether he knows he’s talking utter shit or not is totally unknown, think along the lines of indefinate monkeys, time and the works of Shakespeare. After what seemed like an age I finally got into my flat. I ate and, like a fucking tool, went onto YouTube with a bottle of wine to check out some music, the fruits of which will be made clear at the end of this post. Either way at 4am I went to bed utterly shitfaced.

I got up on Sunday in time for the start of the Grand Prix, this was followed by some excellent motorcycle racing which I lazily watched with breakfast and cups of tea. My mate from up the road nipped over briefly to grab some CD’s and drop off some DVD’s and I popped off out in the van to help my bro and his missus move some stuff from one place to the other. Again, the weather was stunning, way too hot to be in the van but it gave me the chance to give it a spin and highlight a few niggles that need resolved before the festival. I’d have much rather had a bike ride to Box Hill I hasten to add but, well, needs must and all that.

I got back to the flat at 6, dumped the van and went off to the usual Sunday hostelry by tube to meet my bro with my mate from up the road. We had a jolly evening until all too soon it was time to leave and face the reality of a forthcoming Monday. Mercifully a double bill of Family Guy, in my opinion one of the funniest programmes ever to have been made, staved off the hideous fug of depression that descends on one in the course of a Sunday evening.

Doesn’t stop the reality of my being here today though. I still feel rough and need another shit. What on earth is going on?

Oh, just before I go, a new feature. I’ve decided to supply links to things on YouTube of musical interest. Don’t worry, it won’t all be ‘metal’ (not today anyway)


rugged

Yesssss, cycled in again today making it a hatrick. I’m sort of getting in training for next weekend’s stag do where I’m going to be scaling the new forest for most of the day. It’s not my physical health that I’m concerned about; it’s my iffy back. The thought of my lumbar vertebrae allowing the disc to flop out like a large burger in a small bun doesn’t bear thinking about at the best of times but for it to happen in the middle of nowhere fucking up everyone’s day is unacceptable. I’d have to sacrifice myself for the common good, ‘its okay, you guys go on, I’ll be fine,’ I’d say through gritted teeth, then, grabbing one of the party before they finally depart for the 3 and half miles to the Pig and Whistle, I’d whisper, ‘leave me the revolver old darling…’

The main reason I took up cycling again last year was because of the fucking back. In addition to assisting me to cough up smokers jelly, however unseemly it can be agreed that this stuff is better out than in, it offers unbeatable back exercise. The perpetual motion as one cycles is enough to actually strengthen the muscle structures around the offending zone and helps to keep the spine taught and essentially straight. This exercise is so effective that since I began cycling I’ve yet to have to return to my £50 a session chiropractor for treatment, though in the early stages of the cycle-remedy getting on the fucking bicycle proved the biggest challenge due to the fundamental nature of my injury. One has to lean forwards so one is level with horizon, and, gripping the handlebars with arms at their maximum bentness and ones head as far forward as possible, attempt to swing the right leg over the saddle but, ironically, keeping ones feet as close together as possible to avoid excruciating pain.

After I got in last night I was faced with a task so menial, so mind numbingly dull and unnecessary I can barely be fucked to burden you with it, but what’s mine is yours dear reader so you can fucking suffer as I do.

At Christmas time my friend (with tits) gave me a well posh bathroom rug. It is snow white with large golf ball sized luxury cotton bollocks all over its surface. In fact its so posh I think it was designed to be handwashed in the sacred river Alph by the Mitford sisters, not the in the cavity of my second-hand £75 washing machine.

The first time I washed the rug a huge quantity of material was masticated-off by the washing machine which subsequently became blocked full of luxury fibres. This meant the water hadn’t properly drained so when I opened the fucking door I partially flooded the kitchen floor, warping my shitty laminate flooring in the process. After removing a fistful of snow-white cotton fibre from the machine, I washed the rug again on a much lower setting. This time only one of the cotton bollocks was eaten off and the machine happily digested the resulting material, the setting was noted for future reference.

