Monthly Archives: June 2007

you’re barred

When I was in New York last year I wandered into a bar on Murray Street, purely because that’s when Sonic Youth have their studio, ordered a beer and lit a cigarette… “Hey! What you doing Buddy!?” yelled the barkeep, looking at me as if I was offering the tip of my quivering member up to the arsehole of The Littlest Hobo, I’d momentarily forgotten, smoking in NYC wasn’t allowed. ‘How fucking stupid’ I mentally scoffed before apologising, flicking the cigarette out the door and returning to my stool and beer. I drank fast, I wanted a cigarette.

Now, as I type this, I’ve 2 more fucking evenings in pubs/bars where I can legally smoke. It’s utterly fucking pathetic. No one goes to a bar for the purposes of health, plenty of bars offer no smoking sections, what the FUCK is the problem here? Really, it’s the direct equivalent of not letting fit people into gyms, think about it.

The first nationwide tobacco ban was imposed on its populace by the Nazi’s, then the USA (can anyone smell anything here?) worryingly Ireland and Scotland got recently involved and the final blow is struck to the English in about 48 hours. So, in order, the fucking Nazi’s then the USA, then the UK. It’s rather disturbing wouldn’t you agree. No one else of any note has a smoking ban, I mean can you imagine what would happen if they tried to impose this rubbish on the French?

So, what’s the agenda here? It’s got nothing to do with the health of those that work in environments where people smoke (the main reason given by the cunts who want smoking banned in all enclosed places). The late Sir William Richard Shaboe Doll, one of the first to link smoking with ill health made it clear that the link between passive smoking and ill health was essentially bollocks. So what’s going on?

Either way, I’m fucking sick to death of all this ‘it’s bad for your health’ wank. Everyone knows what is good/bad for health, as humans with freewill we can choose to indulge in one facet or the other, but the bottom line is that being alive is bad for your health, in fact, the single most risk to ones health is age. Quick, assemble a mob, let burn St.Agnes Care Home down to the ground, the fucking crinkly old cunts ARE FUCKING OUR PLANET AND NATIONAL HEALTH.

Last night I bumped into my Bro’s missus on the Charing Cross road, the subject of Glastonbury was broached. It would seem hindsight is casting a fonder light over last week’s proceedings, but I will not succumb, I wriggled my toes in my Converse relishing the feeling of hard clean concrete under my feet in order to avoid sliding into post-festival romanticism. With the ban looming like a giant all seeing CCTV camera, I went to the Groucho Club. Even private member clubs are up for the smoking-chop so we five, Den, Liam, Stephen and Benjy chain smoking like condemned men awaiting nannies gallows.

We had a lovely evening, laughing, chatting, smoking (of course) and drinking some French white stuff that was so moorish it was easy to not appreciate every fading puff and gasp on our fags. All of us aware that an era was coming to an end, smoking is so much more than lung cancer and emphysema, to me, it’s still the epitome of bohemianism, I still think it makes me look hard and fucking cool and, of course, a bar is the most appropriate environment in which to indulge. But shortly, this pleasure will be no more.

Tonight I’m meeting some friends in a pub in Hackney and tomorrow, some more friends in my local for one last night of indulgence. By the time you read this on Monday the ban will have already been implemented. It’s going to be a bloody nightmare.

If you don’t smoke, take it up, just to show the bastards.

guftonbury. the aftermath

There is something inherently wrong about a grown man walking into a plastic toilet, cracking open a pink pack of baby wipes, graphically illustrated with giggling infants pawing at their doting mothers, and wiping your helmet with one. Not satisfied with this, you know that minutes later you’ll be getting all shit on them from the horrific clean up operation following the uncomfortable passing of a bright orange beer and bean based stool…

I think I’m having some sort of shell shock resulting from my excursion to that place I went to, last night waiting for my Myfwt to come home I actually giggled in my armchair for no other reason than the fact I was actually in it. It’s been a week since I departed, two days since I returned and my entire experience has been replaced by the last four lines of The General by Siegfried Sassoon, allow me to indulge you, ‘“he’s a cheery old card” grunted Harry to Jack as they slogged up the Arras with rifle and pack, but he did for them both by his plan of attack.’ I think it sums it all up rather well, the crepuscular optimism, the effort of moving through ones muddy, hilly environment, resulting in death by the design of others, in this instance, Michael Eavis, the half bearded half wit.

