Monthly Archives: May 2007

hairy aunt flo

I met up with Frank in the pub last night, a little later than usual but enough time to stuff a pair of pints down. The weather had improved considerably, whilst not warm it was bright and comfortable, I walked briskly home, I was a man on a mission.

I had enough time to shower, prepare the Dijon and parsley sauce for the broccoli and whack some sausages in the oven before sitting down to the launch of Big Brother. I’m not going to fuck about here, I’m a massive fan, have been from its inauguration, it’s voyeuristic, cruel, funny, moving and there is always a good chance of the unexpected. I will go as far to say that I’m sick to the back teeth of those that moan about how much they hate it for a few weeks then suddenly they’re reborn into BB experts who will aggressively refute your opinions on the matter, despite your additional time and effort in getting to understand vital character nuances.

I would now like to draw you attention to the Watch With Mothers link (on the right) where you can review the opener to the 2007 show, it’s going to be a beauty.

After yesterdays abstinence on the booze I behaved myself by consuming only 2 small can of piss weak lager, I intend to attempt to keep the booze in some sort of order, until Glastonbury at least. Subsequently I was in the right frame of mind to write the WWM review and after some neck clawing moments of pc frustration following the show and managed to post the fucking thing last night before going to bed.

Cycled in today, the pathway at the end of the trip is now almost totally overgrown which causes mammals to leap out at you and birds to suddenly flap about in your face. I don’t like nature so close to me; especially the clouds of midges that seem determined to hatch eggs in my earholes. Despite this I intend to keep up the good work, punishing as it is.

It’s the last day of the month and I have some proper work to do, apologies for the short blog but I’m spent on doing the BB rant. It’s really nasty by the way…

To counter it, and to show that hey, I’m a nice guy yeah, I’ve posted a special you tube link. I expect complaints but I fucking love this


I seem to recall when flicking through a dog-eared copy of Dr. Benjamin Spocks seminal work ‘Baby and Childcare’ there isn’t a chapter recommending the development of language that encourages a fucking moronic unworthy father to repeatedly go ‘wooooo’ ‘wooooo’ over and over and fucking over for the best part of half an hour whilst maintain the exact same robotic tone, pitch and volume. I believe it doesn’t then advise to do the exact same precise thing just as I’m trying to go to sleep before ‘soothing’ the infant off with an impromptu gig, which includes the classic ‘woooo’ chorus. What a fucking Cunt.

Because of the vast amount of boozing I’ve been doing for the past few days I undertook the decision to abstain. I’d also run out of grass so I was in for a double whammy of misery. I was fully aware of this as I cycled home and parked my bike in the van; even as I entered my flat I knew that there was nothing inside to delight me in the same way a wine and spliff does. Despite this I took the time to make a roast, and even as I ate it, crying out for a glass of Claret as it was, I fought back the booze-urge and focussed my attention onto the food and nothing else.

The evening passed through a cycle of cigarettes, tea, TV and abstinence. I knew once I’d made it to 11 I’d be okay, getting there was another thing. But there was one little light in the alcohol-free pit of horror.

I was looking forward to watching the Alan Yentob’s programme on Surrealism, despite Alan. Relying as I was on a crack team of researchers to plaster over the cracks, even I was genuinely amazed that the programme was a 24-carat balls up from the opening shot to the last. Fundamentally the hairy cunt didn’t even tell the viewer what surrealism actually is.

Yentob virtually ignored all the female surrealists though one was mentioned, despite being capable of eye popping misogyny, surrealism is the first movement in art history to introduce the ‘female artist’, and they got a lot closer to the true understanding of the concept than most of their male counterparts. Step forward Dorothea Tanning, Leanora Carrington, Eileen Agar, Meret Oppenheim (she did the seminal ‘dejeuner en fourrure’ (hairy tea cup and saucer)) and the muse and photographer Lee Miller, whose eye features in Man Ray’s metronome as vengeance following a doomed affair.

Alan mentioned but failed to recognise Hans Bellmer and completely ignored Yves Tanguay (whose work was plagiarised by Dali) both genuine exponents of the movement and more crucially members of the group, I’ll touch on that shortly.

To add insult to injury The BBC punctuated the programme with very basic and crass visual antonyms, like Alan talking on a phone, which became a banana, then some flowers etc., isn’t ‘surreal’ it’s merely the juxtaposition of objects and coveys nothing outside of the fact Alan doesn’t know what surrealism is.

Firstly, to be in the movement, Andre Breton its founder had to let you in, if he booted you out as he did Dali for being a self seeking Franco supporter then you were no longer a surrealist, merely a follower or at best, a devotee to the fundamental concept of, as Lautréamont (whose death predates the movement by 60 years I hasten to add) put it, ‘the chance encounter on a dissecting table of a sewing machine and umbrella’, Alan acknowledged the quote at least. George Melly who heavily featured (Alan’s mate clearly) should know better calling himself a surrealist, especially as he’s a so-called ‘expert’ on the movement.

Secondly surrealism was a largely literary movement and political by nature, communist to be precise, the idea behind surrealism was to shock the public into a different way of thinking about the human being in society. Essentially it was a dark movement designed to impose itself onto the subconscious via it’s two basic themes of sex and death and there are plenty of examples where this manifests itself in genuinely upsetting works, outside of the media friendly works of Magritte and Dali, of course, and Alan playing with a fucking inflatable moon on a beach dressed like a Woody Allen in the last part of ‘All You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex but Were too Afraid to Ask’ ain’t it.

So, what is surrealism? Well as Alan couldn’t be pissed to do so, I will enlighten you. It’s like that moment between being awake and asleep, the where the fuck..? or what the fuck..? experience we have every bloody morning just before you realise you’ve a massive woody, in my case. Or it can be the very moment when the hairs stand on back of neck when you thing you caught something otherworldly out of the corner of your eye. Put it this way, The Blair Witch Project is a lot closer to the fundamental gist of what constitutes surrealism than Monty Python, say.

I’m in a fucking awful mood. I’m knackered out and it’s raining again. But there is hope. Big Brother starts tonight, and I’m a unashamed fan. So much so that Piqued may suffer in order to contribute to Watch With Mothers (link, right). I will certainly be reviewing tonight’s opener tomorrow so why don’t you join me then.

Join me.
This is one of my favourites


In the pub last night Frank, James and I were discussing the less tasteful aspects of pornography, that is an oxymoron of course, all pornography is distasteful but there is a vast chasm of filth between naked ladies showing their bottoms and the hilarious copraphilia, say. Anyway, we were giggling like naughty little schoolboys at the absurdity of it all when the subject of Bukkake came up. Unanimously none of us got it, or rather, we failed to see who gets what out of it.

When a gentleman has finished polishing the brasswear following a visit to the grumble pages contained within the information superhighway, there is always that degree of mild, well, shame. Like you can see yourself from afar, flaccid nob resting on your leg, as one clings onto a soiled bit of paper with ones genetic name all spunked over it. It’s humbling experience we all agreed as we supped our Welton’s, indeed, most (normal) gentlemen reading this will understand this…

In the case of Bukkake we can assume that the recipient of what amounts to be at least a bucket of wallpaper paste right in the face is either, I should imagine, a. deranged b. desperate c. egomaniacal. Not being a woman I will spare you further conjecture, my drinking companions were equally as baffled. But what of the men? I mean who decides to stand about with a load of other chaps tossing the salad for the sole purpose of relieving oneself in unison in the face of a stranger? How does one get a job like that? Is it advertised in the small ads or are the spunkists yanked off the street by men missing little fingers and ordered to perform on pain of death, you know, use it or lose it type thing.

Crucially to our conversation, what happens after the act has taken place? Does one try and make polite conversation, perhaps suggest hair products to the glazed recipient of a wall of jitler ‘Oooh, have you tried Studio Line by L’Oreal, that’s right good for getting wadge out of the roots’, offer her a tissue? Some tissue, I mean? What do you tell your mates down the pub what you’ve up to? Can you look you mum in the eye? Is there life on Mars?

Baffled, we pondered this matter for while prior to discussing the 7 Ages of Rock (and fucking Poxy Music), which was a lot less complicated, though perhaps not as funny.

Last night was as dull as dishwater after the pub, I couldn’t be arsed to cook so I ate a vast quantity of smoked salmon and cream cheese. I made it through ‘Paul Merton in China’ which seems to have turned into ‘Paul Merton tries his hand at observational comedy in China’. It’s not working but its still engaging enough I suppose. I cheered myself up with ‘The Pledge’, Jack Nicolson has never been better but the cost of watching this thoroughly miserable slice of excellence doesn’t inspire one to get down and boogie. I went to bed feeling flat, especially as I was aware that I’d be in fucking work the following day.