On Tuesday I washed a couple of t-shirts and some pants, being vaguely environmentally conscious I didn’t want to do a half load so I bunged in the fucking rug, remembering to use the golden setting, and thought no more of it. Forgetting to empty the washing machine later that night I didn’t actually get to empty it until Wednesday evening. To my horror the rug had vomited its white fibres all over my dark t-shirts to the point they all resembled fleeces. I removed the offending rug and re-washed the t-shirts on full-on full load setting, ‘fuck the environment!’ I yelled as I stuffed them back in. The second washing made not a blind bit of difference so hoping to ‘brush’ the fibres off when dry, I set them aside.

Last night it was clear the fibres had incorporated themselves into the t-shirt material. The only way I was going to get the fuckers off/out was to use parcel tape and, a la back, crack and sack mode, ‘wax’ them off. For nearly an hour I was on my hands and knees laying strips of tape over my t-shirts to clear off a billion white fibres.

I woke at 3 am this morning coughing; I flicked on the light and for a few seconds was convinced that the object dangling from my lower lip was a tapeworm, not a fat 2-centimetre length of fucking bathroom rug fibre. I took until 4 am for the subsequent panic to subside and I’m feeling the lack of sleep as I type this.

Still I managed to cycle in. And it’s Friday…


polly ticks

Just given some poor accountant a bollocking. This plumbing business, it’s still going on, I received a ‘final demand’ for payment despite having paid the amount in full last week. Turns out the Easter holidays had prevented the fucking plumbing lot from informing their creditors. Either way someone had a bad start to the day, and subsequently I’m feeling much better.

I cycled in again today, in the space of a week the blossoms have gone to be replaced by lime green shoots and buds that will frame my journey for the next month until the entire length of the tow path is one emerald green tunnel.

As mentioned, last night I had a few glasses of vino, not enough to cause a hangover but enough to highlight one essential difference between drinking the night before cycling and abstaining. Sweat, loads today, not a drip yesterday. And really that’s it.

In the past I’ve cycled with my brains boiling out of my eyes from a hangover, it makes little or no difference to ones performance, save the one time I vomited under the little railway bridge by the river but that was because I’d not cycled for ages and managed to stay up until the small hours with a friend…

Last night was great, double whammy of Grand Designs and in the midst of this flurry of comfort blanket telly I made a fish pie that was so good I went hard, downstairs. Then I got all serious and watched the news and a very peculiar Newsnight featuring ‘being green’ and subsequent global warming effects. It was only later following the news headlines that I realised something, probably the bleedin’ obvious but I’ll give it a shot.

The US military has accused, guess who, Iran for arming insurgence in Iraq. In fact Bush said 90% of all terrorist weapons are from Iran. If this were really the case surely it would be best to keep this information confidential because now the Iranians will respond to the US pressure and the crisis will continue to spiral towards the inevitable invasion of Iran, which is precisely what the US want.

It seems to me there is no intention on the part of the US to resolve this crisis but every intention to provoke a conflict. The hilarious irony is that the fucking US and the UK tooled the Iranians up in the first place (and Iraq in the 80’s) so they know exactly how many weapons they’ve got currently being used against their own military personnel. In short it’s the political news that’s not broadcast that’s relevant though portions of this can be gleaned by comment and analysis from (largely) the BBC.

Right, the article I wrote in Watch with Mothers about Tourette’s has flared up again like an STD; in addition my Saxon article is up too so wallow away.

Link to the right of the page folks. Over there —–>

RIP Kurt Vonnegut 1922 – 2007


wineless

As I presumed yesterday, I’m feeling marginally better today, the holiday has melted into the past and, once again, I’m sat here at work like the little capitalist monkey one expects.

I left work yesterday shattered, it had been a busy somewhat frustrating day that at times was comparable to passing a Turkey egg, but after a minor degree of success staving off a looming deadline, I packed up and fucked off home, contentish.

I can’t say going home was much of a spirit-lifter, literally in fact as I’d made the decision not to meet up with anyone in order to have a night off the pop. This meant I was subject to a strict isolated routine; it’s the equivalent, I should imagine, to prison but less entertaining.