When I arrived home on the Monday afternoon I was in the process of unpacking my stuff when Myfwt called just as I was lugging two rucksacks, a sausage bag full of shitty clothes and a the remnants of a wine box from the van towards my front door. Needless to say said items were spurned in favour of the call, I clicked in the hands free, reassembled the baggage and located my front door key in one complicated act of multitasking. Horror of fucking horrors, when I opened the door Cunt was stood in the communal hallway, inexplicability wearing dark glasses and baseball hat, clutching a can of lager and grinning obsequiously. ‘Woah, how was Glathsonburry?’ he fucking burped. Furious at this invasion of space I gave him a withering glance and curtly informed him I was on the phone. He retreated back into the dark of his grief hole, his revolting visage fading into the blackness that surrounded him.

For one split second I wished I was back there, far, far away from my fucking neighbour who stalks the exterior of my flat like retarded vermin, but not even he and the nearby semi-world he occupies could dampen my joy at being back home and to the comforts therein. Even more poignantly, this exultation at coming home has actually intensified, I’m now consciously taking nothing for granted, nothing, every time I micturate, excrete, masturbate, sit down, cook, clean, they are joyous, even tantalising experiences that I relish.

This must be seen as a positive thing, something that has been arrived at through adversity, but fundamentally resulting in something good. Or, has my experiences over the past week simply unbalanced my psyche, disturbed the very fabric of my being resulting in my laughing at endless streams of clean dry toilet roll following a freewill shit.

I could relate this tiny acknowledgement of my home comforts to those that suffer over the world at the hands of tin-pot dictators or the desire of Western politicians to interfere with foreign policy resulting in the displacement of peoples and their subsequent, nomadic, hand to mouth survival in conditions too disgusting to even contemplate for a mere second…

But I can’t be pissed.

I’d rather listen to this.

guftonbury 07

Some people never leave their homes, after my trip to fucking Glastonbury I now understand why.

When one becomes obsessed with the concept of tarmac and concrete, boring, daily things one takes wholly for granted, the ability to take a shit at will without it turning into a full-on military campaign, basic homely components, shelter, warmth, food, bathrooms, carpets, clean towels, chairs, Radio 4, a bed, privacy… you know you’re fucked.

On the Thursday morning, oh it seems a world away, I met my bro and his missus at some godforsaken hour in the morning at Sainsbury as we had a few more items to pick up in order to facilitate our stay in a environment that would upset the residents of Darfur. Off we all rolled, our hearts full of joy and anticipation, for the 2.5 hour journey to a large, huge, plot of land near Shepton Mallet in Somerset.

As soon as we were a couple of miles from London it began to rain. Hard. Windscreen wipers, service stations (one with a brand new broken fence thanks to my inability to see a fucking thing when pulling off a parking manoeuvre) brakes, gears, more rain, a sandwich, pee, cigarettes and directions all leading to our arrival in a big bloody swamp in a valley.

Despite the paranoia of my converted Transit not being ‘camper van’ enough to warrant a spot in the camper van field we got in relatively easily and our moods lightened. It was 3pm when we pitched the tent by the van, mercifully the rain had eased off and it has to be said that when we did eventually see the big yellow burning thing in the sky it was bloody lovely. By 5-ish we were ready to wander onto site, it was a good 20 minute walk downhill just to get to the perimeter of the festival proper, security was ludicrously tight but as we’d bought tickets we were quite happy to know those that wished to ‘enjoy’ the festival ‘delights’ for free wouldn’t be able to do so.

For those that haven’t been (it was only my second visit, it’d been 21 years since my last for very good reason, I discovered) Glastonbury is enormous, it covers about 1.5 square miles, consists of over 20 stages, the Pyramid stage and the creatively named Other Stage being the main focus of the site for most people, including me, 18 or so bars and numerous fields and designated areas for all manner of entertainment, including theatre, circus, comedy, cinema and of course music. In addition there are the more traditional ‘hippie’ areas, healing/green fields, craft areas, contemporary ‘dance’ zones all punctuated by crappy sculptures, stalls selling everything from stupid fucking hats to well, stupid fucking hats, and people, thousands and thousands of people.

On the Thursday the festival was just starting to find it’s feet, the main stages are closed but the stalls and bars are functioning sufficiently. Despite the heavy rain that has been pervading the region for, well, forever, the going wasn’t too bad, my Doctor Marten boots saw me good and because there were only 2/3rds of the 175,000 expected, getting around wasn’t too much of a trial. I’d arranged to meet a mate, Robert, in an area called Lost Vagueness (Christ, doesn’t the name alone annoy you?) an area right on the outskirts of the site. The thing about Glastonbury that I do enjoy is the way each area has it’s own particular atmosphere, one can literally turn a corner and there are people of an entirely different age group and reason for being there. LV was full of bohemian types, Robert was dressed in a tux and his mates, some of which I knew, complimented his attire with a similar dress code.

