Monthly Archives: July 2007


They’re dropping like flies, yesterday Bergman, possibly one of the greatest film directors ever, save maybe Michael ‘Deathwish’ Winner and Lemmy, who isn’t a film director, but if he had been I reckon he’d have been right up there, instead he chose to chair the board of Motorhead, and now I hear Phil Drabble has hung up his crook.

Drabble burst onto our screens on one Sunday afternoon in 1973 with One Man and his Dog, already in his late 60’s Drabble cut an unlikely sex symbol but his knicker soaking sheep dog trails attracted audiences of over 8,000,000. This wasn’t just Sunday afternoon teatime viewing, this was fucking essential TV.

As kids the following day at school we’d attempt to reconstruct the sheep dogs/ sheep movement, we’d follow the staccato whistles of the celebrity shepherds with record quality accuracy, the complex pattern of both sheep and Shep as he creeps towards his charges, as they displace and form into a group and are headed to the gate. One of us, just one, would get the role of Drabble.

To be Drabble for the day was a personal highlight of my school career, it only happened once, but on that day the 6th of March 1980, I was the king of the world.

Yesterday at work was fucking awful. After writing the blog I had a panic attack, very strange timing, so I had to take a 30-minute shit in order to better myself. I was in a tentative state all bastard day, combine that with the pressure of the fucking office, it was a day I could’ve left. I met Frank in the boozer for a few pints in the evening, it was actually warm and sunny and the beer was back on after the flooding of the cellar, I started to feel better. It was short lived, on my return to the flat I ran into Cunt, he was waiting for me because he’s a fucking arsehole with no life.

There was no conversation, just a stream of utter drivel from him as he floundered in a pit of pseudo-fuck all. He knows nothing but thinks he in a position to postulate on everything. I said only this to him, ‘you’re a noisy little bastard’ and in return, hyperbole free, I got 15 fucking minutes of free form fuckity. I hate his stinking guts so much I was unable to physically move, I allowed my jaw to drop wide open, whilst keeping my dark glasses clamped to my head, and he slowly backed into his grief hole as he indulged me a diatribe of hybrid cack and closed the door.

The first part of my evening at home had been fucked up by my encounter, the only good to come out of it was the news that his hairy daughter and stick missus are coming to stay in a few weeks, which means he has to behave less like a fucking retarded chimp and more like a socially integrated one. The sensational supper and few TV derived chuckles sorted me out, as did a chat with Myfwt on the ‘phone and a stiff whisky.

I went to be in time to catch the late news on Radio 4. Unfortunately for some unknown reason I woke up at 5.14 am but at least I was having yet another fucking panic attack. So that was good, then.


I’ve just had a very harrowing cycle ride into work. A car jumped a red light on a pedestrian crossing and very nearly hit me and two fellow rat racers, if it wasn’t down to our collective awareness of ‘Mmm, he’s not slowing down is he’ and taking evasive action one or all of us wouldn’t be whacking off to porn when we got in this evening. It was left to me to remind the motorist that he was a fucking cunt. The cycle that followed was bloody hard going too; I had a very heavy weekend, far heavier than usual and taking into account the new cleaner Piqued, as of late, I paid for my sins with interest.

Friday afternoon was extraordinarily busy in the office; this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing because the upshot of such activity equals cold hard cash. With this joie de vivre in place Frank and I caught the tube to Clapham in the evening to meet Harry in the boozer by Clapham Common. This pretty much set the tone for the weekend to come, conversation, giggling and, of course, drinking. We were lucky to grab a table on our arrival as the place was heaving by 9pm. The clientele are not really my type, they consist of largely well to do 20 to 30 wotnots, you get quite a few suits and lots of public schoolboy swaggering. The girls are pretty but conceited; most dress like utter prats but the place is well mannered enough for them sit about with being harangued against their will.

Frank and I took a late tube home, both of us plastered. I alighted at my stop. It was raining but the air was fresh, I felt good as I wandered up my street to my door. Big mistake feeling good when you know you don’t have to get up the following day and you decide to investigate the Subhumans album that arrived in the post that morning. Wine happened. When I went to bed it was daylight.

