Monthly Archives: September 2007

organ grinder

It would seem that Piqued has become very well known for its affiliation with Casey fucking Thompson. I typed Casey Thompson tits/naked into google and Piqued pops up like its some sort of porn site. It’s very disappointing.

This Casey Thompson (CT) crap began when someone, determined to find something on CT, happened upon Piqued because I write about food/chefs etc on occasion. Then, because I post search engine terms on a Friday, including the cunts who put in CT tits/naked/fud etc., it then appeared as if I was hosting some sort of chef porn site. It’s got so bad that I’m reluctant to post the Friday list, but I feel by not doing so I’m compromising Piqued, which isn’t on.

Speaking of food I made a faster version of the salad thing I’ve been enjoying with Myfwt. Instead of having to marinade chicken, shred bacon etc., just bung a load of mixed leaves into a bowl, slice a tomato, bit of blue cheese, couple of cooled (quality) sausages, dollop of mayo and mustard and it’s good to go. I had it last night whilst watching the last Saxondale which was considerably better than some of the previous episodes. I went to bed quite early, I wasn’t drinking last night and there is this excellent show on Radio 4 (Recorded For Training Purposes), which I like to listen to in bed like some sort of geriatric facing the scythe of the one that moves in shadows.

At about the same time the show finished, I heard an acoustic clunk below me. It was 11.30, Cunt was off. Despite the distraction of realising one is living over a person who really should be lying stiff on waste ground being poked at by feral children with pointy sticks, I managed to get off to sleep. I was woken a few times in the night, as one does, and I could still hear the sound of it doing stuff. Yes, I know, all fucking night. It’s impossible for me to know if Cunt woke me up or whether I just woke up, so for the sake of sleep, I assumed the latter and drifted off.

That was until 6 when I was awoken by the sound of a fucking organ and Cunt making noises along with it, like a mental dog responding to his vagrant master playing the Jews harp, which forced me out of bed and to the bathroom, where the floor is wood, so I could leap up and down and scream, ‘shut the fuck up you selfish CUNT’ which not only stopped him from playing immediately, it also woke up his hairy kid, and I should imagine, most of Tooting.

I stood at the top of my stairs, bollock naked, blinking in the half-light waiting for a bang on the door… My heart thumped inside my chest, come on, I thought, come on…Lets sort this out, my fists clenched -come on, I’m naked- you can’t get into an altercation naked, I thought, it’s so, well, un-British. I slipped on a robe… Come on fucker, lets go, I thought, hang on, I’m wearing a Yukata, a Japanese robe, I look like an angry Soft Cell fan, and I’m naked underneath, what if it gets physical and he sees my penis, NO MAN SEES MY FUCKING WINKLE, I thought, I nearly said it out loud. Instead I crept off to bed in blissful silence, within minutes I was fast asleep.

As promised the largely CT naked/tits derived list of wankers, it’s getting out of hand as you will see, I just hope some of them down tools and take some time out to read what’s on the page.

Oh, I may have posted the following youtube clip before, no matter, it’s fucking brilliant, turn it up.

Nice weekends all.

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citizen test tottenham court


I’m not getting into this short hair crap one little bit. I made a dreadful mistake deciding to go ahead with this ridiculous campaign. Looking back on my decision I’m still trying to fathom out what pushed me to go from being a bit pissed in my armchair at 10.30 on a Tuesday night to being sat under the nose of a big boned prol with hoop earrings of such an enormous circumference you could’ve dowsed them in petrol, set them alight and have Evel Knieval jump through them.

The freezing bastard weather that has just descended from the black heavens has made my new fucking haircut even more apparently awful. Lets be honest, cutting hair is literally unnatural, there is a reason it grows, and one reason is to keep ones ears and neck from becoming frozen food.

Riding home last night I couldn’t believe how cold a human neck could get, it made me feel physically sick. Later on, walking to the pub to meet up with Frank in the evening, the second I walked out the door my brain shouted ‘scarf?’ A fucking SCARF! I wore one once in the last 5 years and that was only because it was minus 7 and I had ‘flu, now I need one in the latter part of September. I’m never ever cutting it again; I intend to look like Ben Gunn in a decade, actually, it’s my goal over and above everything, and that includes friends, family, career, the cunting lot.

I’m in charge of the office today, my boss and the other director are out, the latter has a meeting, the former is playing golf which is just cliché. Of course, when the boss is taking a day off everyone takes the fucking piss. People saunter in when they feel like it, fag breaks quadruple and the Internet ceases to become a resourceful tool in favour of a giggling tit generator. It’s not my job to be some sort of corporate disciplinarian but I am in a position to ‘bear things in mind’ should it come to it.

Annoyingly one of those that didn’t overtly flout the lack of wage paying authority was the viscous fat cunt who thinks I’m the Horned One. Since my last expletive laden moan with regard to her fucking presence, she’s moved to the other side of the office. This is obviously preferable to having her grunting a few feet away but, incredibly, she seems just as loud in the distance as she did when she was occupying my zone. I’m not entirely sure how that works.

I am sure, however, that I could get a clean shot from here.

(Haircut: Guy Chadwick = Piqued. Fuck)

family git

I have a very important meeting in an hour, I’m dreading it. It’s a job where my personal interests in it far outweigh my professional ones and can’t help feeling the former is being potentially compromised by the latter. Sorry if that seems cryptic, it’s okay though, I know what I mean.

Cunt was living up to his name last night, he regularly managed to wake up his own hairy baby daughter by playing his dreadful music too loudly, when I left for work this morning I could hear him in there with his emaciated missus with the kid making a background wail, the stink of fags was a fucking disgrace. What sort of a retarded fuckwit to you have to be to fucking well smoke in the same room as a baby? Really, he needs seriously working on…That reminds me, on Saturday, Ted arrived at mine an hour before I did. For some reason, despite ringing my doorbell, Cunt answered.

“Hi, is Piqued in?”
“Piqued, lives upstairs”
“Oh, Piqued… He’s at work”
“It’s Saturday”
“Er, oh yeah, uh huk uh huk” (feel free to picture half closed eyes and knuckles on the ground)
“I’ll come back later”

Having a day ‘working from home’ yesterday was lovely, I did actually get some work done but spent a lot of it on youtube and drinking tea, feels weird being in the office to be honest. I left the flat at 5.15 in order to meet my bro at the usual hostelry in Clapham. Seems like we hadn’t seen in other in ages and we dutifully went over our recent movements before discussing the more fundamental aspects of life.

I was home before 8 and left to my own devices, I took a bath checked my emails and settled in front of the TV for a marathon session of family guy, 6 of the fuckers virtually back to back, there aren’t many things in life that are as beautiful as ‘more Family Guy, next’ appearing at the end of an episode on the screen.

It’s bloody cold today; I took the black bitch into work today over the bicycle, as I don’t feel that sweaty stinking males look good in meetings. I’m going to have to put my summer gloves into hibernation and get my neck warmer out of storage; soon it’ll be time for the horrific annual ritual of the black visor removal, the single defining moment that winter is about to land on my fucking face and wriggle until spring, which is a million million light years away, eventually returns.