And here I am, ta da! I love my job, really, I really reelly relli do

joie de vision

I’d forgotten to mention that I was acutely aware during Thursday’s gig that this would be the last time I could (legally) smoke in a venue. I’ve tickets for motorhead before the fucking ban but as it’s in the Royal Festival Hall smoking isn’t permitted anyway. Indeed, I’m now very aware that I’m on borrowed time as far as smoking in pubs is concerned; it feels like the end of an era approaching. Balls. I hate change.

Another thing, the swervedriver video I posted in Fridays blog, the red motorcycle (it’s a Ducati 900ss) I used to have one of those. It’s a miracle it made it to the end of the video, mine was more unreliable than radiotherapy.

So, what’s been going down this weekend, yeah, well, not much frankly. On Friday afternoon Myfwt came round for a cup of tea and a chat, it was lovely to see her despite her not feeling on top of the game. After a couple of hours she left to do some work, I did some housework which included fucking hovering, a task I despise out of all proportion. I’d decided that due to the previous evening hedonism that I wanted to share a night with the self, I nipped out to get some tobacco and settled in for the evening. At least my carpet no longer looks like Brighton Beach.

I was an unremarkable night but very much needed. I read, started a short poem and watched TV with a few G&T’s, spliffs and roast chicken wallowing in gravy and cooked to perfection roasted potatoes and steamed vegetables. Jools Holland was the highlight of the evening, it has to be said that if you have any passion for contemporary music, there will always be something to tinkle ones fancy, in this instance Wilco, LCD Soundsystems and surprisingly, Joan Armatrading.

I was woken late Saturday morning with a phone call from Myfwt, she was going away for the weekend so I went back to my pit and slept until early afternoon. After a bath and late lunch I spent the afternoon looking at grot on the PC before watching Apollo 13. Early evening I met Frank up the road for a drink. Our usual venue was stuffed full of no neck cropped haired wankers all yelling at a large flatscreen TV, we decided to leave them to it, it’s wonder their knuckles weren’t wearing shoes.

We convened in this bland wine bar cum eatery and were forced to drink fizzy bastard Carling in lieu of man’s ale. At least the place was quiet. Frank and I discussed Joy Division and this which beggar’s total disbelief. I wandered home after a few pints following a short visit to fucking Tesco, the bane of my consumer life for a bottle of wine and crabsticks that I think I’m addicted to. BBC2 came to my rescue in the form of The Seven Ages of Rock featuring Pink Floyd, Velvet Underground, David Bowie, Genesis and most inappropriately, Roxy Fucking music, or Poxy Music as my dad calls them. What the fuck were they doing there? Utter shit, who did they influence in the 70’s apart from The Yorkshire Ripper, probably. In order to cleanse myself of Brian Fairy and the girls, I bathed in session of progressive rock and metal, which saw me well into the small hours. I went to bed a little squiffy don’t you know.

I was up in time for the Grand Prix on Sunday. Monaco, one of my favourites despite the circuit making overtaking almost impossible. It was an impressive race, if a little samey, due to the two victorious Mclaren’s and the continuation of the remarkable fledgling career of Lewis Hamilton, 19 years old with makings of a world champion, so long as the team orders on Sunday weren’t the thin end of the wedge as far as he and Alonso are concerned. I can tell I’m boring you, I don’t care really. Okay I do.

I met my bro at 5 for a pint at the Sunday usual as he had some dinner appointment with his missus and friends at 7, we drank wine, some quaffable Spanish fare because he’d just had lunch with our folks and had a few glasses on board and didn’t want to mix his poisons. The subject of Poxy Music being on that BBC2 Rockumentary came up, my bro informed me that dad wasn’t impressed either which comes of no surprise. My dad isn’t an aficionado on all things ‘rock’ by the way but he’s fairly well versed in 60’s ‘pop’. I remember when I was about 7 telling him that I thought The Monkees were much better than The Beatles, dad was under the Maxi (he was always under some Leyland design fault in the 70’s) but he downed tools, popped his head out from under the door sill and yelled ‘don’t be so fucking stupid’ so loudly my mum heard him in the back garden. I still think I’m right by the way, fab four my arse, Jerk, Prat, Git and Ringpeice.

It’s worth noting that since Friday evening it’s pretty much been raining constantly. The upshot is that I’ve been forced indoors for virtually the whole weekend and bank holiday, save a few trips to the pub to see Frank and my bro. The flat is now entirely spotless; I’ve even had time to purge my clothing rail. Actually, I’m bored fucking shitless, I especially wanted to take the black bitch out for a ride. On the upside my head has been farting out ideas, I wrote a poem and after an hour of drunken deliberations over a succession of evenings concluded that all art was the subjective manifestation of projected thinking. As I type this it’s Monday afternoon, I’m meeting Frank for a pint in a couple of hours then home to eat and watch a film.

I’ll leave it to Ian and the boys to provide today’s entertainment. (I think Ian may be on drugs, maybe if he’d read that story in the link he’d still be with us today)

black night

It’s rather spiffing when one is looking forward to an evening and it ends up as a classic. After a rather pithy day in the office I cycled home full of good spirits, I’d had a jolly chat with Myfwt, Jim had e-mailed me to tell me he was already waiting at the flat and after a quick change at home we were just about to get into the tube when I got a call from Ray. I’d not from him in a while but as soon as his number appeared it was obvious that we were both heading in the same direction, he too had succumbed to the whole goth thing in the 80’s and had figured out that I was going. We arranged to meet at The (new) Intrepid Fox in a couple of hours

I’d already made plans to meet pals at The Two Brewers on Monmouth street so at precisely 6.10 I met Gee and Rick, who’d just arrived, and bumped into Swinsehead as I went to the bar. It was a glorious warm evening, if a little muggy, but stood on the street with a pint watching the passing throngs going about their business I could actually feel my self unwinding. A friend of a friend passed by and I grabbed him to say thanks for the book he’d kindly signed and given to me, he’s currently enjoying an acting role in a nearby theatre but to say anymore would be indiscreet. Nice bloke.

We had a couple of pints at The Brewers and made our way to The Fox, needless to say it was rammed with just the crowd I’d expected, largely middle aged men, a few gothy chicks and all still maintaining something of the you-wouldn’t-understand-if-you-don’t-know about them; wall to wall black, piercings tattoos, it felt like coming home. Essentially, it felt 20 years ago. Beautiful.

We were joined by one of Gee’s mates, Justin, he runs a nightclub in Surrey (I can assure you it’s not as shit as it sounds) and is good pals with members of Hawkwind, I liked him instantly. By this time the pints were going down nicely and the crowd had begun to thin to catch the support act, slowly the black faded and the usual ‘metal’ punters began to diffuse the absence of colour.

Ray arrived with his boss who immediately bumped into some of his friends, who, coincidentally, Justin knew. Even more coincidental, I popped on a Cardiacs youtube link last week and one of them was the guitarist from the band. Everyone was introduced to everyone else; there were now 9 of us.

We arrived at the Astoria just as The Fields of The Nephilim took the stage, Ray got me a beer and I began yelling at the exact same moment Myfwt texted to wish me a good evening and to not get shouty, as is my want. The band began sedately, a little to quiet for my ravaged ears before kicking off into their main set. It was fucking hot in there, sweat was pouring off the crowd, it was a sold out gig and the place was rammed solid much to the detriment of getting a good view. Our group disbanded into individuals and couples vying for a good spot, I found a super platform on the stairs to the bogs until Jim found me and ushered me upstairs to a prime location on the balcony. We bumped into a gild who’d flown alone from Dan Diego just to see the band, it was her first trip to London, she was flying back the following day. I only mention this to give some idea of the impact the band has had on some of its fans. Largely the crowd were congenial and polite most probably due to age, despite that the atmosphere was intense. The closing number was the best, a swirling, gliding drone that had a hypnotic quality; it was one of the best numbers I’ve seen performed by any band anywhere. By this time the volume was immense, my trousers were vibrating to the bass and I could feel the chorus in my chest.

After the gig we convened on the street and wandered over to The George for a closing pint. It was still very muggy but a relief to be out of the venue which by the end was like the Persian Gulf. The 9 of us stood about chatting, I was texted by a friend who wanted to know the band personification of ‘shoegazing’. This resulted in a ludicrous and hilarious 5-minute conversation of grown men shouting over each other. We settled on Ride.

When it was time to go Jim and I were half cut, as were my friends. I left Gee grinning at me from the entrance to the pub clutching yet another full pint. Both Gee and Jim are married with kids so when they do get a chance to get out, neither wastes it. We got off the tube at Tooting, Jim and I were ravenous but it being Thursday and after midnight the decent fast food outlets were shut so we had to opt for snacks from fucking Tesco. We didn’t drink anymore when we got back, a cup of tea and a spliff, which wiped Jim out completely, and he crashed out fully clothed in my bed.