I was woken at 1pm by Myfwt coming in, she was in a similar condition to me. I got up showered, shat and shaved and ate some peanut butter on toast with tea. Myfwt lay down on the couch like the Lady of Shallot and we decided we were good only for TV, or a movie. I had Lucky Number Sleven in a pile of DVD’s, I’d not seen it because it looked shite, I don’t even know how I acquired it. Fuck my old boots it was actually really quite good. By 5.30 Myfwt had fawned off and I was feeling well enough to undertake the Sainsbury run. A mistake.

I’ve realised that my panic attacks are largely (not exclusively) derived from alcohol leaving my system. In essence at about the time I begin to feel better, I’m due a panic. I had one in Sainsbury, a really big nasty hairy freak out that I fought so very hard, on two occasions I had to seek refuge in the toilet, splashing my face and wrists with water hoping that my progressively filling trolley wouldn’t be commandeered by some officious git before it passed. When the third wave came in I had nearly finished purchasing but still, I so very nearly left.

I made it back to the van feeling better and drove back to the flat. After unpacking the shopping I walked up the road to meet Frank in the local as the last vestiges of fear exited my system. It would have been alright if just Frank and I been left to our own devices, but mid through the second pint Jamie called to announce he would be joining us to. This was of course great news, despite remotely watching my Sunday, after being produced with a flourish, to shatter into a tiny million billion fragments.

Jamie, like myself, is a very thirsty gentleman. This alone means that he and I have a very enthusiastic time of it in bars, add the fact that Jamie is soon to be a dad, that I was already 2 pints down before he arrived and his very persuasive, insistent generosity ensured that I don’t actually remember getting home, though I do remember calling a big skinhead a potty mouth and enthusiastically hugging Jamie in the street. Sensibly Frank had left us to it a long while before.

I was supposed to attend a barbeque yesterday, needless to day that didn’t happen. I got up at 4 in the afternoon feeling ravaged but having slept through most of the hangover I just had to deal with the fucking panic attack which began, uniquely, in the fucking bath and prepare dinner, which cured me of all my ills.

Myfwt came over at 6.30 and we ate roast chicken with all the required extras, it was lovely. She had a few G&T’s (actually, she did a commendable job) and I enjoyed a few glasses of wine, I was rather restrained, largely because I didn’t fancy a hung over panic attack at work.

Still, due to the weekend’s exuberance, the cycle here was a fucking slog. I nearly vetoed the bike in favour of the black bitch but it’s a beautiful day so I forced myself onto the former. Towards the end of the journey I was just getting into my stride, nature buzzed and scurried about me a black and white cat lying in the towpath catching the sun…with all of it’s internal organs fucking hanging out. Jesus.

RIP Ingmar Bergman, you were hardly a barrel of laughs but fuck me, if one gave you a bit of an effort, one was richly rewarded

Oh, RIP Mike Reid, the original cockney wanker

Anyone else? I don’t think these chaps are too far off…

sativa with me

I was going to cite the name of the author who appeared on Today this morning to plug his fucking book, but I don’t want him to have any more publicity.

With reference to the news this morning about Cannabis users being 40% more likely to develop psychotic illness a turd popped up on Today claiming that because of his cannabis use between 15 and 17 (that’s 2 years) he’d become schizophrenic until he was ‘cured’ at 28 and ‘now helps others’, which is why he wrote *insert name here*.

Firstly, I, and most of my friends, have sustained cannabis habits that have gone a tad over the 2 year mark, in my case it’s literally 10 times this amount and whilst I don’t claim to be the epitome of rationality and forethought, I certainly don’t class myself as psychotic, more importantly, neither does anyone else.

Secondly the word ‘cannabis’ is like the word ‘alcohol’, comparing the crappy resin I smoked as a teenager is someway off the strength of Californian Grapefruit I scored last week, it’s like comparing the eating of rum and raison toffees with drinking aftershave. To avoid public humiliation and instant derision, and if there is a message in these fucking claims, some governmental distinction must be made between strains of the weed or the whole argument becomes quite simply a big fact joke.