Can’t beleive I found this…

strange days

This fucking blog is late again due to the network collapsing at work. My boss sent me home as I can access my work mail from here. So, an hour after cycling in I cycled back home, and here I am again. Cool huh.

Yesterday I’d just finished off Piqued, called Myfwt and was deciding whether to have a bath when my phone rang, the number was anonymous and, despite my usual self, I answered it with a morbid ‘What?’‘Hey cock-knocker’ came the cheery reply, I recognised the American drawl instantly, though his accent is due to his education at American Community Schools, in reality he’s half Italian and Australian and woe betide anyone who calls him a ‘yank…’‘Fuck me, Thrax?’ ‘Sure, wanna hang out?’

It was lunchtime, the wind and rain had been replaced by glittering autumnal sunshine, I mentally binned the afternoon’s plans of writing in favour of this fateful coincidence. I’d seen Thrax maybe once in the three years since we hooked up in Madrid, despite not seeing him much these days (we used to work together) it’s always the same bloke I have fond memories of.

We arranged to meet in a town in the south-west of London for 3.30. This gave me enough time to eat and change out of my yukata into something more suitable for biking. At 3 I hopped onto my black bitch, the journey through London at that time was punctuated by herds of school kids of all ages. It seems weird but because I don’t have any children, my work hours miss them coming and going to school and obviously, don’t see them hanging around in bars, I had sort of forgotten that they exist in such vast numbers. There were fucking thousands of them loose on the street, gathered at busstops, hanging outside shops, all manner of colour, size and shape. On the whole they seemed a cheery bunch, a world away from all these little asbo cunts we hear about on the news and I regarded them all with a sort of avuncular wish that all was well with them.

It was a stunning afternoon, the sun hung low in the sky and I arrived at my destination feeling charged with life. Thrax met me at the station and we got coffee in a rather snazzy bar on the high street. We caught up and as usual our conversation ended up on our favourite topic, Metal. We discussed the new wave and realised that we’d pretty much shunned it in favour of filling in the gaps of the old school shit we’d been listening to since kids. The conversation then turned to comics, I’m no expert but enjoy the odd graphic novel. Thrax told me that he found it hard getting hold of good stuff in Madrid when it suddenly dawned on me that my mate Rob, who I’d spent Saturday night with, ran a comic store right round the corner (even stranger, on that Saturday night I’d shown Rob the video a friend made of us having a ball in Madrid with Thrax).

Within minutes Thrax and Rob were introduced and the latter helped the former catch up on recent publications and advised him accordingly, I found myself leaving with Frank Miller’s Batman Returns, which I decided to give to Myfwt on the condition I could borrow it after. We hung out there for half an hour before I was forced to make the trip home as it was approaching dusk and my black visor would soon become a serious hindrance to my journey. I said a fond farewell to my mates and mounted my ebony steed.

Back at home I made a chicken and mushroom pie and was joined by Myfwt in time for University Challenge, she fucking decimated me. It was followed by an excellent and moving documentary on Factory Records during which I presented her with my gift; ironically, the following programme was all about graphic novels. It was so strange how everything seemed to add up, I pondered this and then it hit me.

How about Piqued becomes a graphic novel? I have artistic skills but as a cartoonist I have to step back, so, if anyone is interested in following this up send me some artwork to my e-mail. You never know, it could be the start of something.

This is for Thrax.

much laterz

There really isn’t a positive way of seeing a weekend late on a Sunday evening, it’s cruelty personified. A weekend from this perspective isn’t so much as what has been gained, it’s more of a question of what has been taken away.


The weekend is snatched in stages from the moment one leaves work on a Friday afternoon. You go out with your heart full of the anticipation of the two-day break but mid way through Friday evening you’re already thinking about Saturday’s objectives. On Saturday when I’ve finished the afternoon shopping, usually after having squandered the morning, the relief that I’ve attained my objective also signals the death knell for the weekend itself. So one focuses on the Saturday night that invariably involves more memory-sapping activity, and the Sunday to come, which has, of course, been rendered virtually useless by Saturdays hedonism. Before you know it your staring into the chasm of another bastard week at work.


The very fact I actually had a good weekend means fuck all on a Monday morning.


It began by meeting up with Swineshead at a pub in Clapham Common, despite my recent moans about the onset of autumn it was a beautiful evening so we sipped beers in the fading light in the concrete garden discussing writing, rock and real estate. At around 8-ish we went our separate ways, SH back to his home in the East End whilst I walked down Clapham High Street to meet Myfwt and some of her colleagues in a bar under the railway arches by Clapham North Tube.


I lived in Clapham for a good 5 years and am still very fond of the place, it has a unique vibe that feels more New York than London, there are so many restaurants and bars that compliment each other rather than openly vie for business, one can eat and drink the world in less than a quarter of a mile, Clapham has a splendid symbiotic relationship with itself. Walking down the street to the bar I felt suddenly very at home and wished I were still living in the area. Of course Clapham has peaked somewhat since I lived there, its streets are cleaner, safer and a lot more fashionable, a fact reflected in the prices of the scarcely available property.


Myfwt was on good form having drunk about the same as I, and her colleagues were very engaging. After a few more beers we wondered back up the street to a lively Mexican restaurant; I drunkenly opted for beer chilli, which was served in a humongous top hat shaped tortilla. It was a hot dish, I was even aware of the price I’d pay on Saturday as I tucked in. We went off to another pub by Clapham Common where it seemed to be okay to smoke out of the open window on the top floor. It wasn’t okay; I was threatened with having to pay a fine by a huge square faced bar ‘maid’, I protested, everyone else was smoking out the window, I said before realising that I was the last smoker standing and was forced to back down.


Myfwt and I got home at 1-ish and I stoically had another beer before realising that I’d drunk at least ten pints and was thoroughly pissed, I went to bed at 2 or so. We both woke with hangovers; mine not as harsh as Myfwt as she’s been drinking wine as well as beer and we lay in bed watching re-runs of Tales of the Unexpected. It was a perfect way to suffer a hangover, a round of bacon and watercress sandwiches, 4 cups of tea and a big slow boiling hot trog saw me as right as rain.


I made a deal with Myfwt that if I drove her to her workplace in my van to pick up her car she’d help me with the shopping. Due to Roald Dahl’s tales we were running very late and the Saturday traffic on the streets made progress terribly slow. This wasn’t good; I’d made plans to meet an old mate at my place for 5 and by 4.45, after an hour and a half drive before discovering that we’d missed the deadline to get Myfwt car out the pound, (cue moderated scream) I still hadn’t done the fucking shopping. I texted my mate to inform him I was running late.