Jim and I have always slept together since we were 17, neither of us is remotely known to doff the brown hat I hasten to add, it’s just the way it is. I woke up to the dulcet tones of Jim having a good old spit up in the bathroom, when he came back to bed he smelt exactly like aromatic pipe tobacco. His heart was racing and he was feeling shitter than dung, he put this down to over indulgence, I put it squarely at the feet of eating 3 cheap Cornish Pasties, two bags of Revels and most of a large bag of cheese balls prior to sleeping. He was just about okay when he set off and I ran a fucking massive bath before sitting down to write this crap.

Myfwt is popping over in a minute, it’s another warm bright day and I’m feeling just fine.

Today’s youtube clip is in memory of Rod Poole of Swervedriver who was murdered in LA last week. Bye dude

petit holiday

It was about 10, walking back from an eatery in Brixton with a friend from work, Harri, and her step dad who was down from Wales to help install a kitchen for his daughter in law. The evening was warm, a little muggy but offset by a gentle breeze, I just had half a bottle of wine and eaten a very rich but delicious fisherman’s pie, not as good as mine of course… We’d not decided at this stage to go the pub, the stage at which a large quantity of small discreet farts were being released from my bottom ending in that crippling realisation that…yes, I think, no, Christ, I’ve followed through.

I managed to get to the pub and calmly walk to the toilets, it wasn’t as bad as I’d expected, I’d not touched clothed for example but it had been a close call. It took a good 5 minutes of pedantic attention to ensure I was out of the woods so to speak. I arrived in the beer garden as if nothing had happened and carried on drinking like a good boy.

Harri’s step dad was sporting a watch; the bloody thing had been bugging me all evening. It was a very expensive Breitling, apart from the cost it was unremarkable but for one fascinating feature. There was a pin set in the side, if said pin was a removed a fucking helicopter would land within feet of the watch. I’ve checked this matter out btw and it’s quite true, there is a £60,000 fine if the feature is misused but it hadn’t stopped me weighing up the pros and considerably heavy cons against grabbing his wrist and yanking out the pin. To be honest the watch made the evening awkward, as I couldn’t get this idea out of my OCD riddled mind and on at least 2 occasions I was dangerously close to actually busting a move, yeah. The fact I’m here typing this should indicate that I didn’t, Harri’s step dad whilst being a perfectly nice chap is built like a brick shithouse and I didn’t think he’d have been best pleased.

Here at work I’ve a similar day to yesterday, interview, meeting but there is light at the end of the tunnel. Tonight Jim is shooting over and he and I are going to meet up with an old punk mate from my childhood, Gee, and after a few beers go to the Astoria to see Fields of the Nephilim, an established though rarely seen goth outfit in the dying days of one of London’s most wonderful music venues. Aware of the very real possibility of a hangover following our venture I’m taking Friday off which means, as it’s a bank holiday on Monday, I’ll get 4 days off. I can’t remember the last time I had 4 days off…

This does also mean, dear reader, that my blog tomorrow will be late, in fact, it may not even be up ‘til sat/sun and as it’s a bank holiday Monday, which also means that the Monday one will be late…

I’ll make up for it though. Oh, one bit of useless information; I learnt last night that brown/granary bread is made up from the literal sweepings off the bakery floor. Warbrtons are the exception, apparently.

Apparently this was the first time performed on US TV…

wide awake

I’m bloody shattered. I’m not sure if its down to my viewing of the fucking Blair Witch Project last week but I have been waking up at precisely 3.45 for every night this week save Sunday, which is the night I had to witness a nightmare, and was the only night that waking up at 3.45 would’ve been helpful.

The thing is that as soon as I’m awake I’m aware in that semi-conscious fog between the state of being asleep and awake (the part that the surrealists get wood about) that I am, and the mind starts racing until I’m actually awake, the whole blinking-in-the-dark-feeling-frankly-pissed-off awake.

My attempts to return to sleep consist of various tried and tested sleeping positions. Covering oneself but leaving one limb out of the duvet until it’s stone cold is oddly effective when the cold limb is brought home, similarly, lying on ones side with ones bare back exposed and hugging a wadge of duvet prior to returning to the classic side position can also do the trick. Since my disc slipped I’ve been unable to sleep on my front and feel that my sleeping has subsequently suffered, thanks back, yeah.

Anyway, none of these methods worked so I remained awake for about 2 christing hours as the sun came up, dozed off until 7.15, woke up and then fell asleep again, I was subsequently late on my refusing to get out of my pit.

After my rather splendid cycle home yesterday I dumped the bike, changed and set out. It was a glorious evening, perfect actually. I arrived at the boozer on Clapham Common a minute after my brother and we chatted to one of our pals who works behind the bar before heading off to sit by the window and watch the world go by as we sipped on Grolsch. My brother was shattered but after a pint, a chat with his missus that coincided with a call from Myfwt he got a second wind and we were off. We spent the evening discussing that Rock programme on BBC, Alan Partridge and Glastonbury, which is coming sooner than I’d realised. After 4 pints I was feeling unusually pissed, possibly due to a light lunch yet my bro blackmailed me into a whisky and ginger, which I wolfed down. After much giggling we went our separate ways and I arrived home seconds away from doing tinkle in my pants.

I’m not hangover today but I am knackered due to the lack of sleep, to add insult to injury I’ve a horrifically busy day, which is why today’s offing is somewhat short. I’ve two interviews, an important meeting and a stressed boss to contend with… it’s a lovely day though.

In the meantime, these young men cropped up in conversation last night. They look rather peculiar but make lovely noises. Turn it up.



The cycle into work was vaguely pleasant, bright warm sunshine, twittering birds, deep green trees and shrubs, clear blue skies…little pedal effort was required and despite the inevitable cough-up mid way I was surprised how well I’d faired.

Sat here in work now the molecule of cheer has dissolved into the usual humdrum stress. The only pressure in here is the pressure one puts on oneself, or rather the pressure of not having the work coming in at all and the subsequent fiscal negativity.

Last night I met up with Frank for a few Bombardiers. We were both quite knackered; Frank was suffering from fizzy gutmud and was forced to empty his back mid pint, he returned to our table with a tangible air of relief. After discussing the Blair Witch Project with regard to Saturday night I wandered home under the grey sky and on arrival bathed prior to preparing roast chicken breast, potatoes, sausage and steamed broccoli. Using old-fashioned Bisto I made a fucking wonderful gravy that was so delicious I ate the entire meal with a heavy dick.

Oddly the meal injected some energy into my aching limbs and my old pal OCD arrived on my shoulder and suggested I cleaned the bathroom, indeed, I should tackle the bath itself with its inherent ring of greasy slurry at the water line, this was going to be tough. No problem, due to the fucking roast and mania the job was declared a success after nearly 10 frantic minutes. It’s now the cleanest object in the world; you could perform open-heart surgery in it without so much a passing thought to all that sterilisation bollocks.

Just had a quick chat with the boss abut a potential new job and an interesting conversation cropped up. He arrived today in his TVR and to make pleasantries I recalled the largely boring story of Sundays Subaru episode. He seemed initially amused and then his features began to look a little anxious, a bit cross, even.

All of a sudden I was informed that some of my biker ‘colleagues’ could be utter arseholes. I took the criticism with a certain degree of offence but allowed him to continue. It transpires that on the same Sunday I was blasting over the Surrey downs, he was too, in his TVR (though) and a biker pulled in front of him, slowed down and started weaving as he gave my boss the finger. My boss was moaning about his behaviour and asking me what he thought he was playing at.

For the sake of my job I diplomatically expressed my disbelief at the attitude of my brethren, though I knew precisely what had happened. It’s common practice when a motorist has at some point tried to kill you, whether it be unwittingly or with malice, the classic ‘weave and gesture’ response is undertaken as a matter of course, prior to suddenly riding off in an explosion of testosterone fuelled machismo. Should you ever be on the receiving end ‘weave and gesture’ just simply accept that you’ve nearly been responsible for an unnecessary death and take it on the chin. Graciously bow at the biker, for he merely expressing his displeasure at your appalling driving. Indeed, learn from him for he is wiser and betterer than ye.

Christ I’m bored.

(This is one of the first songs I can remember, I even recall my dad telling me to listen to the backing without having any clue of what he was banging on about)


On Friday evening, following a pint and a half at the nearest pub to my office (a vile stinking boozer with the character of a stroke victim) in order to wish a colleague farewell, I made my way slowly to Angel to meet up with Swineshead. We made our way to a venue/pub to see 3 bands as part of Lark in the Park. We were joined shortly by his brother and uncle and finally by my old sparring partner, Jim. He and I go way back and like my other old friend, James, have no ability to know when it’s time to stop. Many a time he and I have been a liability to our friends, he in particular… happy days of shoving Jim into shopping trollies and running him over cobbles as he vomits heavily on his Dio t-shirt calling us all ‘cunts’ in between gasps. I swear the exact same scenario happened on a least 3 separate occasion, witnessed by the same t-shirt.