Not drinking is fucking boring; I may have mentioned in others blogs that after a glass or two of wine one suddenly finds oneself in company of the self, not even smoking dope can fully resolve the lack of this rather odd phenomenon, it’s not unique to alcohol but getting hold of microdots isn’t easy these and not particularly conducive to a normal life on a day to day basis, especially if one needs to earn money to pay a fucking mortgage and sudden fucking plumbers bills that go through ones account nearly 2 fucking months after the works been fucking cunting done.

I had a bath early in the evening, the only thing to look forward to after this was supper which I subsequently spent a while preparing, it was fucking delicious though let down by the lack of drinkie-poos, I was constantly reminded of the lack of the latter as I was automatically reaching out for a wine glass every 2 minutes or so, only to find nothing but sober inducing air. I drank some water. I made another cup of tea.

After I’d eaten I flopped in front of the telly in an effort to remove my mind from temptation. If I read in bed late at night not drinking isn’t much of a problem but reading in the evening without a glass of wine is nigh on impossible. In fact generally speaking, after 8pm, anything to do with words needs the scaffolding of wine. I can make notes of course but the will diminishes to spontaneously construct vast swathes of prose, though whether or not that adds or subtracts from the ‘quality’ of what transpires isn’t for me to say, or my drunk-self for that matter.

Anyway, I made a few notes on that programme on Saxon / Harvey Goldsmith which will shortly be published in WatchWith Mothers (link to the right of this page).

There are 3 main points of danger when abstaining, one is prior to eating, the second is during or just after a meal and the final one occurs at about 9.30pm, simply because there is enough time to drink a bottle of wine, enjoy the effects without going to bed too late, after 11pm things settle down somewhat, the ‘well I’ve got this far’ staves off the remains of desire. At midnight or so, exhausted, I hit the sack. As soon as my sweet little head hit the pillow, *bang* I was wide-a-fucking wake, I hit radio 4, by 1.20am I was still wide-awake, I switched off Radio 4.

As soon as sleep even nuzzled at my cheek the body would whisper, ‘someone needs to tinkle’, or ‘you can’t breathe can you’, or, ‘that pain in your chest, heart attack’. Then the next phase, Sleep Apnea (though in fairness this can occur after a few glasses of wine too) then at some point following the Tolkienian quest to find the perfect sleeping position one finally snaps off.

Decided I’d cycle in today, I have every intention of gently rewarding myself with wine when I get home. I may even vigorously reward myself too (eh Lads)

Now get along to WWM, it’s time to ROCK…


fuck sakes

I don’t feel quite as bad as I did on the 3rd of January 2007 when I suddenly found myself in work after a drug crazed New Years Eve, still well and truly descending from the lofty heights of debauchery and so depressed I’d considered autosarcophagy.

Today isn’t much better, despite the sun shining and the fact I don’t feel as physically ravaged as I did at the beginning of the year, the whole ignition of the work machine following a public holiday is a vicious reminder that one has failed to achieve certain goals and standards arrogantly set out in drinking sessions mid way through university.

For me this is made even more poignant by the enormous struggle to get into fucking university in the first instance following a disastrous secondary school education and subsequent catch-up/part-time work undertaken in order to even qualify for a place on a degree course. All that bastard work, time, effort and personal sacrifice to wind up working in an office.

This state of mind will, needless to say, gradually dissolve as the week progresses and the routine of ‘work’ re-installs itself into my system but it’s a bloody affront as I sit here now with a mild hangover and compromised freedom.

After yesterday’s blog my mate from up the road and I met my bro in the pub. We had a few pints and chatted about movies but all too soon it was time to face the reality of today and I was home with plenty of time to cook roast chicken and veg out in the flat. The knowledge that we had to work today took the edge off our meeting in the pub, it was almost as if we wanted to go our separate ways just to face the inevitable. There is some consolation in the fact that I’m not suffering alone in this post public holiday crap but certainly not enough to suddenly halt my malaise. Really, somewhere inside knows ‘it’s not that bad’ but I’ve yet to connect with it.

Looking ahead, the next few weeks are stuffed full of various delights in some form or another, but not looking ahead, looking now, the day is stuffed full of pressure and hideousness.