Without much of a choice the shopping obligation was undertaken at some pace. Myfwt was still hungover which slowed things somewhat. She has this habit of wandering off in the other direction to investigate something that has caught her eye, just at the very moment I’m in full OCD mode gathering together essentials and beating a path for the till she’s to be found half a superstore away eyeing up the label of a tin of Olives stuffed with Anchovy. Despite all this I was back at the flat by 6, Myfwt wasn’t up for another session so sensibly decided to go back to hers, though I’d have rather she’d have stayed.


I met Ted at mine at 6, Ted is an art therapist, we’ve known each other for over 20 years, he now lives in East Anglia so it had been a while, he and I wandered off to the local meeting Rob on the street on the way. Rob runs a comic shop of some note in the South East (I’ve known him for yonks too) and he and Ted go back further than Ted and I so we made a dynamic triple. We were supposed to have been joined by Frank, James and Jamie but due to illness, a dissertation and x they were unable to make it. We three caught up over some ales in a crowded beer garden, the pub had just played host to the rugby so the place was full of pissed up hooray aw-ha-ha cunts.


After a few and some hilarious geek related comic shop anecdotes that have been blurred into the ether, we shuffled off to the Shawarma shop where Rob and Ted were introduced to the delights of Lebanese cuisine. We made it home and stuffed our maws with a couple more cans before trying to get to sleep; this wasn’t as easy as it sounds due to a minor encounter with mirror medicine a few hours earlier.


I had barely 5 hours sleep. Ted and Rob left in the morning I busied myself with a shit load of washing and the dyeing of a green hoodie which needs to be black, it was a long messy process but the result excellent. I ate breakfast with the Moto GP, then switched over to the British Superbikes which was a lot more fun than the former. Rossi basically gave the championship away to Casey Stoner by coming back into the pits following a change from wets to slicks to moan about the front tyre, which was obviously not up to race temperature yet. Nonetheless Casey deserved his championship.


I taped the final race as it was time for me to mount my black bitch and head off out to see my niece. The ride is just the right amount of time to feel the benefits of a fucking good spin; I ignored the blustering wind and headed out to the country. The little one has a bit of a sniffle and can’t quite work out how to cough yet, she’s also on the brink of laughing but due to the same reason she can’t cough, she can’t laugh. She has, however, discovered that she fucking loves having a bath. As soon as she’s in the water she’s pink blur of foam. I shot back home to watch the end of the racing and settled in for the evening, I wrote the first half of this, ate roast chicken and abstained. My weekend closed almost as it had begun by watching a load of Tales of the Unexpected before hitting the hay.


My catch up nights sleep was compromised by waking up at fucking 5am, I fell asleep eventually but when I woke up at 8 I could hear the rain and wind lashing against the window. Fuck it, I’m having day off I decided. This is why Piqued is late and why I’m going to spend the rest of the day playing Tomb Raider in my Yukata.


I wished I’d have known I was going to spend the day in here, could’ve saved you all the moaning at the beginning. Oh well.

Enjoy, actually this is fucking ace…

horrific sow

There is this enormous arsehole at work, from the moment she blotted my landscape and gave me the once over, I despised her. Judgemental I may be but unless someone goose steps into the office smeared in dog shit I won’t make an instant decision as to whether I will or won’t like them. My instant dislike of this mutated potato was based on the way she initially regarded me. As I was being introduced to her I could see her fringed lip curl up, her piggy eyes narrowed and it took all of my resolve to not point out that she needed a shave prior to stabbing my Bic into her fucking forehead.

In hindsight I was wrong, she’s actually far more unpleasant than I thought. She positively ignores me (I am a director for fucks sake, the only reason she’s not bouncing down the road by the way is that she’s good at what she does, business is business and all that) and she’s overtly horrid to most of my colleagues yet expects everyone to instantly respond to what ever the fuck it is she wants, which shouldn’t be help with turning on the computer, it should be assisting a crane operator to get her on a ducking stool.

Worst of all she’s sat a few feet away from me. I can see her as I type this. Christ, she’s just sat there like barnyard accident, her massive purple head dropped down to slurp tea from a bone china cup and saucer… we don’t have any bone china cup and saucers in here, she must have bought it from home, Jesus, not even our fucking mugs are good enough for her. What a fucking fat, sanctimonious, misery- generating old shit.

When I got in last night I heard the sound of Cunts hairy kid screaming its fucking head off, and there was me yesterday thinking it was gone. The sound of screaming was accompanied by “ka-boom ta ta ta, arghhh, move them to the front, eeeeeUUUU ARRRGHHHH KA-FUCKING BOOM AIIEEEEE” as the ludicrously untalented mentally damaged half wit carried out X-Box manoeuvres whilst his unattended offspring cried its face off. I’ve no idea where his emaciated partner was while all of this parental irresponsibility was taking place, for all I know she could’ve been in there flicking her self off with a crack pipe.

I have a hangover, beer, wine and Sake, in that order, due to Frank, 8mm (which is unnecessarily horrific) and Sonic Youth, in that order. But at least it’s Friday. I’ve a bloody busy weekend coming up; loads of mates appearing from different parts of the country for no reason whatsoever save a bit of a jolly. I’ll let you know how it goes.

In the meantime, the harrowing list of those that stumble on these rantings in error, followed by a soothing Family Guy short to take your mind of it.

Nice weekends all, play nicely, yeah.

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angry shattered

I’ve not had much sleep. I was woken at about 4 By Myfwt who’d shaken me awake to inform me, laughing, that she’d poked it ‘on the fing’ prior to instantly going back to a less disruptive form of sleep. Waking up at 4 is the kiss of death, literally, more people die at 4am than at any other time. I wish I’d never known that and I’m really sorry for letting you all know because you’ll remember it, at 4am, as you’re trying to get back to sleep but instead you’ll suddenly be aware of all your internal organs, your pounding heart, the thread like veins that connect up the entire human system, how fragile it all is, besides everyone has to go sometime…

At about 5 I managed to get back to sleep, at 5.15 I was awake again, this time Myfwt had decided to get period-related stomach cramps. How selfish. She took some Solpadine and came back to bed and sipped it before slowly getting back to sleep. By this time I was wide awake, at about fucking 7.20 I fell back to sleep, only to be woken again at 8 when Myfwt got up to go to work.

I got up at 9 after falling asleep twice in the space of 15 minutes, getting out of bed was harder than anything anyone has ever done. The cycling in situation was dismissed outright and I climbed up on my black bitch, it was she that took me here to my desk this morning, her, the one I love.

Last night I managed to get quite a bit of writing done early in the evening before Myfwt arrived at about 8pm. I’m in one of those zones at the moment where it’s quite smooth flowing, diarrhoea if you will but without all the smell and cleaning up, so it’s rather enjoyable. These are the salad days, of course, sooner or later, and I expect the former, I’ll be sat staring into space trying to work out a suitable conjunction or initiator to move the fucker along. It’s one thing to have the bones of the plot laid out and another thing to add flesh, essentially it’s a case of going from 2 dimensions to 3 and it’s as easy or as complex as that. For me.

