Monthly Archives: August 2007

sweet feet

Christ, I really do have a hangover. Actually, I think I’m still drunk. I went out with my bro last night; we hadn’t hooked up in a while so the ‘couple of pints’ turned into 3 pints and a large scotch. The evening ended with a killer idea as what to do for dad’s 70th birthday next March, if it comes good you’ll be informed. Probably.

This wasn’t the entire reason for the hangover. I got home at a reasonable 8.30 had a hot bath and made sardines on toast following a sort of pre-menstrual craving for them as I was coming back on the tube. For some absurd reason, following the bath, I was feeling, well, great. Sort of thirty-something death restlessness. Looking back on it I put this squarely at the ironic feet of yesterdays new shoe purchase. To someone who is blessed with OCD new shoes are akin to Hugh Hefner and rabbits.

I bought them yesterday afternoon. Being a chap who lives in Converse, the baseball high tops, classic black fellows with white rubber trim -I even wear the full white ones to functions when required to don a fucking whistle- new footwear is a strange animal in my zoo. I bought them specifically for next weeks fucking weekend shafting work function but they are sleazy enough to cope with the following weekends shenanigans in Leeds, all will become clear in due course dear reader. They’re light tan coloured Chelsea boot with a zip up the side, not my usual fare, I wear black, largely, but these Phalange and Metatarsal houses are simply beautiful, all singing and dancing fucking leather.

So lovely are they and so delighted was I with my purchase that I decided to celebrate with a whisky and ginger, then another, then, oddly, with some Sake. Then a bit more. I’d forgotten how much I liked the stuff, so I reminded myself again before hitting the hay at 3am, following miniscule re-arrangements of my furniture and fucking coasters (bizarrely), quite pissed but as happy as freed sex slave.

It’s the weekend so shortly you’ll be subject to the filth and oddities people type into google before they arrive on this site prior to rapidly leaving. Firstly, a very important mention to Hilly Crystal, founder of CBGB, who died yesterday. I went to CBGB last year the day before it shut, in addition to briefly meeting Hilly I found out from a journalist why he closed the club in NYC, it had fuck all to do with rent.

Have good weekends, Jonty to win. You heard me.

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…God it gets worse.

RIP Hilly


I’m not going to dwell on the fact that I was meant to be going to San Francisco this evening to ride across the states, I refuse to. Do you hear?

I’ve been torturing myself watching The Long Way Round with Myfwt (review in WWM, link to the…oh you know) and last night they hit Alaska, they’re both getting all excited because they’re soon to be in fucking New fucking bastard York. I refuse to dwell on this.

Following the damn good thrashing I gave my black bitch on Sunday, she loved it, I’m now paying the piper, me, then. This morning there was hardly enough juice in the battery to turn the motor over so when I arrived at work I removed it from it’s housing and brought it into the office. I have a battery charger I keep knocking about for such emergencies; I’m thoughtful like that. Anyway, in the process of removing said battery I noticed the oil level has disappeared, there is no water in the radiator reservoir, the chain is so dry that if one were to add boiling water to it, leave to stand for 5 minutes, stir in some soy sauce, it would be ready to eat.

Right, short Piqued today. I did mention this might happen, I have to sneakily do some work on the book in addition to the stuff required of me in the bloody office.

Saw this lot at Kingston Poly in 1989; the bands parents were there. Perhaps more significantly, waiting for them to appear on stage, it was also the first time I heard Nirvana, I thought they were terrible for exactly 10 seconds, before suddenly getting swallowed up. Oddly about 20 minutes later I ’got’ Joy Division

wurk orifice

The first day back in the office following a bank holiday is akin to the train journey to a forced Russian Labour Camp. Most of the time work is like standing on the platform waiting for the train. Obviously actually being at work isn’t as bad as the Gulag, that would be ridiculous. Unless it’s the first day in after Christmas. The only reason Piqued began was because I needed to take my mind off the comforting thought of a hot bath with a bottle of scotch and 50 paracetamol.