Using alcohol, which is legally available -indeed, a very prominent part of the structure of societies fabric, whether one drinks or not- as a yardstick, the fact that anyone is even concerned about Cannabis and ‘damage; is to me an anathema. I don’t recall the last time anyone overdosed on smoke, became violent, made a bad fuck decision, vandalised property, in fact, did anything vaguely anti social whatsoever. I’ll agree they can be accused of laughing at their hands, staring at undulating carpets, discovering the actual meaning of pizza and listening to Hawkwind, but I think that’s about it. And as far as social pariah’s go, that’s pretty far down in the pecking order, surely? Or am I being un-paranoid?

I’m not denying that if you were to sit from dawn to dusk lugging back bowl upon bowl of hybrid skunk you may find your grip on reality becomes a little fraught, but most cannabis users don’t do that, all of my friends that use, myself included, have regular jobs, it doesn’t effect their days to day lives at all, unless one runs out. That’s a real bummer because one has to make time to score, as opposed to popping to the off licence/pub on the way home.

Right plop prickers, when this starts don’t be judgemental, it’s ace. They look bloody idiotic but this lot used to tour with Hawkwind (believe it or not) though judging by the end of the first line were certainly not indulging in the contents of their rider, though were clearly pretending they were. Confused? Press play.

Have nice weekends all, have one on me (that’s not I have one on me, I don’t. Yet)


Did my weekly booze free last night. Lately it’s been getting easier but for some reason last night was a bumpy ride. I think it was brought on by stultifying boredom with the Damocles anticipation that Cunt would kick off downstairs, it didn’t make for a relaxed environment.

I had a go on Lara, made and ate a pasta bake which was the highlight of the evening to be honest, watched some TV and read in bed. I tried to do some writing but I couldn’t, not through lack of content, just desire. Last night was the equivalent of booting an empty coke can down an alley.

I had some extraordinary dreams though. In the past few months I’ve been starting to remember my dreams again, this probably has a lot top do with the general cutting back of the pop. Last night featured Jenny Agutter as she was in an American Werewolf in London playing the foreperson of the refurbishment of Wembley arena and Pete Doherty who was my best mate, we even kissed at one point (?) until he left me to start work as a recovery driver for the AA. The bastard, we could’ve made it Pete.

So here I am in the office, again. My cycle into work was fraught and awful, it’s July and it feels like fucking February, the wind made progress slow and boring and I’m on the brink of just using my black bitch again, fuck exercise.

The office is really getting on my tits, a couple of blondes have started here and the berk behind me has been flirting with them since their tiny thongs hit the chairs. It’s making my skin crawl, he has this fucking awful Star Trek fan laugh and delusions of luvviness which means formless ‘anecdotes’ and ‘knowing’ quips that are neither knowing or amusing in any way. These traits are sandwiched between is a deeply insecure and sad character who is perpetually being unkind to others behind their backs, at times he’s downright nasty, yet presents himself as this sweet old thing who would do anything for anyone. It makes me sick.

I think I need some time off, short Piqued today, I can’t be fucked.


The only good thing about yesterday at work was an almost fight in the car park. Without feeling it necessary to go into detail, we employ a lot of actors here, nearly all ‘resting’ of course but some have gone off to bigger and brighter things.

Obviously some haven’t. A frustrated actor is a deeply complex and emotional creature, when they’re on form they can be quite good company, but get them on a bad day and you’d have better company with Nietzsche and a vicar.

The fight was no big deal, lots of argy bargy following an expletive rich screaming episode for one to the other, it translated as ‘move your car as I need to pick up my kids’ but was packaged in the form of a frankly deranged middle aged man having a psychotic episode. For a split second I though he was acting, hyperbole aside, I really expected his heart to go ‘pop’. The recipient of this unprovoked tirade didn’t take to kindly to being spoken to like that and responded in a controlled yet aggressive manner and went over to the protagonist following his foolish invitation of ‘come on then’.

Shoulder barging ensued, the protagonist, whilst the more vocal and, by now, incandescent with rage, was also physically smaller. The recipients fist hovered in front of his screaming face, sheer goodwill prevented it from being planted somewhere in the back of the skull, that and the intervention of yours truly and a large scary looking type from the front office who simply stepped in between the pair and pushed the protagonist into his car as he was still screaming abuse.