The second band on weren’t much to write home about despite being competent but apart from the excellent drumming from the support band, the headline act were the most impressive. Obviously I’ve no idea what they were called, I was with Jim and Swineshead, himself known to be quite good at blowing the froth of a few (7 at the last count) so my memory is a little pressed. Jim and I managed to get to the tube just as the last train was due to set from the platform. The carriage was surprisingly empty apart from three lads, one was lying on the carriage floor retching into a Sainsbury’s shopping back. Jim, smiled, looked at the lad on the floor and said to me, ‘I used to be like that…’ I remembered our trip to Hyde Park last summer where he’d got so pissed I had to stay with him and witness his fair features transform to one of Notre Dames gargoyles for an hour as sick came out. ‘Used’ to be like that?

We quizzed the sick lads mates, nice chaps, clearly taking responsibility for their pal whose eyes were rolling in his sockets like cue balls. We offered some advice, Jim in particular. ‘You know’, he mused, ‘he can hear everything we’re saying yet he’s unable to communicate with us’. Jim smiled, like he was fondly recalling a moment of agonising inebriation as if it were his first go on a pair of tits. The lads got off at Waterloo, Jim and I helped get the vomiter up on his feet and offered advice to his amused mates. Just as the train pulled off the sick lad opened his mouth a puked a substantial stream of raw beer all over himself.

When we got back to Tooting we opted for a Shawarma, essentially a slightly posher kebab, after being harangued by some racist Irish prick we rushed back to flat to eat. The flat was boozeless save some vodka in the freezer so Jim and I had sensibly purchased a couple of bottles of Coconut and Pineapple juice. To our joy and following day’s regret, it made a superb mixer and we cheerfully pushed on until 4-ish.

After a spot of breakfast Jim left. I had a shit lot to do after I’d strangled some veins, wash up, hoover, dust, prior to timing my trip to Sainsbury’s with the insufferable FA Cup Final as I figured there would be less people shopping. It paid off and after spending a fucking fortune I’d re-stocked on all the supplies that’d been dwindling due to the previous weekends’ engagements.

Later in the evening I met Frank in the local. The pub was full of weird people that had hung around following the football, more oddballs arrived. There was a strange atmosphere Frank and I concluded. It didn’t stop us putting four pints of Bombardier away though, and I walked back home feeling dozy as the sinking sun ignited a warm orange over half of the crisp blue sky. I took a bath, ate my favourite dish and watched a ‘rockumentary’ on BBC2 that focussed on the late 60’s and Jimi Hendrix, it was an above average effort at deconstructing the birth of ‘rock’ but as it featured lots of footage of Hendrix screwing his guitar I couldn’t have given a tinkers cuss about the editorial. Later I watched The Blair Witch Project, I’ve seen it a few times so being familiar with it, felt it would be safe to watch. Alone. ‘Of course’, I said out loud, ‘I mean it’s only a bloody film’, I don’t even believe in god let alone ghosts… By the end I was having a panic attack, possibly due to some sublime Skunk I’d allowed myself to become utterly absorbed in it to the point that I considered helping to look for fucking Josh. Despite it being late I was required to watch Southern Comfort just to help my brain settle. No idea what time I went to bed to bear witness to a nightmare of such horrific proportions it’s a miracle my heart didn’t explode, but at least I woke up with a hangover.

I stayed in bed ‘til noon, the motorcycle GP was on and I had a date with a cup of tea, toast, kippers and Valentino Rossi who’s more fun to watch ride than Silvia Saint (lads). Smashing race indeed, I was inspired to have a word with my black bitch and we hit the road, perfect riding conditions, warm without the stuffiness and bright but without glare. After checking my tyre pressures, essential to a slick ride, I shot down some A roads in Surrey, the bitch was responding as if made from my own flesh and we laughed at wankers in cars and speed limits. I nipped by to see my folks to give the bike a quick wash. She was all dirty from the rain earlier in week. I touched her clean. On the way back to the flat I had a race with a very souped up Subaru, it gave me a run for my money (to my surprise) but I was just about to make the podium.

By 7 I was home, shaking with adrenalin and feeling wholly purged. I wrote, bathed and ate a burger in fresh cheese and onion bread before settling down for the evening. I say settled down, I spent the vast majority of Sunday having an episode of OCD that required me to readjust aspects of the flat, nothing major, just minor adjustments but to the trained OCDer, essential minutiae. I did manage to watch High Anxiety in relative peace though; I’d forgotten how superb that film is.

In order to inject some sort of good into my battered body I cycled in today. Apart from a mid trip cough-up which I felt a positive thing it wasn’t too bad. I’m going to try and keep it up so I don’t look like a melted candle at Glastonbury. Busy week this week, I’ve decided I’m taking Friday off for reasons that will become apparent.

Aren’t I a little tease.

lost in music

I managed to get to Fopp records at just the right time. The hairy arsehole on the door had told me The Idler event was full to capacity, I curtly informed him I was on the guest list (I’ve no idea if I was) and in I went, instantly bumping in to a newly married Den. Perfect.

The first band on were The Rubbish Men of Soho, who were deliberately shit, the joke wore off after 15 seconds and Den and I went out for a fag. In the small courtyard behind Fopp half the guests were huddled in groups drinking and smoking, the atmosphere was far more congenial and within seconds Den and I were besieged by old familiar faces and I was introduced to the ones that weren’t.

We retuned to the bar where Den was in the superb position of not having to pay for his drinks, the gratuity was passed on to yours truly. Air Hammer, who I was informed was a classically trained opera singer, was a one man band, a cross between Lee Evans and Dennis Pennis with a guitar, it started well at least. The headline act were Zodiac Mindwarp and The Love Reaction. Way back in the late 80’s this outfit made a bit of a stir in my little group, Zody himself was the crush choice for most of my girlfriends and I was a fan too, of the music I hasten to add, I’m not a good listener… They put on a sterling show, they must be in their 50’s now but he’s still got it, even stripped to the waste on Prime Mover he didn’t look like he was a man facing a bus pass application in a few years. After the show I introduced myself to Cobalt Stargazer, the guitarist, who was drinking 2 beers by the stage, he didn’t seem too keen on making chitchat, but I persevered and impressed him with my tale of the trip to Durham high security prison to meet a mate who’d beaten his wife’s lover to death with a lamp stand, purely because he was a Glaswegian and my incarcerated mate was from Fife.

Den and I hooked up with chaps from The Chap and an illustrator in fantastic heels and we all fucked off to Soho. Somehow Den and I engaged in deep discussion lost our companions, Den invited me to The Groucho for a bit of peace and quiet and a chance to continue our chat undisturbed. I bumped into a former member of the Jesus and Mary Chain following a much needed shit in the toilets and being subsequently lost in the labyrinthine mess of stairs and corridors, who joined us with a couple of charming Cambridge university students who were already up to their necks in daring do.

Den left at about 11.30 and I followed shortly after as I didn’t want the expense of a cab. I rushed down Dean Street and got to Oxford Circus in the nick of time. The fucking tube was packed solid and after being made to wait at Stockwell for what seemed like a lifetime, my teeth now floating from all the beer and wine. On the platform a thin tattooed girl with haunted eyes was playing the violin with enormous skill, clearly classically trained and with an addiction to narcotics I was transfixed by her, I even gave her money muttering, ‘I’m patronising you giving change, but so be it’. She smiled weakly, I moved clear.

I arrived home at 12.30 hungry and, probably, stinking to high heaven. I resolved both and hit the hay at sometime after 1am.

I arrived to work on public transport this morning as there are after work drinks for a departing member of staff and a myriad of options follow, all of which require me to not be aboard my black bitch.

Todays offing is appropriate, in fact Den has asked me to take his wife when they play at the RFH, I’m sure Myfwt would like to come too…

It’s not raining today by the way, in fact it’s fucking sunny


Virtually every morning, as I’m unwrapping my black bitch for the journey to work, this short middle aged woman purposefully strides past me, she has short grey hair and big glasses that make her look like an officious prat. There is nothing remarkable about this woman in any shape or form save the fact she’s always accompanied by the biggest dog I’ve ever seen.