By now the tiredness was getting to me but I was determined to make day 1 eventful, my brother and his missus succumbed to sleep and left for the camper van but I remained with Robert and co in a tent predominantly chatting to (make that ‘at’) his charming missus. At about 10pm the crowds parted and a mime appeared with a full-sized mechanical horse, the bloody thing was quite fantastic; it breathed fire, whinnied and moved about on wheels with some dexterity (it was being remotely controlled by it’s inventor out of sight of the audience) and despite the act going on for way too long, it was awesome enough to partially hold our collective attentions as we sipped vodka tonics and continued to natter away.

The walk back the fucking camper van took nearly an hour, the ground was already beginning to show signs of serious deterioration due to a resurgence of rain and the feet from the movement of people from one place to t’other. Despite some bloody odd dreams in which Mywt was being pursued by a murderous detective, I slept like a top, for a bit.

I was woken by the thunderous sound of rain on the roof, sides, and from all I know, the underside of the van. Despite their tent bearing up well, my bro and his missus joined me in the relative security of the vehicle to cook breakfast and make tea. We’d bought some tinned ‘all-day breakfast’ jobs, they tasted like them too, ‘jobs’ I mean, as in plops. Fucking horrid but wholly necessary to provide some sort of energy for the walk ahead, as well as lining the stomach for the inevitable ales. The rain came down so hard we had to delay our trip into the site by an hour; partially due to the cruel realisation that I’d at last have to wear my fucking wellies and my objection to the fundamental fact that if I didn’t, I’d be soaked to the bone.

We ventured out to the site during a dip in the weather. By now the ground was getting difficult to navigate through and it seemed that the numbers for the previous evening had quadrupled, there were people absolutely bloody everywhere. By 1 pm we’d found a spot overlooking the Pyramid stage, my bro and his missus had arranged to meet some friends there. The first band we saw were The Earlies, I wished I’d been late, unfortunately I was late for the first 10 minutes of Modest Mouse as I’d wholly underestimated the time it would take me to walk 200 fucking metres through an Amazonian Swamp and nearly one 5th of a million people. Once there I caught one of four of the best acts of the weekend. I bumped into Robert by the bar and had a few pints. I stuck around for The Automatic who were accompanied by heavy rainfall, I and the audience held fast, it was worth it despite the little shrieking git who bounces over the stage like Daffy Duck having a fit.

I made it back to the Pyramid for Amy Wino. She’s not bad, certainly has a pair of pipes on her but worth all the hype? I don’t know. Naughty Amy was off her box so I decided to join her and I rolled a big fat joint and got so stoned I got the fear. Food saw it off, a big cardboard plate of peas, beans, carrots, gravy and a single steaming pie, it was rather delicious and I celebrated with a pint of the local, a Somerset ale called Wirrey or something. It was a fucking sensation, so much so that by the following day they ran out of it and I’d forgotten what’s its called. Whirrey? Whir.. who cares.

The day was starting to get complicated, as the crowds began to pour into the Pyramid stage for Bloc Party my brother and his missus were keener to get stuck in the front, being a card carrying claustrophobic I remained in a position behind the giant screen and auxiliary speakers, providing me with a certain degree of comfort whilst not compromising on sound or vision. It was an okay set, a little bit too arrogant for want of a better negative but I know what I mean at least. After it was the turn of the fucking Fratellis. Foolishly I accepted the invitation by text from my bro to place near the front that was apparently ‘spacious and arsehole free’. Why on earth I wanted to even acknowledge their existence let alone get nearer to the cunts is beyond me but the area I found myself in was neither spacious and most certainly not arsehole free. By now the mud had turned parts of the ground to deep puddles of shitty, muddy soup which resulted, predictably I suppose, into swimmingly pools for wankers intent on covering themselves and as many people in fucking mud. What with that and all the ‘do wop tee do’ from the band I was outta there like I was on fire after 15 minutes.

I had a plan though, fraught with risks as it was. The Cabaret stage was a long way from where I’d been with my bro, his missus and pals. I was also unsure quite how to get there and to make matters even worse, a hard session of rain had made parts of the festival site utterly non-negotiable, and those areas vaguely passable were gridlocked with human beings fighting to move one foot in front of the other, and that is no exaggeration, I can assure you.

Glastonbury mud is clay based, its deceptively soft but sticky, its cloying, clogging mud from hell. It can rip your wellies off in a second, it slipperier than a British Gas salesman in anal lube and it seems to have a limitless depth. In short it’s like trying to walk through quick drying cement. Throw in hundreds of thousands of people moving in every conceivable direction you may understand why my legs of have gone from those of a 90-year-old invalid to Thierry Henry in the space of a few days.

It took me nearly 2 hours to get to my destination. But it was worth every muscle tearing second. As soon as I arrived Barry Cryer, as well as being a seasoned pro he’s Radio 4 comfort food, appeared onstage with Ronnie Golden to perform songs that, despite not being a fan of comedy tunes, actually made me laugh. To make things better, the tent wasn’t at all packed and I could actually sit down, something I’d almost forgotten how to do, and the bar and loo were only a few stumbling meters away.