One other thing, I’ve left my rings at home. I feel strangely emasculated, as if the Horned One has recalled my special powers, and today (or rather, right now) I need all the help I can get. Especially as I’m fucking knackered from waking up so early yesterday and last night Sleep Apnea did a good job on at least 2 bolt upright jobs in the middle of the fucking night.

Having said all of the above, I’m feeling shit.


zombie sunday

It’s just gone past 6am and I can’t fucking sleep. I can see the colour of the baby blue sky, blushed with a light pink, gradually fade over the line of terraced house on the other side of the road from where I write, it’s going to be a glorious day. Its bank holiday Monday and I’m not sure if I’m still pissed or not.

I was awoken yesterday by a text from my brother at sometime past 11am, it read ‘ “Jesus Christ! Screamed Peter, It’s Jesus! The motherfucker’s back from the dead!” Quick as a flash, Thomas grabs his 12 gauge and runs to Peter’s side. The undead figure of Jesus was getting nearer, the gaping, bleeding wounds clearly visible in his hands, feet and side. Thomas levelled the gun at Our Lords head. “Amen his arse Tommy”. Thomas focussed breathing out slowly. He took aim “Doubt this!” Thomas unloads both barrels. Kablammo!’ The message then finished with an invitation to the pub in Clapham by the common.

I didn’t think twice about accepting, despite being unsure if I was sober from the previous night. One of my best friends had managed to wriggle free from domestic duties to indulge in various forms of adolescent behaviour. He and I met at 17 and have a reputation for getting irresponsibly pissed, especially these days, as we don’t get to see each other as much as we used to. On Saturday evening he met me, and my mate from up the road, in a local Tooting boozer. He was late as usual, but not to the point of concern, and we starting the night off with a few rounds of gassy Danish beer, the music was loud, eclectic and distracting and varied from ‘right up my alley’ to ‘under the patio’, randomly. In addition, the pub was half empty and there was a palpable sense of ‘holiday’ in the air, this and the eclectic music certainly had an effect on the three of us and we stayed a bit longer than was perhaps necessary. After my mate from up the road had said farewell, my old pal and I bought a fucking kebab from a frankly lethal eatery near to the boozer, despite the usual moans. On at least two occasions he and I have both succumb to losing said kebabs within minutes of it going down, yet this didn’t seem to feature as we experimented with a chicken sheesh. It was fucking awful but neither of us saw it again.

After we’d eaten the shit in the kitchen we grabbed more beer and whacked on some music. At some point I was told a story that was so funny I was bent in half for over 10 minutes, it had something to do with vomiting on a train but for the life of me I can’t recall it now. What I do remember, though, was my pals CD. He’s been playing the guitar since we met and has now moved into making entire recordings on his PC. So good is it I intend to do something about it, as he won’t, or possibly can’t. I think we finally settled to sleep at 4?

After breakfast yesterday my pal fucked off and I set off in the warm sunshine for Clapham Common. I was aware of feeling actually happy, I mentally monitored the check list, despite minor niggles all was good, I didn’t have cancer, my dick works and I was off to the pub at lunchtime. Cool.

I arrived in good time, he and his missus had already poured me glass of Pinot Noir, they’d even been so kind as to buy me an Easter Egg, and I settled in for the afternoon. The sunlight was so bright in the pub I had to wear my dark glasses as we chatted and drunk in a most congenial manner, the subject of Glastonbury certainly wetted our appetite for conviviality, until my bro had a 24-Carat whiteout a few hours later, probably just as well as I’d entered that phase of drinking that could easily involve adverse behaviour with female bar staff. It was rather odd walking back from the pub in blazing sunshine when my head was telling me it was about 11.30 pm and by rights should be dark. The short tube journey injected a moment of balance but this was negated by the surreal occasion of walking right back into the sunshine on its cessation. I begun to understand what it would feel like if the sun never set, it felt all rather sci-fi but in an utterly pissed-out-of-my-tree way.

