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


Yentknob

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


jizzerz

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 http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=2457332 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.

Thanks