I was back in time to see Jeff Green. This was a, if not the, Glastonbury highlight for me. His act was so funny I spent a full hour honking like a goose, tears down my cheeks, breathing issues, the fucking lot. He’d managed to achieve that rarest of things that only a stand up at the top of his game can do, perpetual laughter from the room that occasionally peaked to hysteria. He was filthy, observant and delivered his jokes with the charm of a gentleman. Outstanding.

The next act was so dreadful he got booed off, it was toe curling to watch and fucked Phil Kay’s audience, an old favourite of mine, who had to hard work really bloody hard to win the crowd back. Phil just pulled it off, in places he more than made up for the awfulness that proceeded him, but he simply didn’t have the audience numbers to get into his stride, despite plonking himself in the actual audience, even allowing hecklers to take over the mic.

The drunk journey back to the van wasn’t as bad anticipated as the locale of the Cabaret stage was closer than I’d realised, also being pissed, I found it oddly easy to navigate the treacherous shit underfoot. My brother and his missus were 5 minutes behind and we had a quick chat and went to our respective beds.

Saturday was the best day of the lot. After breakfast in the van I met up with Robert by the Other stage bar and bumped into another old mate quite out of the blue. Soon we were joined by Simon until there was a few of us huddled round a joint and beers watching firstly a splendid set by Biffy Clyro and then CSS a likeable Brazilian punk/electro outfit that forced good weather on the crowd. When the sun did appear the whole of Glastonbury let off a single roar of appreciation that really did feel quite, well, special. So much so it reminded one why one was at the fucking place in the first place. These were salad days, Glastonbury at it’s best, drinking in the sunshine with friends that had arrived by design or spontaneously, to share in the music and the whole atmosphere of the place. Despite my overall negativity of the experience, that’s one thing that I did engage with, largely, the people there are very decent and at times one does genuinely feel part of a celebratory collective, even when alone.

I joined my bro and his missus for a superb set by Maximo Park, another of the best acts I saw that weekend, followed by a pretentious though enjoyable set by The Editors. My bro and I had arranged to meet Robert at The Glade for one of my favourite bands of all time, The Ozric Tentacles. Without wishing to go into a history lesson, I’ve seen this band dozens and dozens of times over the years, mainly when they were unsigned and you could by their tapes for £2 and a hash cake for the same amount. This was the best music act of the weekend. The venue was a funky covered stage set up in a copse, the green light radiated off the trees by the flashing lighting rigs and lasers looked magnificent.

I started chatting to a chap called Mark and we shared our joint and cider with him, he returned the favour and we four were now a unit. The band came on, lifted off the tops of our heads and poured some gorgeousness in, I danced, we danced, everyone fucking danced. Even when the set stopped dead so some crew could help out some poor tripper who’d freaked himself out, we danced. For a nearly an hour it was unsurpassed joy and energy, I was whacked out of my noggin and I didn’t care. At last I’d really found what I had come for.

The walk to meet up with Robert, his missus and friends was a little more traumatic, I really was caned and was having co-ordination problems, but there were smiling faces passing by and I began to feel at ease again. I was so far gone I cared not a jot about the fact my fucking waterproof jacket was no longer waterproof and the muddy soup had gone over the tops of my ridiculous wellies and I was now walking in my own cursed estate. I had some strawberry wine and said goodbye to Mark, shortly after that I was ready to go, realising I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast I forced down a ‘pork roll’ on my way back to base camp, it was nearly a foot long and had half a pig in it. Fucking lovely it was.

By contrast Sunday was the worst day. Due to the bastard pissing rain we didn’t actually get into the festival til 4pm, I managed to cover the end of The Young Knives set which was magnificent, if I’d been in a better spot and seen the whole gig it would’ve been way up there. My bro and his missus opted for Shirley Bassey for reasons better known to themselves so I arranged to meet them there for The Manic Street Preachers after. The struggle back to the Pyramid stage was almost impossible, by now parts of the site were totally inaccessible, and those that were heralded nasty surprises, I watch a girl fall up to her waist in a chasm of mud, to the left and right of me people were falling arse over tit and the general sense of humour that had pervaded the festival spirit were flagging, this wasn’t fun. The Manic’s superb set (one of the top 4) cheered me up somewhat and I began to feel a bit better. By now it was raining hard, indeed, it didn’t stop until we were approaching London the following day. The Kaiser Chiefs were on next, boring set by their standards, all that audience participation shit pisses me off. I pay them to perform; it’s fuck all to do with me so I point blank refused to join in. The twats.