I got back home right at the start of Spiderman 2, I enjoyed so much I whooped on 3 separate occasions and really, I’m no ‘whooper’. Needless to say the rest of the evening was massive blur but catching a glimpse of both a. The Passion of the Christ and b. something about The Shroud of Turin, I did noticed that, a. the Roman Guards looked fucking ace and, b. The Shroud of Turin is actually belly-laughable, it resembles a Motorhead roadie’s bed clothes at best and at worst is a childish cynical and patronising effort to reengage the secular populace with ‘Christianity’.

I need to go back to sleep, I’ll finish this later.

Right, I’m off to the boozer in Clapham for a return match with my bro to be monitored by my mate from up the road who’ll be joining us, before you go please do tune into Watch With Mothers (link to the right of this very page) and check on the developing row over some crap I wrote on Tourette’s.


Git Friday

As it’s the Easter Holidays the posts over the next few days may be sporadic, besides this morning I had to go to church to praise Jebus and say, ‘hey big guy, yeah, like, thanks, yeah’. Good Friday indeed, it’s fucking great because I get a day off… but I still remember asking my mum what was so fucking good about being beaten half to death, having nails driven through ones limbs and left hanging on a wooden cross. Apparently it was a ‘Good Friday’ because ‘he died for my sins’. This left me confused, I was 7, I hadn’t done anything wrong (yet). It’s a bit much being told you’re a sinner by your own mum at 7 I can tell you. Actually it’s a bloody affront this original sin crap, talk about fucking unfair. One doesn’t stand a chance, however much grovelling one does in the nonexistent eyes of the big Gas, or whatever it’s meant to be, you’re screwed from the start. Still I’ll happily have the Christian holidays…

My journey home from work yesterday was just as exhilarating as the one in. The day passed speedily and the mood in the office had been very congenial so I left a bit early, leapt on the bike and as soon as I hit the road was caught up with a fellow biker who had taken it upon himself to pace me. We had a whale of a time slicing through the traffic, each refusing to yield to the other and hitting arsehole speeds in places where arsehole speeds aren’t acceptable. I arrived home in record time grinning from ear to ear, which lasted momentarily as Cunt was outside cleaning his fucking windows. He tried to talk to me from across the road, still with my lid on I nodded as one does if appeasing a retard. As I passed by him I noticed that he owned a proper window cleaning wedgee. What sort of a prick has one of those? ‘See you finally got a job’ I said without a hint of irony or amusement. A sort of laugh came out (or a grunt?) and I furiously went inside. I was just about to go into my flat when, peering into his, I spotted a double bed in a room that until recently had been full of ephemeral shit. I inwardly groaned thinking about my relative proximity to him as I slept. Christ, this means that if he wanks off without a tissue his flying jitler could be as close as 2 feet away from my naked arse.

I have a bastard hangover; I got up a couple of hours ago following a night in Old Street with Swineshead, his missus and a Tree Surgeon. On the journey back I can remember nothing apart from dying to take a leak. When I returned home I foolishly put on some music and lost myself for x hours with a few glasses of Fleurie, headphones clamped tight onto my gurning head.

I’ve just eaten breakfast in the kitchen overlooking the small garden (for want of a better word), fucking hell, Cunt was outside ‘painting’, not walls or fences, ‘painting’. Needless to say the tool has had no artistic training in any shape or form and the abortion he’d executed was so pathetically shit I had to stop myself from opening the kitchen window and flinging knives into the back of his idiot head. I refuse to describe what he’s shat out of his mind as my heart will explode but it was an ‘abstract’ thing with bollock shapes and funny farm colours.

I intended to meet some friends in Islington this afternoon/evening but I’m going to have to pass, I think I’d be alright but simply can’t face the prospect of a panic on the Tube. When hungover my ability to stave off such awfulness in compromised, I may consider meeting my mate from up the road later on but as I type this all I really want to do is take a big hairy shit.


hairy biker

My day at work yesterday was horrific. Following the unpleasant mutterings of a colleague mouthing off other colleagues, one in particular, I lost my temper thus causing a row. Whilst lasting only a few minutes it managed to fuck up my day royally, in addition to this I was under serious pressure with deadlines and wasn’t in the mood to have to deal with the whole work/office deal.