It’s a blonde coloured Alsatian and it quite literally comes up to her rib cage, its the size of a small pit pony and has something of a docile, supernatural air about it. For every step the dog takes, she takes 2 so as they pass, one gets the impression that she’s perpetually trying to run past it. This in itself isn’t peculiar, yes, it’s a fucking massive dog being operated by a small peevish woman but what irks, the rub of this situation as it were, is the women is always carrying a bright orange plastic bag full of the dogs turds.

The dog doesn’t seem too fussed about this, fair enough, it’s not him waving them about (though I don’t think I’d be overly delighted if I was being followed by a person clutching a substantial quantity of my cack) but she doesn’t seem to bothered either. She’s walking down the street with a bag full of fucking dog shit, what’s the matter with her…

This morning she didn’t have her bag. I was in the process of stuffing my m/c cover into the van and the odd couple appeared in my peripheral vision, I instantly knew something was amiss; the balloon of orange with the heavy, heavy base was noticeably absent. The pair approached and just as they became level with me and the bike she and the fucking dog suddenly halted approximately half a foot from my feet and without any warning (can’t they fit these things with claxons?) it dropped it’s rear half down on to the pavement, lifted it’s fucking tale and uncoiled a good stone of dog eggs right at my feet.

In a flash the women had produced the orange bag like Debbie Magee, bent down and picked up the whole collection in one foul-swoop. Standing, watching in eye popping horror, she gave me the once over and looked at me as if I’d fucking done it. Without so much as a ‘pardon’ or ‘sorry’ the bastard was led off by her considerably lighter dog leaving me on the brink of being sick into my crash helmet. What a cunt.

Speaking of Cunt. Nirvana last night, sorry what I am I saying, Cunt trying to play Smells Like Teen Spirit. This isn’t the first time he’s tried to tackle this song, even the thought of him thinking about Mr. Cobain is offensive enough let alone the deliberate action of slowly raping, torturing and disembowelling a classic with toneless Neanderthalism, his arm with angular irregularity punching his knuckles into the strings as his fat tongue hangs out of his mouth sucking up air to subsequently return it in the form of a gormless guttural protracted fucking honk, this wasn’t part of Darwin’s agenda, surely…

As I was walking to the pub yesterday I passed his cadaverous girlfriend in the street. Her face is no more than a collection of long teeth and weary, listless eyes; she was pushing the emotionless automaton that passed for a baby in a buggy. The baby looked at me without a flicker of anything resembling life and she asked me if the child was disturbing me. I kept my mouth closed, it’s not the child that disturbs me (it does but not in the way she meant) I wanted to say, but I suppose I didn’t have to, she already knows. She lives with it.

You need to turn this up and the sound isn’t great, thought they are, and he was


Yesterday late afternoon Myfwt finally rang. The conversation was very welcome if a little subdued to begin, it ended on a better note, I could actually feel my internal organs modulate during the call.

After arriving home I hastily changed and went immediately out, grabbed the tube to Leicester Square where I’d arranged to meet an old friend from work, I say old friend but she’s actually a young friend, though one with a wise old head, that’s not all wrinkly or bearded. Like Gandalf. She looks nothing like him.

We went to a pub on Monmouth Street and had a couple of beers before heading off to a large Italian eatery on the corner of Longacre and St. Martins Lane, called La Belle-Ende or something. I ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio, which was absorbed with lots of Italian meats and a pizza the size of a dustbin lid. Next to us were a couple of Dutch bankers, they seemed utterly devoid of the stiff wankery of what constitutes ‘a banker’, certainly in England. Indeed both were engaging and amusing and I warmed to them instantly, something I’m not used to doing. We four chatted for a bit and after the wine was gone left for a nearby bar.

It was a bar I’d been past plenty of time but had never been in, I was surprised at the vastness of the place, it resembled the interior of a gothic castle though the potential visceral atmosphere was ballsed up by the chirpy Latino salsa shite. Nonetheless, it offered secluded booths and space away from other patrons.

We drank a few whiskies and ginger and chuckled over recent TV ‘comedy’, without being specific, and chatted unkindly about some of the twats in my office, which is where I know her from, incidentally. At about 11-ish we went our separate ways and I was forced onto a train stuffed full of pissed up city workers and cunts, largely. The train trundled underground for what seemed like an age. I was forced to abandon my book on account of two English speaking Polish girls discussing their private lives at a volume just short of the start of the British Grand Prix.

Finally I arrived home where I foolishly indulged in a large G & T as a reward for not throwing a wobbly on the train and as result I’m hungover. On a more positive note, I had a solid shit this morning, the first in 4 days, I would like to say it was a relief but it was like trying to force a Monkey’s head through a keyhole, it landed in the chod bin with a splash that David Hockney would’ve been proud to record on canvas.

This one is all about a Hoover

nuck futs

Following another dismal day in the office which was only partially saved by resolving the issues surrounding one of the clients trying to sue me, I trundled back home in the pissing rain to my sordid grief hole. I’d arranged to meet Frank up the road for a drink so I changed and met him in the usual Tooting boozer.

I wasn’t feeling great; my stomach was still in turmoil following the Wedding so I cautiously sipped two pints during some intense conversation before taking my creaking guts off to fucking Tesco. They were fresh out of broccoli so I decided to abandon the whole excursion.

On leaving some prick in a car ushered me over waving a woefully thin glossy publication under my nose. “Do you like Mercedes?” he asked in a European accent for want of a better, precise, description. “Fuck off”, I replied tonelessly, “I don’t want a fucking watch.” He looked somewhat surprised. “Hey…”

“Don’t bother, I went for an interview with your boss about 12 years ago and left after a minute, it’s a fucking scam.” He looked at me with an air of violence; I made a committed retreat, my fight instinct shifting to one of flight.

I arrived home and took a bath. I’d still not heard from Myfwt and was feeling anxious. I prepared a frankly revolting meal (mushy peas and potatoes = cement) which I force-ate watching Panorama featuring a screaming BBC Journalist losing it (quite rightly despite the lack of professionalism) after being stalked by a Mr. X styled Scientologist during an investigation into this pathetic disease of the mind. My malaise increased, I was fading fast.

I sat in front of the TV for most of the evening, my mind wandering over itself begging for change. A poem fell out, succinct and devastating leaving me feeling empty despite boosting some sort of worthiness in the midst of my feeble anxiety. Churchill once described depression as a Black Dog, I understand.

Due to sort of watching a re-run of Relocation Relocation my dreams were pervaded with recently acquired properties intercut with drunken motorcyclists and friends being led into bedrooms by sirens. Of course Myfwt made a star appearance and I woke during the passing of the split second optimism that pervades the human psyche. It evaporated like fuel, my guts twisted into knots. There was no way I was in any state to make the morning at work. I texted a colleague and went back to sleep.

I got up an hour ago and wrote what you’re reading. Myfwt still hasn’t called and I’m concerned that something has happened, though I know not what. Shortly I’ll go to work where I’m expecting an afternoon of non-events. My apologies for my late posting, frankly, I’m astonished that I had the necessary resources to do one at all.

This. Is. Fucking. Beautiful.

white wedding

After returning home on Friday following a harrowing days work, I hopped on the tube to arrive at the boozer in Clapham for 6. My bro was already there holding a table and we were later joined by Frank and Harry, an old mate whose been having a few complications of late. We got stuck into the booze; I noticed that Harry had taken up smoking and regaled us with some tales of his recent life that were both sad and surreal. Nonetheless, we all drank heartily and despite a few woes left the pub in good spirits on account of being full of them. All of us were due to attend the wedding of our close friend Den and his missus to be, Rose, the following day, we justified our inebriation as a sort of pre-wedding warm up. It worked at the time.

The following morning I woke with a hangover, after forcing tea and toast down my neck I dressed in my finest suit following a quick bath and awaited Myfwt who’d been getting her nails permed up the road. Naturally she was late so instead of using public transport we were forced to take a cab all the way to Chelsea where we’d arranged to meet Andrea outside some hooray henry designer shop. It just so happened there was an oyster bar set up on the street so we bought half a dozen and wolfed them down, the hangover instantly vanished and I was ready to go.

We decided to eat in some fancy gastro pub thing, not being a fan of Gpubs I had my reservations but the food was okay, despite having to send back one dish on account of a fucking hair, but the wine was far better, so much so that Myfwt and I had another glass.

On time we walked up the King’s road to the Chelsea registry office. Both Myfwt and Andrea are over 6 foot tall, blonde and beautiful, as they chatted I enjoyed all the attention they were getting from passing traffic and pedestrians until it occurred to me that I was slouching in their shadows like some sort of deviant sex case. I straightened up and tried my best to aesthetically morph into proceedings by adopting a swagger. All was good.