After we went and ate, kebabs, bloody good they we too and I went off to see Ian Cognito in the cabaret tent, I didn’t fancy The Who because the Pyramid stage area was virtually impossible to navigate and The Chemical Brothers on the Other stage don’t push my buttons. I made the right decision by my standards, Ian’s act was blistering, cynical, offensive and hilarious. It seemed a very fitting way to close the festival, though he was a lot funnier than most of the past 3 days. As I slid back to the van I passed a stage were Bill Bailey was performing. I bumped into a couple of likely lads from Derby, nice chaps, we shared a spliff together and I headed off into the fucking rain for the last time. When I got back my bro and his missus were attempting to get out of their wet clothes. I sat in the front, they in the back and we chatted and ate all the snacks we’d bought from Sainsbury, well most of them, I chucked a bag of Cheese Balls all over myself as I attempted to converse with wine.

Monday morning began early; we thought getting out of Glastonbury would take an age. As it turned out getting out at all was impossible because I’d drained my battery operating the small fridge in the back. We hung around for a few hours waiting for a jump, just as well as I wasn’t in any condition to drive. Mercifully our neighbour helped us out, we packed up our stuff and attempted to leave. We followed our friendly neighbour who got stuck up to his axles in mud, my bro and his missus offered support while I remained in the van holding the engine revs high to get some more juice back into the battery. I gingerly drove about until making one final push for the exit, despite some sliding and plenty of wheel spinning we got out relatively easy. There we no major queues leaving the site, due, I should imagine, to the vast number of vehicles unable to move an inch.

At last we were headed back for London. I was shattered and the last thing I wanted to do was drive, but drive I must. I’d figured we had less than 3 hours to get back before I hit the 5pm rush hour, not only had I to get home, I also had to drop my bro and his missus off in another part of town. Time was of the essence. We hit a fucking huge queue near Andover that took well over and hour to conquer which put my schedule back somewhat. After dropping off my companions I suffered a creeping trip through South London, which was made considerably worse by the sudden and violent need to take a behemoth shit.

Finally I arrived home. My priorities were thus, poo, bath, pub to meet Frank. I was barely to keep my eyes open in the pub but injected enough beer energy to make a start on the mountain of washing.

So was it worth it? Spending 4 days in a raincloud and having to risk your life taking a piss in pissy mud, with other people watching you piss as their piss goes over your welly tops, having to pinch back unholy turds because you can’t face the stinking plastic chod bins again, having to spend so much energy getting a pint it was hardly worth the effort, well maybe that’s going a bit too far. Yes, the music and the company were good when I had it, the people were nice and when the sun was out and you were settled it was as good a place as any in the world to be. But it was all let down by the other factors.

One other thing, Glastonbury makes a big song and dance (literally as it happens) about the environment, all the carbon footprint ‘I count’ stuff is surely turned over and fucked in it’s freckle by the sheer fuel burning mechanical logistics of getting the site prepared, the bands that have to be flown in from around the world, the audience to congregate in one spot from all over the country and beyond. I reckon my carbon footprint is greater just by my having to do over 5 washes just to get the mud off my fucking clothes.

Still, I would consider going next year. Maybe. Maybe? Actually, fuck it. I’m watching it on TV. If at all.

toodle pipz

So, this is it. Last blog for nearly a week.

I’m not sure if doing a blog every weekday is the best way forwards, on some days writing the blog is a fucking pain, especially when I’ve fuck all to write about because in reality I spent the night masturbating and rolling over the floor of my flat in the clutch of Slayer. On other times there are things that have simply occurred that I don’t want seen by ‘the public’, despite the anonymity of Piqued I reckon 50% of you reading this know me, or think you do. (I really didn’t mean to kill her, her head, it just came off.)

So, I’m seriously considering, on my return, to make Piqued three times weekly and a little more focussed. Whilst my readership is gradually increasing I’m getting concerned that I’m alienating some readers by the sheer quantity (over quality) of all this shit what comes out of my barnet. Or should I just fuck ‘em all and carry on? (really, look, she wouldn’t shut the FUCK up)

My bro and I had been trying to source some fucking quality rubber boots for Glastonbury. I shit you not, all of the major camping suppliers in London and the South East were out of stock, this was due the dreadful weather forecasts in the festival region and the reality that townies (the vast majority of the Glastonbury contingent) such as I don’t do fucking wellies, until now. Hence, no wellies.

After some head scratching a moronic colleague suggested some godforsaken shop in the Wimbledon area, an area I fucking hate I hasten to add, and after a phone call discovered that they had some in stock, indeed my size and my brothers. It took ages to get to this place but I got a result, well sort of. I’ve not worn fucking wellies since I was 6, I tried them on, I looked like a right cunt. To make matters worse they’re greenish, a twattish sort of a green. I plodded back up the road with my wankers footwear held fast in my arms feeling like a tool-o-la, it was hot and the sweat on my frowning must have exacerbated my ludicrous appearance. As I was carrying my brothers Sasquatch sized boots too, I’ll be forced to give him a dead arm next time I see him. It’s only fair.