Yesterday was awful, I floundered and farted about, I was tired, bored and choc full o’ disillusion. As I festered in my chair weakly making calls to clients and reading every single online newspaper article a dozen times, each hour that was willed on to 5pm was another towards my fucking grave. This isn’t right I concluded, this is very wrong, I decided. Fucking Protestant work ethic. I don’t even believe in god for Pete’s sake.

Thank Pete, then, for the pub and pals. My entire focus of the day revolved around a seat round a table with a round of booze. When I arrived at just after 6.30 at the small but perfectly formed hostelry behind Leicester Square, Den and Harry were already ensconced. I slid into the conversation and we were off, I could feel my internal organs unwind as we chatted away. A part of the conversation was about work, not so much in terms of what we do but how it operates with regard to the affect on our lives. Both my companions don’t have a fixed timetable of work as I do; subsequently their salaries aren’t fixed either, but from my seat it seems that despite the latter -which isn’t a major issue if one is organised- not having a fixed consistent work structure isn’t just better for the individual’s lifestyle, the time to work ratio is significantly improved too. The amount of hours I, my colleagues, the work force of the UK waste because of having to be in situation between certain hours is relatively impossible to quantify. But everyone whose ever worked in a fucking office will know that one works in fits and starts, worse still, one spends a good deal of time in the office doing absolutely nothing related to the job they’re employed to do. Is it any wonder we’ve no industry anymore?

Den wandered off to catch his train leaving Harry and I to our own alcohol devices when all of a sudden the bar was filled with 20 something’s all being 20 something. Some of them looked familiar, then to my horror I realised I was surrounded by most of the cast and crew of Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps Please, that wasn’t metaphorical by the way, it was actually them.

Those of you that have been reading Watch With Mothers (link to the right of these wordz) will know that this TV show has become somewhat of an issue. Nothing happened by the way, I didn’t flip out and start pissing on them or anything, I just thought it was worth a mention…

So back off. Okay.

Well that’s the highlight of my day over, better do some work, after a cigarette, another coffee and a dump. Then lunch.

bark holiday

I really can’t believe I’m back in the fucking office already. The past few days have passed in the blinking of a bloody eye and I’m staring back into the chasm of another fistful of work.

The best day by far was Sunday. Being able to have one without the whole sardines on toast tea-time feeling of school the next the day was superlative, especially from the point of view of a clear hot sunny day sat in the middle of my black bitch with Myfwt hanging off the back.

From the outset the ride was going to be good, approaching the A3 from Raynes Park I caught up with a chap on the same bike as I. Triumph Speed Triple riders are always jolly pleased to receive other riders on the same or similar metal, we sat at the lights eyeing up the bolt-on goodies on each others bike after nodding at one another and being careful not to burn the other off after the lights went green.

Protocol is everything when it comes to a Sunday afternoon spin. It’s not necessarily the done thing to go screaming past a fellow biker as, a. it can make one look like a frustrated ego manic with delusions of Valentino Rossi besides, b. they may catch you up and humiliate you with some trick riding making you feel like an utter tit and subject to the mocking face of your pillion as you attempt to make excuses for being fucking shit after boasting about how you’re actually championship material if only you’d had the funding…

So there we three were, me, Myfwt and our new pal pootling down the A3 heading towards Guildford. I like to hang back when riding with someone else, I don’t like to feel the pressure of a person behind me (that I may be holding them up) and it gives me a chance to measure up their skills, or lack thereof. My new pal was riding much more slowly than I do, after 5 minutes of it I got bored and gave the bike a handful. I flew passed my ex-pal with a wave (protocol in my book) and hit a record-breaking 140mph, two up, nearly severing my head in the process. The air can be as calm and quiet as a millpond when strolling about the place but at those speeds, without anything more than a flyscreen to keep the wind off, nature and gravity conspire against you to rip the jacket from your shoulders via the collar and to push your helmeted chin into your neck. At 120 things levelled out and we flew through the Guildford by-pass before dismounting in a little place called Compton.