A few of the guests had already arrived at the registry office before us, we were 15 minutes early so prior to entering the venue we had a couple of cigarettes and chatted to a few familiar faces I recognised from previous gatherings. After being ushered into the office Myfwt’s and I had a bout of hysterics over nothing in particular, Harry arrived and sat near the groom as he was witnessing the registration of their marriage. I caught his eye and he mouthed ‘have you a hangover?’ then gestured drinking, it was hilarious from where I was sat, not so from his seat.

The actual ceremony was short and pretty, the bride looked resplendent in a white sleeveless dress with a diaphanous petticoat and a pearl necklace, her hair was up and she resembled the glamour of 60’s Hollywood. Den was wearing a light blue suit with an open neck with checked vans on his feet; he looked epitome of cool, as if he’d just stepped off a sizeable yacht in the Mediterranean. Their 2-year-old son, the best man, was dressed identically to dad, a charming touch. He managed to fart during the silence following ‘if anyone has any reason why these two shouldn’t be man and wife…’ much to the amusement of the assembled guests, in particular Harry who did a sterling job pulling himself from the brink of uncontrollable giggles.

After the registry was signed and witnessed the marriage was finally announced to the guests who erupted in delight, we were led to the exterior steps of the office and the bride, groom and best man paused for us to take photos. I noticed that a passing double deckers’ passengers also took some shots grinning for ear to ear, it was quite lovely.

I grabbed a cab with Myfwt, Harry and another old pal fresh in from Paris, Bill. We were heading for Chancery Lane, to a little venue opposite Kings College, which was, despite being covered in scaffolding, imposing enough to warrant admiring comments from guests. After a period of champagne and cigarettes the guest sat down to eat. I was sat next to Myfwt and Bill, Harry and Andrea sat at the end and an author (top chap) and the wedding photographer, also a friend, joined us. The food was simple and delicious and punctuated by lively banter and wines, not too much, that was to come later…

The speeches were funny, beautiful, moving and of perfect length. Even I got a shot in, I read out a short poem that I’d written for the couple and I’m pleased to say that it was received as I’d hoped. Fortunately it also served in breaking the ice between myself and the guests I didn’t know as well.

It was now getting quite late, within half an hour of the room being cleared of tables the guests began to arrive for the evening jollies. The bar was free, much to everyone’s surprise and joy as we were all expecting to pay for our drinks. And here, dear reader, is where it gets a bit hazy.

All of a sudden there were old friends I’d not seen in an age, new friends that I’d met on the stag do and those faces that I’d seen around for years but it wasn’t until that precise moment you’d a chance to speak to them, and then realised they were lovely. In addition my bro showed up with his missus, Frank with his, Harry and Bill were on top form and Myfwt, well, she was fucking glowing. We spent most of the night together; we even danced, a lot. I don’t do dancing, I was monged. We even danced and had a heated hilarious conversation with Den’s agent all at the same time, beautiful. The wine flowed freely, the happy couple were just that, I hope they know how lucky we all feel to have been there. One of Den’s mates took me outside for a chat which made me feel as proud as punch, I returned back to the collective and chatted to an old friend who was working in movies, there were faces coming and going, I made a tit of myself in front of a famous one but he was just as wasted as I, the throngs were diminishing, we waved Den and Rose off for their first night as a married couple, the crowd was shrinking and we were still there, drinking dancing until I was alerted to my cab’s being and following more fond farewells, whisked off into the night.

I awoke on my sofa deciding if getting undressed and going to bed was going to make me be sick or prevent it. As I was trying to take off my trousers I realised that I needed to take a shit. No, not a shit, I needed to tinkle out of my arse. I spent the next few hours on a half hourly basis shitting through the eye of a needle, it was dreadful and even sitting here now, I’ll be happy to be back on 3’s and 4’s.

I got up officially yesterday at about 4pm, took a bath, ate some toast which was a bit of an effort and met my bro at the boozer in Clapham, the very same one that had kicked the weekend off, for a couple of pints. Both of us were feeling subdued, the highs of the weekend were crashing down around our ears as the bastard Monday morning loomed into view.

What a fucking beautiful weekend. Congratulations kids.


I had a night in, first one in ages

Following a pitiful day at work, the situation compounded my facing legal action from a client, in addition to losing £££££ and, of course, no business, I was fucking chuffed to Henry’s getting out of the office without declaring myself bankrupt.

I whistled off home under a cloud of grey, the roads were still wet from the earlier rain so there was no space for heroics. After packing the bitch away I hopped upstairs and opted for a bath. It felt like the right thing to do to separate ‘work’ from ‘home’, radio 4 on in the background, shampoo, fresh towels, a burp of the worm, roll-on, shave, yukata… I felt like a new girl, I mean man.

I made a sensational meal, it’s a regular favourite and simple to prepare, allow me to indulge you. Cook some good quality pork sausages in the oven, in the meantime make a white sauce (gently cook equal parts butter and plain flour, slowly add milk until the consistency of old sump oil) and add some Dijon, grated cheese, seasoning and raw chopped onion (the RCO will thin the sauce so be aware of this) and cook the sauce off carefully. When the sausages are done steam a load of broccoli and dump the sauce over the lot, season and eat smugly. It’s fucking ace, really.

Just as the last morsel of food retired in my mouth I heard a commotion from downstairs, such was the commotion I was forced to turn down House, which in my flat is akin to pressing your bollocks up against the face of a baby. I needn’t have bothered altering the volume; Cunt had lost the fucking plot.

There was no sound from the source of his angst, which doesn’t surprise me, she’s so thin you could pick the food out of your teeth with her fingers, ironically. Nor was there any sound of the baby, which doesn’t make much noise anyway, something I find more disturbing than refreshing…

Cunt was in full flight, he was screaming his bastard lungs out, as usual due to a deficiency of humanness most of what was being yelled was incomprehensible though peppered with expletives, you could virtually hear his knuckles hit the wooden floor every time he said ‘fuck’. The only part of his speech that hit home was ‘stop fucking about with my life’. An interesting comment from a man who never works, has no friends, and is unable to take his penis out of casual girlfriend’s front bottom, who was just visiting from oversees, when the white worms come out. Anyway, so long as he’s suffering down there I’m happy.

I watched the rest of House and did some writing as I was hit with a poem, it happens yeah. Following some dreadful pile of shit on the ‘comedy of Hitler’ (cobbled together tish and fipsy from A Guardian journo) I washed up and hit the hay, lulled to sleep by Radio 4, as usual.

It’s lovely day to today, I’m in a fair mood, I’m certainly looking forward to this evenings drinkies with my bro and Frank, more importantly, I’m rather excited about the Wedding tomorrow. I don’t usually get too thrilled at the prospect of weddings, I hope I behave myself.

Tune in on Monday where you can find out what happened

(This is fucking ace, nice weekends kidsz)

going swimmingly

After the delights of the motorcycle victory, the black bit of the yin/yan conspired to fuck up my day. At lunch I received a quite awful call from my friend (with tits) informing me of a new development that was far from congenial. In fact it’s so far away from congeniality that if one were to reach to the outermost reaches of deep space, its a few miles beyond that.

Within seconds of the call being made I got back into the office to discover that I’d double booked 2 clients… In short an £8k deal was at stake. It was entirely my fault and when I attempted to resolve the matter the client helpfully went cock a doodle do at my face. I didn’t have enough time for this shit, I had a meeting in Soho and I could see that unless I set off asap, I was going to be late. In order to get the cunt off the ‘phone I pleaded guilty (did the whole, ‘I’m only human, yeah, we all err, yeah’) and said I’d resolve the matter in the morning.

The ride to town started off fairly smoothly, I was still reeling from the ‘phone call from Myfwt so I can’t say I was approaching every traffic situation with my usual dedication. As I approached Wandsworth Bridge it began to rain. Fucking great, my waterproofs were in my rucksack but figured the time it would take me to stop, park and put them on it would be bedtime before I arrived at my meeting. I rode it out, the traffic getting more and more congested the closer I got to Westminster. The sky was dark and the ‘summer’ visor (tinted black) made visibility very awkward, to the point I just had to deal with the rain hitting my naked eyeballs, requiring me to blink as if fitting.

I managed to find a parking slot on Soho Square after physically shifting two weedy little hairdryers that had no business being in a ‘solo motorcycle only’ zone to make room for my lump of black heavy fucking metal.

The meeting lasted as long as expected, despite everything it went rather well, and within the hour I was back on the bike, this time with waterproofs. Due to a diversion round Pall Mall, the shock of a very close encounter with a pothole that resembled cheddar gorge and my basic malaise from earlier, I managed to lose my bearings and took a truly absurd back to Tooting.

Mercifully Frank was up for a pint so I was able to offload my woes onto his shoulders as the Cornish Ale dribbled into my being. I drunk a couple of glasses when I got home and following a spot of TV (doubtless reviewed in today’s Watch With Mothers, link to the right ->) I went to bed early before I had a chance to indulge in my mood.