My discomfort of having to traverse round southeast London resembling a rural rubber fetishist was offset at my joy at getting my new bins. Both are perfect but special mention must be made to my new shades, they make me look like a bent DC1, I fucking love them.

Last night Myfwt came over for some supper, we drunk Champagne (I’d won a load of it at work) and ate spaghetti bolognaise, I made the best fucking sauce to date and we ate it until our little faces were all covered in bits of food like a lovely couple of berks. We had a great night, bit of an iffy moment briefly following my telling of a very unpleasant joke, but she pulled through like a good ‘un and we merrily rolled off to bed before 12 where I was delighted to find out she was on the blob.

Here at the bloody office I’m right on deadline for this project, the boss is creeping about the office like Snake Plissken and I have to get some actual work done. Tonight I’m cycling back and meeting my bro in the usual boozer in Clapham to make final plans for tomorrow’s excursion and to give him that dead arm. (Hopefully the cops won’t find out about her til I’m long gone, it was an accident, surely they’ll know. Forensics?)

In the unlikely event I can get on to a PC between now and Wednesday I’ll post, if not, look forward to a big review next week. Or don’t.

Seeing these chaps on Saturday, or is it Sunday. Either way I’ll be fucked. BYE


Fuzzy logic has caused my having a hangover. I met Frank in the pub last night; I had two pints of Old Speckled Hen (lovely stuff) and went home in time for a hilarious documentary about some misguided prick who was attempting to reinstate, quite literally, an old school, school. Basing it on strict Catholicism, parents pay a small fortune to send their kids to France to be educated as kids were educated over 300 years ago, chapel, Latin, buggery etc., Part of this fucking farce included him showing pupils how to dispatch and prepare a rabbit for eating. Such cackhandedness should be reserved the Corporal Clegg’s of this world, not an some upper class porker with delusions of grandeur. The fat cunt attempted to break the nape of the creature’s neck with the blunt end of an axe in order to slit its throat and drain it of its fluids. This is correct, I knew this. What I didn’t know was that if you’re a big fat arsehole with the dexterity of a Stephen Hawking’s on the bathroom floor, you can make the fucking animal actually scream, really loud, to the point that the hairs (hares) on the back of my neck nearly flew out of my skin and impaled me to my sofa.

Anyway, Myfwt is coming over tonight so I’m making spag bol, naturally this requires a good shot of red wine, so to balance things up, I drank the rest last night leaving a slug to languish in the bottle until this evening. Hey presto, hangover.

Oddly mid way through the bottle I found myself not really enjoying being drunk, I felt annoyed at myself and even considered throwing the rest of the bottle away, save the shot for cooking… I didn’t of course, it was a gorgeous Beaujolais and I’m not in the business of chucking things away that are fucking beautiful. I gurgled in front of Big Brother before giving myself a quick blast on that new Machine Head album, highly recommended by the way, before crashing at midnight.

Yesterday at lunch I had to make a dash to the opticians to see if I could get another pair of prescription dark bins before setting off to Glastonbury on Thursday. Dark glasses are essential; my eyes don’t like bright light and have a habit of pissing everywhere (the rides to and from work this week have been a nightmare) and the whole ‘seeing in daylight’ thing is rather important, especially when squinting at bands 4 miles off. It transpired, on arrival to the opticians, that I was practically due for an eye test anyway, it’s been nearly 2 years and to my astonishment they saw me there and then. My optician by the way was utterly lovely, massive cock. I was informed that my eyesight, for the first time since I was 4, has stabilised. Apparently despite being short sighted my eyes are in excellent nick, needless to say this cheered me up somewhat, despite having to give the bloke in the opticians £250 for two pairs of Armani bins, one dark pair and one regular, after sussing out a deal. Actually I did really well, despite having to spend yet more money on shit I didn’t have to had I been more careful…

So, one more Piqued tomorrow and for the first time since January you’ll hear nothing from me for nearly a week. I did try and enrol to post on the BBC Glastonbury blog; they were offering this machine to festival going bloggers allowing them to post their daily thoughts on the BBC website, so I applied, I even sent them a link to Piqued, I should imagine they were put off by all the fucking swearing, despite my assuring them that I wouldn’t use bad language on their site, that I swear not because of a lack of fucking vocabulary but because I think it’s fucking funny and makes me look dead hard…

The fucking cunts never got back to me.

the head of motors

I’m at work. The bloke behind me and the girl opposite him are flirting heavily, it’s utterly nauseating, she’s twee and he’s socially inept, it’s turning my fucking stomach.