When Myfwt arrived she took a hot bath and we ate shepherds pie. She seemed a little flat on account of the crap men have to go through once a month, so when The Butterfly Effect began following my hearty recommendation, which from the outset is quite nasty, it looked as if I made have made a mistake. Put it this way, she looked at me is if I had a turd hanging out my nose for the first 30 minutes. She stuck it out and in the end rather enjoyed it, I put this squarely at the feet of Crutchton Asher or whatever his name is, ropey actor but the ladies love him.

So, here I am at my fucking desk barely able to keep my eyes open. The only energy I had in me has appeared before you on this very page. I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to function today. I’m on my second cup of coffee which is making my stomach moan, so when that sandwich fool arrives I will take a can or two of Coke off him. No doubt this will lead to a panic as my pounding heart fights against my fatigue, it’s the perfect recipe for being stood bolt upright in the loos for 30 minutes trying to inhale sufficient oxygen to support life.

So, there’s something to look forward to right there.

panique piqued

Cycling into work is now a serious chore, yesterday morning my ears were screaming for a good 30 minutes due to the temperature of the air, if course, if I didn’t look like Baldrick then my ears may have been offered some protection from my long lost locks, but this was of little comfort as I sat silently screaming in the corner of my office with my hands clamped over my stone cold lug ‘oles.

I didn’t touch a drop last night, I’m getting good at this (I abstained Sunday night too, and when I don’t drink, I don’t smoke dope either) but it makes for a fucking boring evening, especially as Myfwt wasn’t about. I’ve found, though, that if one is tired it’s not too difficult, sleep is the best way to avoid temptation after all and feeling tired bolsters ones tenacity to remain sober. The downside is that the whole ‘reward’ structure collapses. Allow me to expand on this.

I’ve mentioned before that the biggest hurdle to overcome when abstaining revolves around the preparation and eating of food, but I was wrong. The biggest shitter without question is after I’ve been writing. When I got in last night I put an hour into the book, not much I’ll admit but after I’d finished I defaulted to the kitchen to grab a glass of vino. Had there been some I wouldn’t have been able to deny myself, but I’d made the decision not to drink at lunchtime and didn’t bother stocking up for the evening (normally there would be wine in the kitchen but due to the weekends shenanigans I didn’t go shopping).

Well at least I don’t have a hangover this morning, I still feel fucked though. I went to bed at a reasonable hour but woke at 5am for utterly no reason and couldn’t get back to sleep. Come to think of it getting to sleep wasn’t easy either. Since cutting back on the booze I find that just as I’m drifting off I feel as if I cannot breathe and my body lurches awake in a single contraction of horrific panic, this happens at least 10 times before I fall asleep. It’s really nasty. Also, I get this thing where I can’t swallow. This happens during the day too. Imagine you’re on the downstroke of a swallow and the whole system locks up, you can’t breath obviously, this again results in a single explosive burst of panic. At work last week I smashed my knee on the side of my desk during one of these episodes causing all of my colleagues to turn and face a man who looked as if Wilfred Bramble’s ghost had suddenly fellated him.

In bed it’s really great when the sleep-leaping and swallow-lurch work in conjunction with one another…

Oh, Cunt news. His hairy daughter and emaciated mother of it have fucked off. I’m just waiting for him to begin making a life sapping racket again but I’m not having any of it this time. For the last few weeks he’s been avoiding amplifying his gormless great fucking head and subjecting the world to his deluded projection of his own worth as he’s realised this wasn’t conducive to the hairy one sleeping. So, the instant I hear him preparing to indulge himself in a session of musical illiteracy I’m going to go downstairs, knock on the door and, after doing a bad impression of Simon Cowell on The X Factor (in abject disbelief at the gall of a mentally challenged contestant even appearing in the audition let alone barking out a version of James Blunts ‘You’re Beautiful’ that’s so appalling he begins to bleed profusely from every orifice) smash his face in until I could fry it with onions and garlic.

oop t’northern

Friday afternoon, I cycled back home and after a cough and a splutter, went off to meet Frank in the local which was stuffed full of no-necked rugby types (again) baying at a selection of massive flat screens featuring more no-necked rugby types deliberately hurting themselves in an orgy of masochistic machismo. We couldn’t be fucked to deal with it so opted instead for the rather limp bar over the road and sunk a few lagers instead.

I returned home and had a few more cans in front of the TV and hit the sack a little later than I intended. I woke on the Saturday morning in good time and prepared myself for the trip ahead by having no less that two kippers and about 4 cups of tea. And toast. As is the custom Myfwt was late but at least when she arrived she was actually ready to go. I’ve found that women require at least an hour more time than men to prepare themselves for an excursion, even if its to take the fucking rubbish out. We were already an hour behind when we set off, of course, it was a Saturday so the roads were solid with metal and it took us almost 2 hours to hit the M1. At the first set of services, Newport fucking Pagnell we stopped and gathered together food and fags and carried on our way. This time I took over driving responsibilities in Myfwt car, I was rather keen we got to our destination before Sunday so I gave it my plate of meat. We arrived at the Huddersfield junction some 3 hours later in, remarkably, very clement weather. By Yorkshire standards it was blistering.

I’d arranged to meet Charlie at the car park of Yorkshire Sculpture Park. We didn’t have enough time to have a meander; I followed Charlie in his car through the glorious Yorkshire countryside at some pace. The road surfaces aren’t really up to the standard one expects from London, the up t’North people haven’t had roads for very long, or cars, because they’re poor, bless, so well done to them for at least making an effort. Bravo.

Actually, driving the up t‘North lanes was more like rallying and ironically I thought of Colin McRae, probably just at the very moment he was screaming towards his death in his chopper.

Unlike most Yorkshires, Charlie and his family have a rather large swanky flat; it has running water and central heating and even a loo, inside! We greeted Charlie’s wife, Lisa and 3-year-old son called Winkie, who’d just woken up, and all had a nice cup of Yorkshire tea. Charlie’s mum and dad popped by to pick up Winkie because us adults had some adult things to do. Feverishly we all got changed into our clobber for the evening’s delights. It was Charlie’s fortieth and the theme for the do (see, I’m even getting the lingo) was ‘vaudeville and burlesque from music hall to dress as you dare’ I was looking rather rakeish in my top hat, Byron-esque lace white shirt, waistcoat, pin-striped slacks and pointy leather boots. Myfwt wore a fetching black dress with fucking stockings, right dick-fattening stuff. She looked delicious. Lisa looked stunning in a green corset and an ostrich feature in her bouffant hair and Charlie, also with top hat, looked like the consummate dandy by employing lots of red silk with a tailored black-suited.

We took a cab to the station and hopped on the train to Leeds. My initial concern of Myfwt attracting a bit too much attention from ‘gentlemen’ was stymied when I realised the young ladies from Leeds are happy to walk about wearing dental floss to cover their modesty. My own rather unusual dress code was aided and abetted by the company I was keeping, I actually felt extraordinarily comfortable prancing about town, like a tit.