Luckily I had awe inspiring dreams, great isn’t it when your own fucking mind conspires against you so when you wake in the morning you’re convinced that what happened the day before was a dream and that really, you’ve just woken up in a 5 star hotel in Vienna and she’s merely nipped off to the en-suite to empty her back.

Oh, I got into work this morning and the company that I’d double booked, the 8k lot… well they’re threatening to sue.

‘Life, is the name of the game, and I wanna play the game with you’.

Bruce Forsyth. 1975


Yesterday lunchtime I decided to at least see if I could find the fault on the fucking Triumph.

Armed with a small toolkit that I carry about in my rucksack for occasions such as this, I approached the bitch prepared to open bits of her in order to fiddle within. I had an inking the problem stemmed from the area around the headstock so I tapped round the offending area with ignition on to see if there was any fluctuation in the warning lights. It was then I noticed a click coming from the rear of the machine that corresponded to the warning lights flashing on and off.

I removed the seat to reveal the battery and the source of the noise. One of the electronic boxes was clicking as it was activated then clicking off when the power died. This had fuck-all to do with the headstock area. At a loss I began poking at various components until finally, in an act of frustration grabbed the battery and wobbled it. It was then I noticed the positive battery cable was sitting on the terminal; it wasn’t bolted into its captive nut. I merely screwed it back in place, something I should’ve done properly last week and the problem was solved. Fucking ace.

My ride back home was a joyous occasion, the bike started without so much as a pause and despite the congestion we floated smoothly towards cessation at the end of the journey. I covered my bitch up and approached my front door. My glow of satisfaction was shattered in a trillionth of a second when I heard my name being groaned from after, once at some distance away and a second time at a much closer proximity. Oh Christ, Cunt.

The fuckwit was on his bicycle (he has lost his driving licence twice for drink driving, the second time in under a week of getting it back) wearing a baseball hat (fume), dark glasses with a guitar case strapped to his fucking back. I was informed, without any form of solicitation at plane-taking-off decibels, that he wanted to go to Art College, and he mentioned Central St. Martins. Having some experience with art colleges the very fact I didn’t evaporate my sinuses through a single snort of vehemence is a mere testament to the self, instead and in context, I mentioned my friend (with tits)…

Cunt, took the time to dismount his bicycle, lean it against a wall, remove the guitar case off his back, take two steps back so he was just stood in the road, and with his knees bending gently, fists clenched, both arms parallel, mimicked the action of ‘sex’ by thrusting his hips forward in the basest most exaggerated ITV-comedy excuse for characterisation I’ve ever witnessed, each thrust was accompanied by 4 or 5 ‘grunts’ of such incredible volume that I was actually ashamed to be a human being. Wordlessly I turned to my door opened it and let myself in, the door shut on the last ‘grunt’.

I had to leave or this blog would’ve simply stopped due to my arrest for shoving a baseball hat so far down his throat the NYC logo on the peak would’ve been visible over his fucking belt.

A few minutes after this incident I left the flat for the second time that day in order to get the tube to Leicester Square. I’d arranged to meet my bro and an old friend in favourite haunt off Longacre. My bro arrived first and we drank steadily discussing among other things how good Spaced was. My friend arrived an hour or so later and we spent the rest of the evening chatting merrily away. My bro left slightly early, leaving us to decide whether to eat or not. Due to time and circumstance we vetoed the food but arranged to specifically meet up and eat out in the next few weeks.

I got back on the tube at 10-ish, I’d not gone mad on the pints but was aware that the hourglass of piss was inverted so I was keen for a quick journey back to Tooting. I arrived at my destination, even having enough space in the hourglass to be able to nip into bloody Tesco and grab some food.

This morning I left the flat later than usual for work. As I was in the process of uncovering my bike, barely concealing my joy in the knowledge that it would start without drama, when the mulleted criminal from across the road appeared and stood uncomfortably close to me. He asked me if he could hire me (and my white van) to help him get some stuff from a house in Wandsworth. Apparently his oversees girlfriend said her parents own it and he’s been given permission to go there and ‘take whatever he wants’.

Despite having my helmet on, my eyes must have expressed some degree of surprise/doubt. He looked at me and without a hint of irony repeated the offer but this time finished off the sentence with ‘honest, Gov’.

Today’s you tube experience is dead funky.

3 days later

It was nearly 7am when I decided it was time for bed, the sun was up and the decadence of the night was somewhat compromised by sunshine and songbirds. It was then I noticed after taking off the headphones that I was beyond gone. In roughly 4 hours time I had to ride over to my mum’s work for her surprise retirement party. Shit.

The evening had started sedately enough; my brother and I met my cousins in a small but tidy little cocktail bar in Battersea. My two cousins have achieved a certain degree of success, one being a doctor working in progressive field of medicine and the other a photographer of some note and standing. Both are slightly older than my brother and I (in the formers case, quite a lot more) but we all get along famously, as they say.

On arrival we were introduced to a university lecturer from my old college, coincidentally, and were later joined by my brother’s missus fresh from work, the Doc’s charming wife, and two of their quite lovely friends. At some point later we were also joined by a friendly tall chap who slipped into proceedings without disrupting the harmonious zeitgeist. It was the epitome of congeniality, I was arseholed on Kirin.

After many pints and cigarettes later most of us went over to the Doc’s for wine and, due to my inebriation, a dance. I don’t dance. I danced. As with most cases of recalling ones behaviour the night before I’m fairly sure I didn’t disgrace myself, but I reckon I looked a right berk. I do recall my cousin asking for some fishcakes followed shortly after by the smell of burning so it wasn’t just me… After a few hours I was ushered into a cab and in a flash returned home to indulge in a protracted session of rocking-out. I wholly blame Hanoi Rocks on my subsequent condition; I really didn’t know I liked them that much.

The ride the following day to my mum’s place of work was delayed by an hour. I took some basic sobriety tests and decided I was good to go at about 2.30. The ride was fucking fantastic; I got straight into my stride and shot out of London like a man possessed breaking every known traffic rule in the process. It was a glorious day, sunny, warm and dry, perfect condition in which to behave like a hooligan. By the time I arrived at mum’s library I was breathless with adrenalin. This wasn’t to my favour, I walked in to a room packed with a hundred or so people and was instantly introduced to a variety of very well to do suburban types, all of which wanting to know my entire fucking history whilst I desperately tried to maintain control of my consciousness, at one point I had to sit down right in the middle of niceties as the floor was sliding away from under my feet. Mum appeared and asked me what the hell had I been up too the night before, I blamed the entire situation on her brothers children and she smiled warmly.

I was proud of my mum, all the people there, the cards, gifts, spread of food/drinks had been arranged without her knowledge weeks in advance, she is clearly loved and respected by her colleagues and those that attended her place of work. She gave a short impromptu speech as naturally as an after dinner speaker prior to cutting a large book-shaped cake, decorated with some skill by a regular attendee. She received over a hundred cards and lots of little gifts in addition to all the well-wishers personal comments; she was dead chuffed.

I had to leave after an hour as I needed to get back home and sleep. I was still exhausted and this may have a part in my close call with a coffin on the way home whilst foolishly undertaking a car. Despite the (very) near death episode it did nothing to halt my pace and I arrived back as fast as I’d left.

That evening I met Frank in the pub. The poor bastard had to put up with me having a panic attack for an hour but it passed and we spent the evening chatting about the bric a brac of life, indeed, the fabric of it. I got back home exhausted, ate, watched a bit of TV and went to bed before 11.

Sunday, at lunchtime I met my brother and his missus at Fucking Wimbledon station to take the train to my folks. He and his lady had spent the previous day at Alton Towers to celebrate her birthday and were full of tales of daring do and the underclass throngs. As if I hadn’t mummed out enough, we were all meeting up for Sunday lunch as it was her birthday. Mum had insisted she cook for the family as opposed to eating out so we all gathered round the table to eat roast beef, Yorkshire puddings and just about every vegetable variety in England. It was a splendid meal, apart from my bro, his missus, mum and dad my pregnant sister (3 months to go before I’m Uncle Piqued) was there with my brother in law, a chap I like more each time I meet him. The food was surprisingly fantastic; mum’s past history of cooking has been simple, plain to say the least but every component was utterly delicious.

Despite my parents subscribing to Anglicanism there are remarkably broadminded, bawdy even. One can pretty much say anything one wants, including necessary filthy language without any major problem. The conversations round the lunch table, punctuated with burping and farting from my father and I resulted in every person, at least once, having uncontrollable hysterics. I’m very lucky to have such a family, I feel their support at all times and it allows me to exist very comfortably with my self, if not around others outside of them, and my friends.