I need to focus on this. Calm, calm.

Yesterday afternoon I jumped on the black bitch and shot over to my folks. Father’s day and all that, grasping an offensive card (I like to deface cards designed for other purposes, it has the potential for both hilarity and offence, a winning combo) and one of those things that can inform you if the wall you’re about to drill into is criss-crossed with pipework and high voltage cables, I arrived mid way through the grand prix. I’d seen the start and managed to time my journey between pit stops, due to some creative biking.

My bro arrived along with my getting-heavily-pregnant sister with my brother in law and we all watched the end of the race together in between distasteful remarks about pedometers and the size of my sister’s remarkably massive tits. I may have mentioned before that I am lucky to have the family I do, nonetheless I still managed to make it home in time for most of Big Brothers On the Couch and BB itself, which I’ve politely reviewed in Watch With Mothers, link right. I ate, wrote (didn’t drink)
and went to bed, wishing that my dad hadn’t told me how he and my 100 year old grandfather drank more than 2 bottles (plus ‘a few’ G&T’s) every night when my parents went up to visit him last week. Mum had a couple of Sherries.

On Friday night I hopped on the tube and met James and Harry in a much-visited boozer in Coven Garden. The pub itself is very old but the décor is very unremarkable and doesn’t give any indication of its age, unless one is really looking. The most important thing is that the beer is well conditioned and absurdly cheap for London. You get change from a fiver with two pints. We three chatted about our recent comings and goings until joined by a mutual friend who’s just come back from Iraq following a tour of duty. Being a Captain his role was pretty much confined to a desk, but I learnt much more about the day to day realities of the region than I glean from the press. The Captain knows of my views on Iraq, indeed, most peoples views on the matter, but it didn’t (and shouldn’t) result in my condemnation of him a person. He’s a very brave chap; in fact he’s a bloody good bloke and takes time to explain things to me even when he can see my lefty liberal persona floundering in his face. He’s one more tour of duty and then he’s out for good. What he intends to do for his swansong (and I mean that in the proverbial sense, I really do) is remarkably dangerous, extremely courageous and not for here.

It was a splendid eye popping evening, James and I were suitably drunk when we got on the last tube and like twats we agreed to go back to mine for a smoke and a couple of cans. After much grindcore James left to the backing of the fucking birds at 5-ish or so.

At midday I was up, because I’d not been mixing my drinks I didn’t feel too bad, I’m sure this lack of the debilitating hangover has something to do with not boozing as much? Maybe? I don’t know. Either way I made it to the shops, I’d actually decided not to go but needed to pick up some more beer and breakfast things for the following day.
A few months ago my old mate from Leeds, Chaz had decided that we should see Motorhead at the Royal Festival Hall; he was going to come down and stay the weekend and I’d lay on the hospitality. Sadly this wasn’t meant to be a following a load of confusion on my part, stemming from a forgotten birthday on his, I ended up with 3 tickets, one for Myfwt, one for Jim, and one for me.

Myfwt arrived at 5, all teeth and tits looking stunning, we met Jim in the local boozer at 6-ish and began drinking. Myfwt reverted straight back to type, on the lager, matching me and Jim pint for pint and after a few we caught the tube and arrived at The Royal Festival in between the support act, Selfish Cunt, and The MH.

It was very odd crowd, largely the audience were 40 plus, some quite clearly well to do types with nervous looking spouses, even the usual MH fans were of an age and the subsequent atmosphere really was that of The Royal Festival Hall, coupled with a bit of grease. Badly Drawn Boy passed me in the lobby looking somewhat apprehensive. I was going to say something but decided against it after becoming distracted by his tea cosy headwear, it wouldn’t have been good for him. We managed to squeeze a couple more in before taking our seats (yes, seats) that were shown to us by an old fashioned usher with a torch and all that caper.

Motorhead seemed as weirded out by the situation as the majority of the crowd, they played a sterling set, despite a few tunes I’d not heard, but the whole scenario was so peculiar it was hard to get into the stride of the gig. I refused to sit down, as did some of the other patrons but even seeing seated a handful of the MH audience, nodding their bald heads against the green velvet upholstery, was alienating. Nonetheless, all was cured by a paint stripping rendition of Iron Fist which blew my teeth out. After the gig came to a close, finding its cowboy boot clad feet in the process, we popped to the upper balcony for some more beers. It was lovely up there, a perfect balmy evening over the Thames, people milled below, twinkling boats drifted past, the entire view loaded with landmarks and pretty lights… I went so far to verbally cherishing the moments, which was met with stifled drunken giggles from my two charming companions.