We arrived at the first venue; a fine looking pub with a good selection of proper ales, in fact, Tim Taylors Landlord was on the menu, a personal favourite. I was introduced to a host of similarly attired guests, there were quite a few top hats and ostrich feathers, fur wraps, stockings, tail coats, plus-fours, canes, spats… everyone looked superb. A few faces I knew, a few I didn’t but it mattered not, Myfwt and I fell into the bosom of the guests and we drifted from face to face making our acquaintance.

After a few pints dinner was announced. To my utter joy, and really this was being like a 5 year old at a your best friends party, I was confronted by a 20 foot long table groaning with nothing but yellow food. Pies, both chicken and pork, pasties of all known type, scotch eggs, a dream food when you’re pissed, ham and cheese rolls, crisps, more pies and not a flash of green in sight. Wonderful.

After stuffing our faces to the point of blindness we took a cab to Leeds University to visit a club called The Wendy House and it was here I had my true taste of the north south divide.

I’ll keep this simple because this isn’t a fucking social commentary; it’s one rather bored berk ranting. As we approached the university students were milling about and we were forced to ask them directions. Instead of reticent grunts and/or shrugs we were warmly received by total strangers who took it on themselves to not just walk us to the venue but to converse with us without any agenda. Maybe its because of the way Myfwt and I were dressed (the rest of the party were 30 minutes behind us so we were on our own) but I think it’s just because the up t’North people are simply friendlier. Indeed, the club itself played host to a wide mix of alternative codes, goth, skins, punks, indie kids all cohabiting as one, with all groups dancing at one point to (ironically) Respect by Erasure.

We stayed until it closed, I’ve no idea what time it was and took another cab to a house in Huddersfield where things took a class A turn for the better, the booze flowed mercilessly and things began to get gorgeously vague and strange. There seemed to be a seamless passing from being inebriated to waking up feeling like I’d been reconstructed from sand and poo.

I didn’t mix my drinks but my three companions did, all threw up at some point in the morning though Charlie copped the worse. Fortunately for me the TV had been left on as Charlie who was full of the stuff a few hours earlier, hadn’t been able to sleep so I was able to watch the Grand Prix and then the Moto GP as I made breakfast for Lisa and Myfwt. Charlie joined us shortly after and the girls chatted while Charlie, Winkie and I went off to his bedroom to play with his toys. Turns out Winkie is a Marine Biologist in the making, on his wall are pictures of fishes, hundreds of them. Winkie can name every bloody one, and no, he’s not autistic, weird or precious, just a smashing kid. I asked Charlie how much he’d sell him for but the idiot wasn’t interested.

At about 5-ish I felt I was good to drive, after a fond cheerio Charlie escorted me back to the M1 with Winkie in for the ride and we were off. The journey back was fucking awful, sudden queues nearly saw us buried in the back of two lorries and one of them new mini’s, I left a service station without my lights on and wondered why everyone was flashing me, I got caught by a speed camera as we approached the M25 which didn’t do much for my temper and by the time we arrived home at 10pm both of us were giggling insane but alright enough to watch The Bourne Supremacy which is ace of spades.

Yesterday was spent in bed until midday, we had breakfast, watched Clerks 2 (superb stuff) after a bit of cleaning and washing spent the rest of the day and evening on the couch taking it very slowly indeed, eating at will and having a few stiff drinks to prepare us for today.

Next weekend I’ve a bunch of friends coming to my gaff, I may have to take another Monday off for that too.

Family guy week, a little clip to get you warmed up.

just a tad

I have a fucking hangover. I met my bro at the getting-less-than-usual usual, subsequently seeing him has turned into a mini event, we had 3 pints and a scotch and due to my cheer in seeing him I returned home and dove into some wine and continued into the small hours. The evenings delights were punctuated by a hot bath and a croque monsieur, then instead of Saxondale, which isn’t really working, I watched The Shawshank Redemption and quite unexpectedly cried like a peeled baby in bleach. I’ve seen the film a dozen times and it’s never had that effect, my period must be due. Following a very useful bout of OCD where I sorted the cupboards in my kitchen, I rounded the evening off with Gang of Fours celebrated offing Entertainment, some really early Jesus and Mary Chain and the debut album from The Young Knives which isn’t too hot on production but nonetheless a Piqued recommend.

Following work today I’m off to have my hails painted black at a nail bar, sorry, let me correct myself. Following work today I’m off to have my hails painted black at a nail bar. Yes, that was it after all.

Fear not, I’m not about to place a brown hat atop my head, this weekend I’m off to Leeds with Myfwt to attend a very old mates 40th birthday. There is a fancy dress aspect to it so I’m going to attend as some sort of satanic rake, top hat, lacy short, cock out…We all lived together as students so when we hook up we’re inclined to behave like we’re in our early 20’s (late teen in the case of Myfwt). Despite the journey I’m looking forward to it, I’m not looking forward to the Sunday after though, so much so that I’m taking Monday off. This means its highly unlike there will be a Piqued but a bumper issue will follow on Tuesday.

Short one today, shit loads to do, first the usual list of weirdo’s that come onto this site by accident after typing filth into google. I see the Casey Thompson wankers are still at large, Ziggy’s penis still looms and someone seems to have a kink for impaling. How nice.

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Still bored? Go to Watch With Mothers (link right) and check my revue of The Restaurant…

Enjoy the youtube clip drunk eating fast food. Nice weekends kids.

larry curly and me

The last half an hour prior to the appointment I could almost hear the mourning bells of St. Sepulchres church. Clutching my imaginary gallows speech I took myself along from the east to the west along Holborn, St Giles, and the Tyburn Road, perhaps having one final pint prior to stepping up on to the gallows, and having my hair washed by 16 stone tart called Sharron in the windows of Tony’s the unisex hairdresser round the corner from my office.

We’d already gone through the preliminary ‘what do you want’ bit when they pointlessly sit you in a chair and, standing behind you so you can see them in the mirror, froth your hair up a bit looking like they really give a fucking shit. Sharron performed this part very badly, I thought. When I told her what I wanted she responded, terrifyingly, with a ‘why would you do that, then.’ I should’ve thrust a pair of scissors into her head and legged it, but I didn’t. I stayed.

Wordlessly Sharron began to work on my barnet, her pendulous breasts smacking against my shoulder and her WKD and chip sodden gunt rubbing against my arm. Every time she moved her giant gold earrings, at least 3 in each fleshy lughole, would clatter together like marbles being dropped on terracotta. I watched vast swatches of my hair flying off as she got down and dirty with my cows lick, I could feel the cold steel of the scissors way too high up the back of my neck. I thought I may be sick.

After a tortuous 45 mins an apparition of my former self made itself known to me. ‘You’ve finished?’ I said staring at Moe Midgely. ’22 quid’ said Sharron.