After I’d cycled home I showered and prepared supper. Lasagne. I’d not made it in years; in fact, I’d never made it with meat. As students Myfwt and I were vegetarian and the beef part of the recipe could be exchanged by a product called Beanfeast, which was dried textured soya in a sort of ‘meaty’ power, when hot water was added the whole lot would swell up into something resembling ‘beefs’. It was actually quite good and came packaged with complimentary krakatoa-type farts. In my life I’ve never eaten a foodstuff with such a capacity for wind.

Cycled again into work today, I arrived in the office looking like a wet pebble as I’m still not back in the exercise habit following my malaise. I’m mildly hungover too, a bottle of Rioja went down as I prepared and ate the meal, and I’m not in the best of spirits on account of being here and having a fairly dry month. I can smell the rim of a mild recession; certainly, people aren’t spending much at the moment and that effects business generally and me specifically. Balls.

I thought, dear reader, you may be interested to see how random/casual readers of Piqued arrive here. Most of you are regulars, you choose to be here, but some arrive via Google after typing in keywords. Here are the keywords in the past week. I promise I’ve not made any of them up.


Search Terms for 7 days ending 2007-07-25
Search Views
big brother 8 Dick Suicidal Tendencies 1
Search Views
Bruce Oppenheim chiropractor 6
ducati female art 1
hersham 1
nora batty 1
high sugar content magners 1
youtube a few tunes between friends 1
meret bags 1
lady diana bukkake 1
rochelle s club 8, charley big brother 1
tomb raider tourett ps2 1
hairy aunt 1
“big brother 8″ +suicidal tendencies” 1
minutes silence for ollie bridewell 1
hairy aunts 1
viz wellies 1
tesco sir ian mclaren 1
boil behind ear 1
Search Views
“julian rhind-tutt” girlfriend 1
2007 bombardier leftover 1
small dark cunt 1
lara croft fucked 1
middle aged woman boredom blogs 1
erection with veins popping out video 1
ziggy big brother small cock 1
malboro youtube 1
“simon pegg” “Blair witch” 1
Search Views
shabnab 3
chicken brick 2
What is the concept or idea behind man r 1
daddy son fucking 1
bacon and beans hot fuzz 1
marriage bowels 1
bbc “moto gp” theme music 1
jimmy percy 1
bbc2 moto gp theme tune music 1
brolly dolly 1
davina mcall sex 1
18th birthday function rooms in leiceste 1
Search Views
wordpress piqued 1
shabnab 1
2007 triumph speed triple crash cage 1
moto gp theme tune 1
fucking a woman from the past 1
morning staffers cale 1
dog sick tongue hangs out 1
lara croft getting fucked 1
kevin mccloud cigarettes 1
Search Views
big brother suicidal tendencies 2
boner in front of dad 1 big brother 4 ziggy 1
moto gp theme tune 1
big brother, suicidal tendencies 1
suicidal tendencies, big brother 1
fields nephilim astoria march 24 1
suicidal tendencies big brother 1
“amanda redmond” naked 1
YouTube lolita 1
hairy auntie 1
valance of urea 1
hairy teacup art 1
Search Views
piqued 1
dark cunt 1
medoc cycling 1
beer battered foods causing positive eth 1
hairy aunts 1
dark blood from bowels 1
“The Idler” + Cambridge + Music 1
nasty little cunts 1
sister say y were sleeping he in room fo 1
your tube stella artois 1


Fucking hell. I’m glad the second to last one ran out of space…

You may need this to cheer you up/prevent psychosis.

mice sauce

On the way to seeing Frank at the pub last night I got to use my brolly. It really wasn’t all I’d cracked it up to be, in fact, I felt a bit of tit. Due to the flooding which has resulted in homeless rodents it’s also hit the cellars of Sarf London preventing any beer from being available on draught. I find this wholly unacceptable and something should be done, I know a few people have drowned, thousands are in temporary accommodation and thousands more without basic utilities, but no beer, fuck off.