There is a gallery here, it has a large collection of paintings by George Frederick Watt, a pretty ropey Victorian artist who seemed to have got worse with age, despite quite a good reputation during his lifetime. Myfwt and I made some disparaging comments in the guest book prior to getting straight outta Compton (a weh a weh a waaa) and taking some gorgeous winding b roads into West Sussex that snaked through woods, rolling hills and chocolate box villages. We caught up with another Speed Triple; this was a machine almost identical to mine, black and scary, the sound of our modified exhaust systems converged at points making the most incredible noise, the roaring oscillated into a penetrating hum that shuddered through my spine, it was enough to roll the eyes in my sockets which I exchanged, sensibly, for a broad grin. He was also riding too slow for my tastes so after a while we lost him far behind, though weirdly found ourselves behind him again an hour after stopping for petrol and Pepperami.

All the while signals of approval were being transmitted to me by Myfwt on the back of the bike. Having a pillion can be a hindrance; they can disrupt the balance and airflow of the bike thus causing serious problems to the rider, not to mention being headbutted from the rear under heavy breaking or even falling off the back on hard acceleration. Myfwt, however, has experience; essentially I can forget she’s there and ride as I wish safe in the knowledge that if I do err she won’t shift her weight in panic causing us to all end up in a heap.

We shot through Ockley, then Horsham before locating the A24 from Dorking and passing Box-Hill. Squadrons of bikes passed in the other direction, all of us nodding at each other as if our neck muscles had been exchanged for chewing gum. It was fucking lovely. By now I, rather, we were in the zone. This is where things can get silly; ones concept of speed has been shot to pieces and the adrenalin derived euphoria demands feeding, combine this with an increasing familiarity of the bikes ability and by now ones over stretched confidence, it’s wise to be aware that tiredness and over enthusiasm can lead to serious mistakes. Fuck that I thought, undertaking a bloke in full racing clobber on an R1 on a roundabout, he didn’t like that one bit. We shot back down the A3 towards Tooting and arrived home in one piece and, more importantly in the world of unreality, with my licence.

Apart from the Sunday the bank holiday was spent with Myfwt in pubs, restaurants, on sofas and watching Scrapheap Challenge back to back on More4 in bed. Just sad it’s all over really. Still not heard anything from Jack regarding the trip across the States, I daren’t look ahead to it in case it doesn’t happen so for now it’s a question of taking each day as it comes.

The end of this song was going round my head on Sunday’s ride; I’m going to give it to you.

close shave

The cold that I was convinced I’d contracted yesterday has mysteriously vanished; the only possible explanation is that I literally shat it out of my system. All the nonsense about dysentery being responsible for millions of deaths in third world countries, its literally shit, right. It’s their immune systems responding in the logical way for fucks sake. The World Health Organisation, Medicine San Frontieres, Red Cross, the whole lot are stupid cunts who know nothing. I’ll tell you something else, most of the ‘at risk’ third world kids, the ‘starving’ ‘ill’ ones? All have fat stomachs; too many crisps and sweets. It’s a fucking con, I’m just sorry Geldof and Mr. Bono got dragged into this mess.

Yesterday at work was a bit of a pisser. We have a member of staff here, he’s an anachronism, a rotund old duffer with a comb over and cut glass accent, camper than Quinten Crisp doing ballet on Doily, he’s an ex-headmaster of a public school for musically talented boys until a stroke forced an early retirement. He’s only just 60 but is as fragile as a 90-year-old man standing in the eye of a storm; everyone is very fond of him, so when he didn’t turn up for work earlier this week a few eyebrows were raised. It was very out of character of him to not ring, I mean this is a chap who calls to tell us when he’s going be 5 minutes late. When he didn’t show up the day after that, despite numerous calls to his address and ringing round hospitals (he has recently been having tests and is on some heavy medications for a multitude of problems) I called the police.