So, there you have it. I made the decision to do this thing to myself, what possessed me yesterday to undertake this act of personality defiance, I’m a person who likes to listen to the metal of the lords, the punk of kings, yet here I am telling the word that I love Chico and buggery. In the past, on these very pages, I’ve spoken of Sigmund Freud standing up in a railway carriage and not recognising himself in an adjacent mirror for a split second, he calls this ‘lost’ moment the uncanny, it’s the model for surrealism. Its not pleasant walking about ones home getting the fucking fear of Lucifer everytime one happens to glance into a mirror. Waking up this morning and seeing myself for the first time, expecting to see my usual self was like a scream of such enormous volume it was the personification of total silence. I nearly passed out from the stress of being subject to such a violent episode of displacement.

In short, I look like an utter, utter cunt.

I need this, you need this so you don’t take the same path as I.

leaf nuts

The light, the fucking light, it’s gone all golden and otherworldly, the light is dying, dying I tells thee. I refused to be touched or moved by its shimmering beauty, the leaves, see how they fall! SEE HOW THEY FALL.

Maybe it’s in the light of this, no pun intended, actually, maybe a bit, that I’ve decided to have my hair cut. Cut. Not a trim or a few inches off but a radical cut. I’ve not seen my neck since I was 15, it was seriously long throughout my 20’s, we’re talking about it getting caught round my pills from the back long, and even when I went for the big chop in Vidal Sassoon in my early 30’s (I figured I may as well have it done properly, even if it was 90 fucking quid) it was still long short.

I figure that to maintain some sort of rock credential I’ll be forced to head off in the Jesus and Mary Chain direction, long fringe, short back. Essentially, post punk rather than looking like a trucker who likes Bruce Springsteen, as I feel I do now.

Of course making such a decision required a bottle of wine at least, though in fairness to my sober self and in the cold light of day (another one there) the decision was reinforced rather than formed by an excellent 2004 Bordeaux, and a quick shot of Glenfiddich for pudding.

I did some writing when I got in from work yesterday, not much but enough to get the fucker flowing. I hate starting a book, its like wanting to sneeze but being unable, so instead you make that ridiculous face and inhale sporadically with a clenched fist in front of your face. Of course once it’s started it’s an uncontrollable fit. I like that part.

Flushed with some sort of mild success following a few hours scribbling (and a wee wankie during a nasty bout of writers B) I made dinner, Piqued’s Gourmet Sausage and Brocolli Wonder with Cheese, Onion and Mustard Sauce (from here on in known as PGSBWCOMS because I eat it a lot) in front of Jamie Oliver’s cheery cockney chappie fizzog who I like incidentally, which I then ate in from of Tribe, somewhat ironically if you saw it.

Listening to Today this morning, I was rather surprised and upset to learn that Nuts, a ‘lads mag’ for mentally challenged cunts, has launched its own TV Channel. I thoroughly disapprove. Whilst I’ll be the first to admit I’m not adverse to spending time looking at ladies privates, the shit I view doesn’t piss about pretending to be anything other than what it is, it doesn’t attempt to gentrify pornography, make it acceptable to view women in such a way, which is what Nuts does.

The thing about so called lads mags isn’t necessarily how they effect the attitude of mentally challenged cunts, lets face it, you’ve got to be a little under par from the outset to even want to buy something like that, and being 15 isn’t an excuse, it’s also the fact that it glamorises the glamour industry for girls. Girls see boys reading it, talking about in a public space, rather than being confined to their bedrooms coyly whacking off, and it becomes ‘acceptable’. The fact that young girls see fucking Jordan, that plastic boobed horror with more testosterone than Vin Diesel, as a role model makes me want to physically be sick.

I’m off for a trog.

salad tosser

I feel shit this morning. I wouldn’t mind but I barely (relatively) drunk last night. I had two pints of IPA in the beer garden with Frank and a can, 1 bloody can, of Calsberg when I got back. I put it squarely at the feet of exhaustion and over indulgence following the weekend.

Yesterday was cack. I could barely keep my eyes open at work, business just wasn’t happening and my Slayer wallet hasn’t arrived. The post here doesn’t arrive until gone 11 so I was like a dog with two, not one, but two members until discovering that the post wasn’t bearing my goods. In fact I’m currently waiting for 2 other items and they’re late too. After that I sort of gave up. If I’d been old and infirm I would’ve probably slipped ‘next door’.

When I cycled back home in the afternoon, I could barely be pissed to pedal and as a result got back ten minutes later than I would if I’d made some sort of effort. If it wasn’t for the appointment with Frank I may have been tempted to take to my bed like a Victorian Duchess. After the drinks I got home and made a marinade for some chicken breast (olive oil, thyme, parsley, chives, seasoning, lemon juice, Dijon mustard, caper vinegar, dash of Worcester sauce and Tabasco) and violently slammed them in the mixture before shoving them in the fridge for an hour. I watched University Challenge, which seemed (comparably) pathetically simple this week before being flabbergasted by Nigella’s ‘Express’ dishes. Despite the fact that I still would, the programme really is awful; I also discovered that the kitchen is a mock up of the kitchen in the house she shares with Charles Saatchi, it’s in a studio off the south circular, so accurate is it that it even comes with children’s drawings. Actually, whilst were on for exposing BBC things, it’s a badly kept secret in the BBC (and comes from a friend who knows the chap in question) that it was Peter Duncan that vandalised the Blue Peter garden following his sacking from the show and a night in the BBC bar.

After I’d cooked the chicken and some streaky smoked bacon, I tore up the former, shredded the latter and combined with rocket, watercress and spinach. I made a dressing by shaking together olive oil, vinegar, garlic puree and capers, before tossing the whole fucking lot together. I’m not really a salad fan; this was so good I got a chubby. I ate the lot in front of a superb programme about The Dandy and The Beano on BBC4, By 11pm I was in bed with a joint and a cup of tea.

Short Piqued today, I’m very busy.

This bird is fucking 50 She’s looking terrific don’t you think? Enjoy her first solo outing since she split with hubby.

hooray ‘enry

5 am, outside the Conrad Hotel Chelsea I come across a well-dressed young man wearing a huge Rolex and very expensive hand made shoes, lying unconscious on the pavement. I lean over him and ask him if he’s alright. Nothing. He’s breathing okay and there are no signs of injury, I conclude, like me, he’s pissed. I call again, this time louder and shake him on the shoulder; he sort of stirs but isn’t responding. I’m tired and dawn is breaking, I can’t leave a man down like this, so I slap him, hard, once across his face. He leaps to his feet and stands unsteadily on the pavement trying to focus on me. ‘You should be more careful where you sleep’ I say before walking off. Saying nothing the young man stumbles off in the opposite direction. What an ungrateful little fuck.

I spent yesterday in the flat recovering, after eating the biggest kipper in the world and the Grand Prix, Myfwt came over and we lay on the couch watching TV. The hangover wasn’t as bad as it should’ve been, though it took a couple of glasses of liberated champagne in the evening to finally see it off.