I got home and made supper, a pasta bake I knocked up in 15 mins and shoved it in the oven while I had a bath. I’d been in the bath for a minute when down below, Cunt kicked off. I’m now sure that he’s deliberately making unacceptable noise, this was worse than usual, with amplified screaming at 11 accompanied by, and I don’t exaggerate here, a handful of wrong notes on a totally out of tune guitar. I got out of the bath, dressed and went downstairs.

After banging on his door and yelling, he opened looking gormless, but clearly gormless and on some sort of medication. He instantly began apologising, I informed him that it was pointless to apologise if you didn’t mean it, and seeing as he knows it’s fucking pissing me off, the best way to apologise would be to NOT FUCKING DO IT.

He went back into his flat and I mine. An hour later there was a knock on my door. He was apologising again, apparently (not that I gave a fucking shit) he’d been asleep all day (that annoyed me though) and he was really sorry. And could he borrow some tobacco (what a cunt). He stood in front of me wearing a woolly fucking hat and holding an empty chipped cup in his paw like the begging scrounging little ponce he is. I looked down on him and thought of Uriah Heep, and suddenly I remembered the rodent.

Before getting some tobacco for its cunting face (this wasn’t an act of diplomacy, this was about control) I asked him if he’d seen any mice in his grief hole. His response almost caused me to vomit all over his head. When he began the sentence with, ‘they don’t bother me’ I knew the news wasn’t going to be good. Turns out there had been an infestation, that his pencil thin g/f and hairy little baby were actually living downstairs during the invasion. A baby, mice. No.

Clamping shut my jaw to disguise my utter disbelief and to prevent the puke in my throat from cutting Cunt off, I was then told how he and his spare-prick-at-a-wedding dad located the source of the bastards and filled the hole with ‘wood and concrete’. The two last words revolved around my head. How big was this fucking hole?

Cunt still had mice though, just not as many. So Cunt is responsible for the source of the rodents, in addition to poisoning my peace and quiet he’s now gunning for my peace of mind. I think I should get a crime reference number from the police, just to cover myself in case I lose my temper when I see him again.

Yes, I’ll do that. Police.


Things are returning to some sort of normality, I cycled into work today, the deadline situation has begun to resolve itself and I’m back on 3’s and 4’s.

My weekend, however, was traumatic. It’s not the requirement, is it, to spend the most part of a weekend in total fucking fear, the concept of a weekend lends itself to leisure, good eating and drinking, sleeping in, late movies, pubs, you get the picture.

It begun well enough, even the work drinks weren’t too much of a struggle. I made it back to a local boozer with Dan where we were joined by his missus and baby daughter. It was a balmy evening, the traffic buzzed past us as we chatted and drank and with plenty of fight still left in me I returned back to my flat to investigate the further opportunities afforded to me by the bottle opener. At some point after 10pm the music went on and I was fully ensconced in my element, wonderful.

I put in a few good hours until overcome by sheer fatigue and the awareness that stopping would be good to make way for some sort of Saturday. It was as I was entering the kitchen to wash up my glass that it happened. I saw a fucking rodent. Its small but fat enough little system scurried across the kitchen floor, and I wouldn’t say the little cunt was racing either, and disappeared under the fridge.

I am rodentophobic, I have been since I was a kid. It stems from a very specific and traumatic episode one Saturday afternoon at my parents. I was in my bedroom reading when dad appeared looking anxious, ‘we got a problem, son’ he said seriously. I was informed that there was a nest of mice in the garage, probably under the large metal filing cabinet by the door, and he and I were to investigate. At the time I should’ve perhaps taken more notice of dad’s quite obvious concern, despite his attempts to make light of the matter. ‘Roll you trousers in your socks, they can get up your leg,’ I was given a brief example via my granddad that involved Somme rats, ‘as if they hadn’t enough to contend with’, dad said.

From a vantage point that I’d describe as conservative, dad suggested I leant on the side of the metal filing cabinet so it’d lift up for him to peep underneath. And here is where a casual indifference towards rodents morphed into a fully realised fear. As the cabinet began to rise a fucking huge mouse shot out followed, in various directions, by dozens of much smaller babies. Dad yelled ‘Jesus!’ and I ran to the opposite side of the garage, but due to circumstance and the sheer volume of vermin, I ran over 6 or 7 tiny bodies, each one being dispatched by a crackling pop.