The officer at the end of the phone took the matter seriously, after being asked pedantic questions about my colleague that just stopped short at the diameter of his right bollock I was informed by plod that they’d check out his property and get right back to me. A sense of gloom descended over the office, everyone convinced he was lying dead in his flat in Soho with his beloved cat, emaciated and shivering, licking a cold staring eyeball.

By 4pm I’d not heard anything so I called the police again. Bafflingly there was no record of my previous call; infuriatingly I was passed from one Police Station to the other in order to speak to someone that could help. Finally an officer took the matter seriously and assured me he’d dispatch a car to my colleagues address. Following the 30-minute call I went outside for a cigarette when my mobile rang. It was the police again telling me they were going to send a car, now. I told them that another police officer had arranged for that and politely suggested they fucking well communicate with each other and that my confidence in their ability to do one simple thing was being compromised to breaking point. It was just then the officer put me on hold. I was then informed of the matter thus, ‘Mr. Piqued, yes, a car was despatched to the address of your colleague 45 minutes after you called, he’s fine’.

Bank holiday weekend so there may or may not be a piqued on Monday. Whatever.

Right, weekly round up of the perverts and weirdos that happen onto this site without personal recommendations. Oh, would the person/people who regularly enquire about the size of Big Brother’s Ziggy cock fucking die, I was saying Ziggy IS a cock, anyway, it’s minute. Happy now?

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…last entry makes sense *gulp*

Saxondale was on last night, the theme tune is by a 70’s outfit called Focus, this is bloody ace, it’s not dubbed I can assure you, it’s 100% live. Acid anyone?

poison the well

Perhaps one of the greatest pleasures in life is taking a bloody good shit whilst reading Viz. I’ve tried it with motorcycle magazines, books, newspapers… No. It has to be Viz and it has to be one of those turds that fall out of one following a gentle contraction, similar to the inertia of pushing a small child down a hill on a sledge, and allowing gravity to take control.

This delight was the antithesis of what occurred this morning. I have a hangover, entirely my fault, met Frank last night for a few and fell into a bottle of wine which inspired an OCD episode that perpetuated more wine, which beget OCD, at the time it’s a wonderful vicious circle. I usually wake up to find all my furniture has been slightly adjusted for ergonomic / aesthetic purposes, that I’ve made radical decisions, minutiae to the untrained eye but to me essential progressive developments in the living space. Obviously the following day the previous nights concerns aren’t as valid as they were at the time, but I always appreciate what my drunk OCD self has done with the place, it’s rather like realising one is fucking unhinged.

Anyway, back to the shit. I woke up late after failing to hear the radio click on at the designated time, deaf in my right ear again, and hurriedly rushed to get dressed, get the tooth poo out of my mouth and gulp down life affirming water. I vetoed the decision to fucking cycle or drive, I wanted to ride, and it was just as I about to fasten the strap on my crash helmet when I felt a twinge in my botty and the dead weight of a few pounds of masticated pasta, sausage, onion, broccoli in a parsley and garlic sauce with two pints of Fosters a bottle of Beaujolais and a handful each of cheese balls and onion rings drop into the back of my plumbing.

Like some lunatic stripper I discarded a mountain of clothing in 20 seconds, drop gloves, helmet off, rucksack down, bike jacket flung, roll down heavy duty trousers over boots, this is particularly hassley, though vital unless one wants to shit with one knees together, sexy little panties off and before back skin had touched chod bin I was farting through a rip curl of effluvia. I’d not eaten any peppers yet this jet of misery was boiling fucking hot, ouch, actually. It was only when I was sat there following the decision to not read Viz as the circumstances were incorrect that I noticed my nose was running and that, over and above the hangover, I felt fucking ill.