I was glad to get home, despite having to use the fucking bicycle to do so. The journey back was cack, for the entire journey lumps of grey jelly were being jettisoned from my scarlet face. My legs were aching, my back hurt, to top it all I was going really slowly…this wasn’t just a question of the effects of smoking; this was proper getting fucking old.

Later in the evening in the bath, when I realised that the pile of black detritus floating to and fro were actually my pubic hairs, it dawned on me how much of my youth had silently fallen away without me even noticing. About 3 years ago I bought some clippers for the solo purpose of cutting hair off my hairy balls. I’d never had hairy balls before but this thought didn’t even occur to me when I bought the clippers, it just, well, happened. Again, a few months ago I bought some nose-hair clippers from Argos (classy huh). Once again, an automatic purchase, I was merely responding to the symptom of age without acknowledging age itself.

I put this down to a mild dose of OCD; it keeps everything in check without conjecture. When I get out of the bath and my penis resembles a bit of spaghetti hanging out of the mouth of Gandalf, OCD knows it’s time to have a trim; I don’t have to think about it. It is the same with the nose; the second there is the slightest evidence of the merest prickle, buzzzzzzz (in this instance the OCD is bolstered by a daily reminder from a chap working here whose nose appears as if filled with black cuckoo spit).

Anyway, I was shaving my balls last night thinking about how much fucking effort it was these days just to keep myself looking vaguely unlike Osama Bin Laden. I have to wash my hair daily and shave my face; every other day I have to clean out my ears, every week cut the nails and this isn’t even counting the perpetual routine of face/hand washing (and arse wiping). It’s a bum rap frankly and then to cap it all the clippers nicked my sack which was so fucking painful I nearly bit off my entire lower lip. You can’t win can you. On the plus side after I’d stemmed the flow of blood and washed off the cut hairs I’d have made a fucking horse blush.

Opted for the motorcycle this morning, it was the first day this year that I’ve worn my black visor too, it’s not legal but it’s worth the risk from the cops because one looks otherworldly with a hint of the devil about one. As it’s the Easter break there were few and far vehicles on the road so I rode like a fucking idiot. It was ace, proper hero stuff.

Just before I dismounted my bike I acknowledged that if I was younger I’d neither be able to afford, maintain and insure a fine machine such as this. So maybe there are some advantages of getting old after all!

Not many though, hardly none actually.

Fuck.


kids story

Right, here is the story. The teacher thinks it’s okay for the kids, a few longer words had to be edited but all in all, it’s good to go. It’s about 10 minutes long when read out loud (and allowing for ‘Oooh, what do you think that means?’ and ‘no you can’t go to the fucking loo you little cunt’ etc., )

So, sit back, suspend all belief and marvel at the fact that I managed to write more than a few words without fucking swearing.

Bill’s Midnight Feast

“Time to go to bed, Bill” Said his mum.
“Aw mum, just let me finish this level…” Bill moaned.
“No, that’s enough, you’ve school tomorrow and it’s gone eight already.”

Bill threw down the controls of the Playstation, glared at his mum and was just about to storm upstairs when he remembered the large bar of chocolate in the cupboard by the kettle. He could hear his mother in the living room turning off the TV and packing away his games so he darted into the kitchen, opened the cupboard by the kettle, grabbed the large bar of chocolate and making sure he wasn’t seen, nipped upstairs to his bedroom.

‘Nice one,’ thought Bill. He shoved the bar down the side of his bed and went off to clean his teeth. Soon he’d be biting into a lump of sticky, sweet chocolate, what was the point of cleaning his teeth?

Bill got into his pyjamas and got into bed, after his mum had come up and said goodnight he reached down the side of the bed and retrieved his ill-gotten gains. He slid his finger between the paper wrapping that broke open with a crack to reveal a shiny, crinkly layer of silver. Bill snapped a line of cubes from one end, removed the foil and dropped the chocolate into his mouth… He bit into the large lumps that crumbled before melting into a thick goo, he could feel the chocolate trickle over his tongue and dribble down his throat. ‘Wicked’ said Bill quietly, his eyes closed in rapture.