The sight of a mouse in the kitchen was anything but welcome. In fact I couldn’t believe I’d seen it, so I refused to believe I had. I went into the lounge and after 5 minutes convinced myself I was being paranoid and went to bed. It took a while to get to sleep, despite being drunk I was very aware of my surroundings, the last thing I remember is letting out a sizable scream when the wind rattled the pull on the blind.

I woke up on Saturday. My mind instantly defaulted to the rodent that I’d not seen. Even though I’d not seen a rodent I had to check behind the fridge, and that was something I was unable to do alone. Simple as that.

I walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and peeped down the side of the fridge. To my utter fucking horror looking up at me was a fucking mouse. I physically leapt off the floor, roared, and shot into the lounge. I sat physically shaking trying to unscramble my mind to form a positive solution to this situation. First thing, phone.

I called Frank first who didn’t answer, then Jamie who did but wasn’t in a suitable proximity to help, though I was offered plenty of sympathetic advice, and finally my bro who also didn’t answer. I called Myfwt too but only to offload my emotions.

Frank called back; mercifully he has no fear of these cunty little creatures but wasn’t available until later in the day. As I wasn’t able to use the kitchen, relax in the lounge, do anything actually, I had to get out of the house. I made my way to B & Q and decided to invest some money in anti-vermin stuff. I already own one of those sonic devices designed to chuck out a frequency not conducive to the tiny ears of a rat/mouse, indeed, I watched the mouse give it a cursory glance on Friday night as it casually made it’s way home.

I was in the process of browsing the devices when I heard a voice behind me, quavering slightly, asking an assistant for rodent traps. ‘They’re here’ I said. A man of my age looked at me, I could see it in his eye, he’d been spooked. ‘Got a mouse?’ he said attempting a smile. My agreeable reply came back with exasperated expletives. It would seem that all the water we’ve had recently has forced the little cunts out of their burrows, I took comfort that there was a reason for a mouse to be marching around my kitchen. It’s not as if there is anything for him to eat in there, the floor is always spotless, precisely for that reason.

After buying a new sonic and magnetic anti-anything with a small hairy face device and two traps, one humane and one that will crush its little fucking head like a Malteser, I made my way to Sainsbury. In addition to the weekly shop, I needed to buy a sandwich as I’d not yet eaten. I got back to the flat, reluctantly, and waited for Frank in the living room gingerly playing Tomb Raider.

Frank arrived and took matters in hand; he pulled back the fridge and located the most likely source of the little fuckers entrance. After it was deemed safe I plugged all possible holes with wire wool and bleached the entire zone before replacing the fridge and laying down a trap, just in case.

I tentatively allowed the pressure to lift from my mind and Frank and I went to the pub so I could ply him with gratitude booze. I fucking owe him one. By the time I got back home I was feeling more confident, I settled back into normality, made some pizza and got thoroughly pissed to celebrate.

Sunday was packed full of motorsport delights, Formula One to start which descended into farce followed by British Superbikes. I had to tape the latter as Myfwt was in Woking a needed a lift back to mine. She’d been out on the lash with her friend Pauline and was suffering. I rather enjoyed the drive there and back, I wanted to ride, of course, but Myfwt wasn’t in a suitable position to sit pillion on the back of my black bitch.

We got home at 6-ish, unfortunately for me in time for Titanic which I’d avoided previously. Utter bollocks, though disturbing enough in parts to hold my attention, sort of. We ate a roast dinner and I knocked back a few G & T’s. At 10pm it was the Moto GP, a disappointing race, but the taped British Superbikes was a fucking beauty. Sadly such daring do doesn’t come without cost. On Friday during practice at Mallory Park a young rider by the name of Ollie Bridewell made an error and bought the farm. He was given a minutes silence at the start of the race and his position on the grid, 17th, remained in his name as is the tradition when these things happen. His colleagues spoke of him with fondness and genuine kindness before putting on their helmets and gloves, getting on their machines and going hell for leather.

RIP Ollie Bridewell 1985-2007

Follow up to Fridays link, Subhumans…