So that’s it. I’m with another cold, not content with living in my face it’s also made home in my arsehole, I’m on my 4th bloody plops today, the last 3 have had to be undertaken at work. It’s one thing to have what can politely be described as a ‘tummy upset’ at home where hound of the baskerville growls and barks just occur for ones amusement, and another to be sat feet away from colleagues separated only by a flimsy door and sounding like Iraq.

I’ve tried laying tissue paper over the water to dull the sound but I’m just firing right through it, the distraction cough isn’t of any use, apart from increasing the pressure of the shit-jet, I actually fired over the trench an hour ago, it’s impossible to follow the complex patterns of sound. Instead I’m using the ignition method, one is switching ones engine off and on using a well-honed muscle, when running the engine is backfiring somewhat.

One of the best bassists in the business, I’m off to empty my back.

yukka fukka

I’m not in the best of fucking moods.

I was forced to drive in this morning, as I was yesterday but for two entirely different reasons. The flat tyre on the bicycle required reparation; this was successfully undertaken at lunch. That morning I could’ve taken public transport into work and cycled back home but it was all wind and wee wee so I opted for the van from the outset and picked the bike up and brought it home.

Today, it’s all fucking wind and rain (it’s christing August) but I was genuinely intending to cycle, well I was last night until the plant pot exploded. If you read yesterdays babble you’ll have come across my cod-scientific explanation for the peculiar rodent-like sounds emitting from ‘behind’ my TV. I blamed the mirror glass cracking from heat. Last night during Tribe, I even explained the phenomenon to Myfwt, a glass expert incidentally, and despite looking bemused she didn’t throw up much objection, unlike Bruce Parry who was throwing his heels out of his chin at the time. In hindsight she probably wasn’t listening.

Anyway, later on Myfwt went off to powder her bean and I undertook the usual pre-bed ritual, clean up glasses, empty ashtrays, water plant…a simple task, all I have to do is fill a glass bulb attached to long tube with water and insert the tube into the soil, the plant then helps itself. The ready made hole in the soil has been in the same place for nearly two years but for some reason last night I couldn’t get the angle right so I shoved extra hard (this isn’t some sort of coded euphemism for anything by the way) and with an audible bang the plant pot separated in four different directions. A split second before it went, I heard the ‘rodent’ noise.

I’ve not re-potted my houseplant, a fucking enormous yukka, for 3 years. Despite its growing well in that time I just figured that the pot would simply limited its size, I wasn’t expecting the pressure of the pedantic roots to actually crack and break half an inch of fired pottery.

The upshot of all this crap was that I had to drive in this very morning in order to get a new fucking plant pot before my yukka decides to wander off on it’s own and take a bath. On my way to work I stopped off at Homebase, grabbed a white ceramic plant pot thing and some more potting soil and went on to work.

Feeling the glow off success following the completion of a necessary task I parked on the contentious gravel space in the front of the office, aware of my colleagues coming and goings, I made sure there was plenty of room for them to manoeuvre their vehicles (taking into account most motorist drive like cunts) and applied my handbrake. Suddenly my boss appeared waving his arms, ‘you can’t park there, you can’t park there’ he freaked. ‘No problem, I’ll move…’ I said, dead casual like.

It was a pointless operation, I was perfectly situated, moving to the other side of the lot wouldn’t make the blind bit of difference, no bother though. I switched on the engine and started to make up the angles for the manoeuvre. My boss remained on the lot, I could feel him glaring at me. Just as I was at the optimum angle to plant the van in the newly designated zone, I was informed by my boss that I wouldn’t be able to make it and to return to my original position. Of course I could’ve fucking made it, unless you’ve driven a white Transit you’ll be unaware of their incredible turning circle, they’re like black cabs. I objected briefly, by now returning to my original position was genuinely difficult… for fucks sake.

Ten fucking minutes it took getting it back to where it had been some 15 minutes earlier. Fantastic way to begin a miserable fucking Wednesday.

Let this run for a bit, let it run…