After he swallowed the first mouthful he snapped off another four cubes and greedily ate them. It was so good he was shoving the chocolate into his mouth before he’d even finished his last mouthful, it was like he couldn’t stop. Again and again for nearly 5 whole minutes Bill continued to eat, he ate and ate and ate and…the bar was finished.

As the last mouthful melted away in his mouth he noticed that his greed had been replaced with another feeling. He felt sick. Actually, Bill noticed, he didn’t just feel sick, he felt so sick he thought he actually might be sick! He sat up in bed feeling all hot and bothered until the feeling of nausea subsided. ‘That was close’ thought Bill feeling a tiny bit better. He lay down and after what seemed like an age fell into a restless sleep.

It was the middle of the night when Bill woke up all hot and sweaty. He needed a poo really, really badly. ‘Must be all that chocolate’ Bill groaned. It was as he was getting out of bed to go to the toilet he noticed something wasn’t right. The room was unusually dark; in fact it was so dark he couldn’t see anything at all. Feeling a little bit frightened Bill walked in the direction of his bedroom door treading carefully in case he’d left any of his toys lying around. When he arrived at the door he fumbled about for the handle, ‘how peculiar’ thought Bill, ‘I can’t find it…’

Bill was now very worried, it was dark and he couldn’t get out and he needed a poo so badly he had to cross his legs. As he couldn’t find the door handle Bill pushed hard against the door but it held fast. When he pushed a second time he felt his hands getting sticky. He couldn’t see his hands in the dark so he cautiously raised them towards his nose in an attempt to discover what this strange substance was. They stunk of chocolate. ‘How can that be, how can my door be made of chocolate?!’

Bill thought for a while, what to do. He had to get out and go to the toilet before he had an accident. But how? He thought about the door again, could it really be chocolate? Bill tasted the sticky stuff on his hands, ‘Blow me down!’ thought Bill, ‘it is chocolate!’ How and why this had come to be wasn’t of concern, what was of utmost importance was to get to the toilet! There was only one thing to do…

Bill pushed his face into the funny door and began licking, at first the surface was hard but the more he licked the more the surface became slippery as the chocolate melted on his tongue. In addition to making him feel a bit sick, it made him want a poo even more. ‘What a terrible situation!’ thought Bill as he licked away.

After a few minutes Bill had a made a little dent in the chocolate door, his tongue was already beginning to ache but aware that he was making progress, he persevered. By now he was feeling really sick, each lick made him feel sicker. He let out a little fart, very, very carefully to relieved the pressure in his tummy but within a few seconds it was as bad as it ever was. Bill licked away; the dent in the door was now quite big, maybe enough to poke a finger through? Maybe…

He decided to try, his fingertip made contact with the warm slippery chocolate and he pushed as hard as he could, his finger suddenly shifted forward making a hole, when he pulled it out a shaft of light cut into the darkness of his bedroom. He peered through the hole; he could see the door to the toilet! He tried making the hole bigger with his finger, it worked so long as he used his tongue occasionally to soften the chocolate. Soon the hole was big enough to get two fingers through, then three! Bill began to frantically push and pull at the edges of the hole which crumbled away until finally he could get his arm though the chocolate door.

He reached around outside the door for a handle, as there wasn’t one on the inside he wasn’t expecting to find one on the outside, but then his fingers touched something metallic, could it be? ‘Hurrah!’ said Bill, there was a handle! He pushed it down and the door began to slowly open, his room was flooded with light, his heart pounded in his chest, he was seconds away from the toilet..!

BBBBBBBRRRRRRRRIIIIIINNNGGGGG!!!

It was Bill’s alarm clock, Bill woke with a start, it was a bright and sunny day…It had all been a dream! Before Bill had time to collect his thoughts his mum walked in where the chocolate door had been, ‘Come on Bill, time to get up, you’ve school’. Bill got dressed still thinking about his dream, it seemed so real, he wondered if he’d dreamt eating the chocolate he stole from the cupboard by the kettle in the first place!