We got back in time to indulge in a couple more beers on the way to the Lebanese Café for some Shwarma. Myfwt tits to my utter amazement had a chicken one which to her genuine surprise she loved. On the way back to the flat someone bought a load of chocolate, no idea why, and we all arrived back pissed up and full of good cheer.

Sunday morning I made breakfast and Jim departed leaving Myfwt and I in the company of Badly Drawn Boy sardonically discussing Motorheads gig on some sofa based TV show and Hot Fuzz. The latter was fucking brilliant, as with Sean of the Dead I was genuinely jealous to have not been involved. The former was just embarrassing. Myfwt left after lunch and I joined Lara for some more gymnastics and puzzles.

Christ, the flirting couple at work are virtually engaging in oral, it’s stomach churning stuff and is preventing me from focussing on the task in hand, I need to have a cigarette immediately before I say something so inappropriate one of us will cry. I fucking hate Monday.

I’ve lost my dark glasses too.

This is the band we missed, shit, I fucked up here

going down the pub

In the pub last night Frank cracked the bubo question. ‘Blocked sweat glands’ he mused convincingly, it all made sense. It’s only recently been warm enough to sweat; in addition I’ve been making more of an effort to make the cycle in proper exercise rather than just laboured transport, I wear a bandana that covers the lower half of my ear and my hair is long. Problem solved, worry over etc.,

Frank and I stayed for 3 pints, the Bombardier was off so we had to settle for Tribute and Deuchars, both a little tart and orangey for my taste but they slipped down nonetheless. I wobbled off home and took a bath.

I’d had a long day, not entirely unproductive, I managed to get closer to seeing the fucking project off, pointless relying on others to help, and at lunch took a trip to fucking Hersham, home of Sham 69 to pick up my Transit, which following the failure of it’s MOT had remained in the garage until the necessary issues had been ironed out. The bill was fucking £235.

The journey there was utterly unremarkable save for one incident. On the train from Wimbledon to Hersham I sat in front of a tall skinhead sort of wearing a suit, I’d say he was 19 or so. As soon as the train pulled away I knew he was a clicker. He whistled, beeped, whooshed and mimicked most of the passing sounds as we rattled through the suburban woo. At some point he got a call from what I could ascertain was his girlfriend, they chatted away and at one point he said ‘shut-up’, I heard her question him, ‘nah, don’t worry’ he said ‘wasn’t me, you know how it is…’

We got off the train and he asked me for a light, ‘don’t worry about the noises’, he said ‘bit mental ain’t I’.
‘You have Tourette’s mate, not your problem…’ I said, the lad seemed genuinely pleased at my identification of what is now a well-documented disorder.
‘Driving me mental it is, just off to the docs now to get some more meds, these ain’t working…’
He gave me directions to the garage and I bid him farewell. Some time ago I wrote about Tourette’s in WWM (link right). After my encounter with the lad on the train I can’t say I feel too proud of how I conducted myself on the website, however funny the disorder may appear to be. The reality of day-to-day life was clearly getting to him, it was written in his eyes, his brow, his sheepish smile…he didn’t swear once by the way.

When I got home last night Hot Fuzz was waiting for me. I decided after the bath, some roast chicken (breast wrapped in bacon with steamed courgettes and peas, lots of seasoning and a handful of freshly grated mature cheddar, no effort to make and it tastes fucking ace) and Big Brother which is becoming more and more chaotic, I’d give the film a shot. The wine left over from Wednesday (just over half a bottle) was sat partially in my glass and partially in my veins. Incidentally, with regard to breaking any rules about drinking wine alone, I feel exonerated, if I hadn’t have drunk it last night it would be vinegar by now…

A month ago I could’ve drunk 4 pints in the pub, downed a bottle of Fitou and still been able to, just about, focus on a film. After 3 pints and a glass I was pissed to the point of not being able to focus on the film to such a degree I gave up. I was also exhausted; I’ve been going to bed before midnight lately, this would have been fucking unheard of a few weeks ago. It would seem that my body is adjusting to my new, (slightly) healthier lifestyle.

I woke up with a mild hangover this morning, the bubo had burst in the night and had dried spume all over it, it felt like someone had glued a Monster Munch behind my lobe. I was up in time to shave, do some laundry and enjoy a good 15-minute shit with Viz and Today on radio 4.

On my cycle in this morning I saw that fat bastard I’d called a ‘fat cunt’ a few days ago. He passed me on the towpath without a word; in fact, he made a conscious effort to not look at me at all… So I gave him a hearty ‘good morning’ for the hell of it. Then I saw massive fucking crow picking at the guts of a mutilated dead rat

It’s a portent of doom, kids.

Have nice weekends; be careful, for fucks sake…

I went to a house party with Jimmy Percy once… he’s a bit of a tit