It had been quite an intense weekend. Jamie came over on Friday night. He’s one of my closest mates, we’d not seen each other in a while so before we’d even started we both knew the score. We got to the pub at 8-ish it was fucking packed out with Rugby types watching the Rugby. My desire to drink ale drove us through a thick wall of shouting men to a seething bar. If it wasn’t for the fact I was a regular I would’ve been stood for at least another 10 minutes before I was served. So bad was it that the first 2 rounds Jamie and I doubled up. We sat in the garden in relative peace, smoking and laughing about disgusting things. At some point a bunch of fireworks went off, we staggered out before midnight and went to the Lebanese café for some food. After a session of Dio period Black Sabbath and some more beer we finally turned in.

I woke up to the sound of Jamie farting, startling volume, which I countered with a very long controlled emission that was compromised only by my amusement. We had breakfast and watched Saturday Kitchen whilst we sobered up. As we’d been on beer all night the aftermath wasn’t that bad, by lunchtime Jamie and I were both safe enough to move the day on. I hit Sainsbury in a military strike, in and out in 30 minutes, a personal record. At 4pm I began to prepare for the evenings horror by taking the clippers to my balls. Every few months I’ll clip the hedge, I don’t want my clackers looking like David Blunkett, nor do I like half my lad buried up to its waist in pubes, besides it’s more comfortable, hygienic. Grade 2 for the top half, grade 1 for the clockweights. I was just finishing off the latter, when on an upstroke I managed to snag some of my scrote in the gnashing teeth of the clippers. I yelped. It hurt rather. A lot of blood appeared in a worrying short period of time and I decided that I mustn’t faint, it was quite a hard decision as it was awfully red. I may have admitted in the past in this very blog to nicking the bag once before, that was nothing in comparison to this. After I’d calmed down and examined the area in more detail, I spied, to my horror, a 2 cm strip of ballskin hanging down like a dork. I had no option but to clean my nail scissors and undertake surgery on my self. In one clean and relatively pain free ‘snip’ a part of me was flung into the sink and washed away with a sneer.

I took a hot bath after the blood had subsided. When I got out the bath I checked myself, all was good. Then I towelled myself dry and hit the spot I’d forgotten to ignore, instantly there was blood everywhere. This time it took half an hour to stem the flow. Even as I type this I’m acutely aware of my healing wound.

I arrived by cab at the Albert Hall for 6.15, suited, booted, groomed and annoyed. I met my colleagues and we went off for pre-concert drinks. I was shoving champagne down my neck as fast as I could without it spilling out of my nose. Being drunk wasn’t an option. I had a total of 3 hours of misery ahead save a 20-minute break in the middle. Now, I’m not going to criticise the Proms music, I’m sure it’s excellent, I just don’t happen to like classical music, it leaves me cold for I rock. What I am happy to fucking moan about are, on the whole, the awful (last night) audience. This is particularly problematic in the second half when the ‘fun’ takes place. ‘Fun’ being letting off balloons that make a ‘funny noise’. The reaction from the audience is staggering, as if they were all suddenly 5-year-old school children who’d never seen a balloon before. The interval drinks were having the desired effect though and in the latter half I was able to engage with Danny Boy (wonderful lyrics) and Jerusalem (I like William Blake) before all the jingoistic nationalistic stuff regurgitates itself out of the guts of the Victorian Empire where we enslaved nations and gave the darkies what for. I’ve not decided if this part is just awful or actually offensive.

At last it finished, I popped out for a quick burn with a colleague and we went back in for the after show party, as we were going up the stairs a fight broke out among 5 people, not one a day under 80. An old man with a stick holding an old woman with mild Parkinson’s, who also had a stick, pushed an old lady (without a stick) over so that she fell into the lift. Two horrified friends of the now recumbent lady in the lift took objection to this and began barging into the protagonist and his companion. As I passed I loudly said ‘what disgraceful behaviour’ as belligerently as possible though I was actually trying very hard not to laugh and point. It was fucking ace, but on the other hand it may give you some idea of what I was up against.

There were more drinks at the after show party where we mingled with the cream of the world of classical music. Doesn’t mean much to me I’m afraid but the wine and the canapés were excellent. My mobile went off, I discreetly answered, it was Jerry. He and a friend were in the Mandarin Orient hotel in Kensington and I was invited to join them for (yet more) drinks. I was going to decline when I though ‘fuck it’. It was gone midnight and I wasn’t done yet.

I jumped into a cab and arrived in the marble lobby, for once not feeling like a spare prick at a wedding as I was perfectly dressed for the place. Jerry and his friend, Sean were already lolling about chatting to a quantity of expensively attired women in their late 30’s early 40’s sipping champagne. I had some more wine and mucked in. By now I was getting to the point of inebriation but I maintained some sort of social reasoning. The bar shut at 2 am and I was flung into a large cab with Jerry, Sean and three of the women from the bar. To my surprise an American one began to repeatedly kiss to the driver on the mouth as he was driving causing the cab to lurch across the road. Not even the shrieks of objection from the back would quell her passion.

Mercifully we arrived at the Conrad Hotel in one piece and went to Sean’s suite where the mini bar was taken to task. The three girls were totally unfazed (worryingly perhaps) about relaxing in a room with three men they’d met a mere few hours before. The particularly refreshed American one, arseholed might be more apt, insisted on telling me over and over how she’d ‘kick my ass’, she was quite a big girl, I wasn’t going to argue with her. One of the party was a very well spoken Englishwoman, mother of three apparently, lived in Dubai with her husband. Just before they all left at around 4am I was waiting for Sean to come out of the WC so I could take a leak. The Englishwoman came into the bathroom, spotting some sort of a queue decided she could no longer wait and, without so much as a by your leave, pissed in the bath.

It’s Monday morning, the worst part of the week. This bloody song has been going round my head all weekend, I fucking love it.


I was sad to read this morning that mother of missing schoolgirl Madeline Mcann has now been officially named as a suspect in the disappearance of her 2-year daughter. I really hope these rumours are unfounded, it’s not the first time my crush on a doctor has been compromised by the fact they turn out to be killers. Dear sweet Harold, how I miss thee.

Needless to say such a turn of events was headline news, the disappearance of Madeline McCann has, over the past few months, been somewhat of a media obsession, to the detriment of other more worthy news stories. I’m not saying what happened isn’t sad, but if the little girl in question wasn’t a pretty little blue eyed blonde have no doubt at all that the story wouldn’t have received a quark of the attention it has, if we’d like to briefly turn to face the allied led invasion in Iraq, dead babies are ten a penny every few hours of the day. You’d only know this if you looked; such information isn’t barked into your face 24/7.

Having said that, Madeline McCann’s disappearance is higher up in the news food chain, ironically, than the wailing elephant man that was Luciano Pavarotti. What the bloody hell was all that about? As pointed out by a friend at work who knows matters of opera, he wasn’t the best tenor in the world (another fat Italian one was) and in comparison to the death of Kurt Cobain, say, a much more significant loss (he composed the songs he sung for a start) who inspired a generation and whose subsequent death was reported as an afterthought to the Netball results.