I arrived back home at 5-ish following my having to take a packed bus after the train. I was feeling the fading effects of a few glasses of wine. Despite it being a bank holiday today I was feeling rather flat following all the afternoons’ jollies. I wasn’t hungry so I grazed on available comestibles from the cupboard and fridge over the course of the evening. The snooker final was on but was rather disappointing due to the chasm between the scores. I caught the end of ‘A Night to Remember’, remarkable by anyone standards despite being 50 years old, before creeping off to bed.

Yesterday I got up late following my first uninterrupted lie-in for weeks. As expected the weather was fucking awful, it rained hard enough to breech something in or on my roof as I heard dripping on the loft hatch, but I deliberately refused to regard this matter due to the consequences of having to face the costs of the potential of la lala etc., The day was spent lazily writing and watching the snooker which was getting progressively more exciting as the chasm between the two players was being decimated. All was spurned in favour of a few beers in the late afternoon with Frank, the rain had cleared and despite feeling pissed off about the prospect of work, we had a cheery time, sensibly stopping at the third pint of London Pride.

I had to pop by fucking Tesco on the way home to get some bits and pieces but I managed to get back in time for the start of the last few frames of the Snooker. I prepared a roast dinner in one of the less enthralling moments and fell into a self-congratulatory bottle of Pinot. I went to bed at around 1am when at last the Championship was won, by the other bloke sadly.

Here I am at fucking work in a filthy mood. My bike is being an utter cunt. This morning she wouldn’t start for 5 minutes due to this intermittent electrical fault, I was just about to give up when she fired. I happily pootled into work, I dismounted outside the office, took off the lid and the fucking bike alarm goes off. I reset it and 30 seconds later it went off again. Fucking shit. I’m at a loss as to what to do next.

Todays offing is miserable.

(FYI the drummer was killed by Vince Neil of Motley Crue who are really fucking amazingly shit I hasten to add)


The visit to the dentist yesterday was quite a breezy affair; I arrived in plenty of time having found myself there in record time from work. Unfortunately on the way over I noticed the fucking Triumph was playing up, and it was so good yesterday too. It’s something with the electrics; it keeps cutting out which isn’t only annoying it has the potential to be very costly (not to mention dangerous) as its one of the areas I’m least competent with and as the fault is intermittent I don’t know where to start…

I’d already made myself very unpopular with one of the receptionists at the dentists following the shouting incident earlier in the week. There were three of them in the office, all as cold as the next so I was clueless as to which one I’d pissed off. Waiting there surrounded by piles of cheap magazines I was partially saved by a copy of Esquire, mutton dressed as lamb for 20 something’s aspiring to the likes of David Beckham, but at least it had the odd bit of vaguely readable editorial, not of note you’ll understand, just of circumstance.

One of the receptionists broke free of her office and came round to get something from the cupboard, she wasn’t much to look at but her bum distracted me momentarily so I filled my boots for a bit longer than I should. Unfortunately after my eyeful I looked up to notice another of the receptionists had busted me. She flashed me a withering brief smile. I sank into my chair.

After 10 mins I was led to a dentist chair. Nothing changes; the smell, features and innate fear were all present and correct. The dentist was already scrubbed up and good to go. I sat in the fucking chair, which zizzed into horizontal position with alarming speed. Before I’d a chance to say a word my mouth was prized open with latex clad digits and in he went with the spike, prodding at my enamel and updating the assistant with information that included words such as ‘okay’ and ‘missing’. I was informed that my teeth, despite being free of decay, were filthy and I was ordered to make a £45 appointment to visit the hygienist, after which he suggested I fork out a further £399 for a single hour long teeth whitening session.

My Friend (with Tits) had mentioned the colour of my buttery teeth a few weeks ago so, being skint but shit with the readies, agreed to the treatment on the spot. I will be making an appointment tomorrow for next week. ‘A fool and his money are soon partied’ my dad had told me when I was little. He’s quite right of course.

This morning I had to go to the fucking dentist again to visit the Hygenist. I knew making the appointment for 9.30am was risky because I wasn’t quite sure what condition I’d be in from the Thursday night. Last night I met Frank in the local at 7-ish and we discussed the matters of the day whilst drinking ‘Old Cocky’, only 4.5 % alcohol but, as far we were concerned after 3 pints, raw opium. I wobbled home via the shops to grab some broccoli, sausages, onion rings and wine, returned to the flat and made supper in the kitchen watching House, which despite being American tosh is fucking ace.

I spurned the wine in favour of a couple of cans of lager and following the snooker hit the hay before 1pm. When I woke this morning my head was certainly clearer than it would’ve been if I’d touched the wine but I was still feeling a little nunky. I took my time dressing, spent a good while on the toilet taking a Sunday-shit with the results of the local elections to accompany my ablutions on the radio, got my bike gear on and left.

The bike started with some prompting, it’s not running without wrist assistance immediately after starting but we all got there with minutes to spare.

I crept into the surgery, humbled by early morning malaise. I weakly smiled at the receptionist who returned the favour with the same naff enthusiasm. After a while I was led to the dentist chair by a very bubbly short rotund blonde who asked a few questions about my general health prior to beginning the awful treatment. She was teeth obsessed, within the space of 2 minutes had recommended a jet cleaning system, mouthwashes, flosses, little cocktail stick brushes and then spent the entire procedure debating the pros and cons of manual brushing over electric and vice versa. I lay back and gurgled as she shoved various whining machines painfully into the intimate areas of my gaping maw. It was awful but the subsequent results were arguably worth it.

Later today I’m going to make the appointment to have the whitening procedure but have yet to decide which one specifically, either way it’s going to cost hundreds of pounds that I don’t readily have, but it has to be done.

Todays’ offing, keeping up the with the recent theme of women in rawk, I’ve selected the solo effort of one of the members of Hole. She’s lovely, despite being touched with the hand of ginge.

(I fucking would)


In addition to a list as long as my arm, one of the worst things about working in an office, specifically this one, are ‘resting’ actors. Once in a while one of them will fuck off to an audition only to return to a bitchy grilling from another, they really are awful people, seeming devoid of an ounce of sincerity. This morning two of them were discussing some fucking musical they’d seen last night through company complimentary tickets, it was fascinating, the camp ginger one with alopecia who looks permanently on the brink of a stroke, pointed out he’d sat next to Zoe Wanamaker (I bet she was fucking chuffed) whilst the normally mute (and ironically hirsute) girl began banging on about which row she was sat in. Neither mentioned a single word about the actual shit they went off to see.

I had to leave work early yesterday for the annual MOT on the Triumph. As I’ve been enjoying a rather more intense relationship with my bike of late, the stag-do weekend was very special to us, I was perhaps more flustered than usual. I arrived with minutes to spare, as usual approaching the rear end of the garage and, as usual, was briefly surveyed by the glassy-eyed mechanics that make the act of ignoring a person an art form. ‘Four o clock?’ one asked, ‘yes’. ‘’Bring it in…’ I did as I was told.

I disabled the alarm and parked the bike with the rear tyre in the rolling road, as per usual. It was only when I was walking a few feet away to stand at the entrance I realised that I didn’t like leaving my bike stood there like that with those strange men.

This wasn’t usual.

I nervously lit a cigarette and watched the mechanic swing his leg over my bitch and sit down hard on her; hard enough to make me momentarily wince. He fired her up without permission. With her back to me she burbled in my direction, I momentarily relished the from-the-motorist-point-of-view and volume but it was a sight and sound wholly unfamiliar to me, from where I stood it was both uncanny and unpleasant. I pulled hard on my cigarette. The rear brake test was conducted, the mechanic leaning on and off the lever monitoring diagnostics on an archaic looking monitor, the test intensified and the rear suspension compressed acutely, ‘careful, steady’ I said under my breath. I watched the mechanic clamber over her, touching her deeply and firing torchlight into her most intimate parts. He grabbed the rear wheel and a flicker of concern spread over his face, ‘what?’ I said sharply, ‘…not sure, give me a hand.’ I flicked the fag butt into the ether and walked over, ‘pull her up’ he said. I leant over and grabbed the back of the frame and pulled her up so the rear wheel was off the ground. The mechanic grabbed the wheel and told my to put the bike down. ‘S’alright, not bearings’. I knew it wasn’t fucking bearings, I could’ve told him that, she don’t stick to the fucking road like glue for nothing, I thought, cunt…

After a few more minutes I got the all clear, I paid grabbed my certificate and we were one again. My bitch and I, riding her majesties highway in the warm spring sunshine, I knew she wouldn’t let me down. I love her.

Todays YT offing.

Really bad quality, great song though. I thought I should have some musicians with tits and fannies on this blog just to prove that I’m not sexist.

I would by the way.