But no, the empty chocolate wrapper was still by the side of his bed; Bill knew that he was going to get in big trouble when his mum found out he’d stolen it. Bill picked up his rucksack and rushed downstairs. He didn’t eat much of his breakfast as his midnight feast was still sitting heavily in his tummy.

Just as he was about to leave for school his mum called him into the kitchen. ‘Oh no’ thought Bill, ‘I’m in big trouble now…’

‘Would you like some chocolate for break-time, Bill’ she said opening the cupboard by the kettle. Bill was just about to confess to his crime when, to his amazement, he saw a full bar of chocolate, the exact same bar he’d eaten the night before!

‘What’s the matter?’ said his mum, ‘you look like you’ve seen a ghost!’

‘Nothing’ said Bill composing himself, ‘…and if you don’t mind, I wont have any chocolate, I don’t think I like chocolate anymore…’ he said remembering his dream and feeling suddenly queasy.

‘You are a funny boy,’ said Bill’s mum ruffling his hair, ‘have a nice day at school’.

[NB. It was here that I upset my friend (with tits) as the original ending went like this. ‘Bill walked out into the sunshine still thinking about his strange dream. Unfortunately he wasn’t concentrating on where he was going and got run over’]

Bill said goodbye and walked out into the sunshine but no sooner had he taken a few steps his mum called after him, ‘you’ve forgotten your sandwiches, silly’ she said.

Bill’s mum handed him his lunch box and closed the door. He unzipped his rucksack and was just about to put the lunch box inside when he noticed something that make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Sitting on top of his book and pencil case he saw something that shouldn’t be there, something that had no business being in his bag. Bill’s jaw dropped, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

In his bag as clear as day was a full bar of chocolate, the exact same bar he’d eaten the night before.

The End


jolly good show

Last night ended with my friend (with tits) having to have her teeth cleaned because she was so pissed. It’s not something I’m too familiar with and you are free to picture a grown man bending down and cleaning a friends (w.t.) mouth. Shortly after she was helped to bed where she giggled herself to sleep.

Earlier I’d returned home following a fairly constructive day, the cycle journey home was taken with a colleague from work. We were doing skids, jumping humps and attempting wheelies as if 12, it was ace, if I’d had a packet of Spangles in my pocket and some Cream Soda in the fridge for when I got home I think I’d have been delirious. The subsequent exertion caused by shouting and cycling irresponsibly required me to sit with my head between my legs for 5 minutes when I walked in the door. I don’t remember that bit when I used to get in just as The Dukes of Hazard started.

I prepared supper, a sausage and bean number devised by Nigel Slater straight out of The Observer. My friend (w.t.) was late of course; it’s well known fact that tits make birds late (Though I would like to make the point that the size of tit doesn’t have a direct correlation to the degree of lateness, if this were the case the recent fad for breast enlargement would throw the whole fucking system into chaos?) When she did arrive she was on the phone to her sister, this is a disaster especially as this was the first time she’s spoken to her since a fucking hour ago or something. I was okay, I was enthralled in watching a red fat man on the brink of a stress related death in a Grand Designs repeat, and University Challenge kept me from coolly walking into the kitchen naked from the waist down, taking the phone from her hand and nonchalantly pushing it into my bottom which had been previously lubed up with face cream.

When she finally did get off the phone the evening unfolded itself in a most felicitous way. We drank a bottle of Moet while she opened a few presents (it was her birthday a few days ago) and then ate Nigel’s food. It was fucking gorgeous, after which we chatted with a few more bottles being tossed into the fray, we talked until she could talk no more (some laughter came out of our faces too) and it was shortly after that she was forced to retire.

I stayed up for a little while enjoying the resonance of the evening and made some corrections to the kid’s story I’ve been writing. A few hours earlier I’d read it too her. It was greeted with enthusiasm but the end upset her to the point I thought she might actually cry. So, after I’ve posted this I will get some work done and make a few corrections to the story.

This evening the story will to told to the teacher that suggested I wrote it in the first place and subject to correction, will be posted on here tomorrow. Maybe…