I was racking my brains on the cycle in this morning to try and understand what Pavarotti had done to deserve such exultation, and then it hit me. Based on something I half heard on Front Row last night (they were talking about him as I was laying a very important cable) it seems he’s credited with helping to bring ‘opera to the masses’. I thought about this for a while, by foul means or fair ‘the masses’ has working class, proletariat connotations. Just because I prefer to listen to Black Sabbath I really object to being lumped into The Sun reading McDonalds chewing ‘masses’. What they really meant was that he sung Nissan Micra for the 1990 Football World Cup, and subsequently this became associated with football in the minds of ‘the masses’ that like football.

The vast majority of those that are obsessed by football would, if told it was football related, respond to Phil Spector’s soon to be Prison Wall of Sound (arrived at by overlaying the noise of uncontrolled sobbing, screaming and the occasional visit by a 25 stone body builder called Patricia) or the amplified sound of unshod feet hastily beating a retreating path from Darfur backed by the noise of lorries revving up in Newport Pagnall services stations.

Right, it’s Friday. Despair at the usual list of odd balls that arrive on this page by accident. Casey Thompson seems to have struck a chord with the stalking masses, turns out she’s a competitor in the US equivalent of Masterchef, and everyone wants to see her tits. And fanny

But first, my hero. They don’t make them like this anymore. Nice weekends all.

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Sorry this is late, my spine is behaving like a rattan, I had to get out of bed and lie on my fucking kitchen floor for half an hour until I was no longer the shape of an organic cucumber. Following a series of clicks and cracks my vertebrae found its way home and was able to come into work following a hair raising ride in on my black bitch (nearly hit a person wandering in the road, it was so close I could taste the breakfast on his breath)

Following my cycle back home last night I resigned myself to a night of writing. I’d barely sat down when I got a call from Jerry, my mate from NYC who I’m supposed to be doing the bike trip with. He asked if I fancied a beer and a curry, how could I possibly refuse? We arranged to meet at Sloane Square and we walked up the Kings Road in the warm evening sunshine. Chelsea was chocca with quality blart, Ferrari’s, Lamborghini’s and Bentley’s rumbled past, shortly the latter contained Jerry and I ostentatiously gliding up the street in the lap of luxury. It’s an entirely differently world to Tooting that’s for sure.

The food at the curry house was sublime, we ordered a large variety of Indian delights and drunk Cobra, then Rose, with our courses. Full to bursting we decided to round the evening off at Gerry’s hotel. The lounge bar is opulent and the long balcony overlooks Chelsea harbour, as calm as a milk bowl with a soft light lazily bouncing of the dark water, the perimeter of the harbour contains a slew of large luxurious yachts overseen by clean, modern buildings, one of them being the hotel I was watching from. Gerry and I drank Jack Daniels and Coke and discussed the bike trip. To cut a conversation short we’ve missed the boat in terms of the weather, perhaps more pertinent, Gerry feels he needs a bit more time on a bike. He’s been riding for years but hasn’t clocked up a quark of the miles I’ve done. Bottom line is the trip will happen next year; in the meantime I’ll probably pop out to see him in Montauk in October to fuck about on his yacht.

My weekend has been screwed into the floor, it’d be alright if, not sitting in the middle of it like tramps sick, was an appointment with the last night of the BBC Proms. I’ve been to this jingoistic jiltler now about 4 times, and each time I’m finding it harder to prevent myself from repeatedly screaming ‘pigcunt’ from the balcony during the nationalistic climax in the second half. The one saviour in all of this is free booze, I fully intend to overindulge (as usual) and play my favourite game of ‘sober or not’. It’s a dead simple affair, I try to act as sober as a pilot when I’m clearly so inebriated I can’t actually see, nor give a shit about, the inevitable faces of disapproval as I weakly clutch on to passing guests to remain upright.

I’ve decided to dedicate the whole week to motorcycle accidents, or not in this case. Fifteen seconds of something so staggering you’ll watch it over and over, would you care for some physics with that, sir?


I’ve come to the conclusion that I loathe cycling; really, over the past couple of years I’ve attempted to convince myself that it’s alright, fun, even. I’m consciously aware that when the skies are blue and its warm and I’m cycling through a naturally beautiful part of my journey -the sunlight flashing into my eyes as it breaks cover from a canopy of lime green leaves, squirrels dancing to my side, birds fluttering at eye level- that I am to be enjoying this. ‘Enjoy this…’ Says my boiling hot brains, ‘…For this is fun isn’t it? Yes. Fun.’

It’s not, all I want is to be on my black bitch accelerating unreasonably hard from congested junctions, overtaking ribbons of cars on the outside of left hander bends, braking late and hard into corners, flicking v signs at cunts in BMW’s, shouting, all the while, shouting.

I got home yesterday evening and tried to do some more on the book, as Myfwt was due in an hour or so I couldn’t focus so I played with myself instead. Shortly after, and making sure I’d washed my hands yeah, I began supper with radio 4s 6.30 comedy slot irritating me in the background. (‘1966 And All That’ is bloody awful. Who commissioned that? It’s an anachronism that thinks it’s far cleverer than it actually is. I’m even tempted to complain in writing.)

I was undertaking a Shepherds Pie, whilst a dab hand at the Cottage variety this was an unexplored area. By the time Myfwt arrived I had the bastard nailed and was already crushing boiled Maris Piper (for mashing and roasting you’d be insane to use any other variety) to top over my filling.

We spent the evening lolling about like art students (oh those were the days) watching TV and eating, the pie was a sensation, incidentally, and Tribe on TV actually stunned us both into silence. Which is unusual in the case of Myfwt. At times you’d have more p&q watching George Bush on TV in a Mosque.

Almost to the point of cliché middle classness, I managed to cut my forefinger to the bone, sickenly I hasten to add, when slicing a lime for a g&t. I felt like a right tool. Unfortunately for me a rather tipsy Myfwt who is to nursing as gorillas are to needlepoint, arrived in the kitchen decided to take control. It was as if she swallowed a copy of ‘Horse and Hound’ and opened her portfolio of medical care by furiously sucking on the injured digit to the point I thought I may lose a nail. I was then dragged by my finger, I was plodding behind objecting, into the bathroom where she smacked a dollop of Savlon into, that’s ‘into’ not ‘onto’, the wound and applied a plaster so tightly I figured that unless I took it off in the next minute I’d be terminally unable to point at things.

Right, I’m going to post another non-music clip. This puts footballers /rugby players /cricketers moaning about having a dicky knee or some tendon injury that means they can’t play for 6 months into context.

Before you throw up, this bloke survived without so much as a broken bone. Fuck knows how.

nigella’s mouth

Ah, you see? It’s beautiful and sunny today. It’s fucking with us. It’s playing with our minds, it’s like having ones balls tickled by that stripper bird from Heroes (as she fiddles with her mimsy pausing only to stroke my balls with two hands or rub her ti…) only for her to turn round just as one is engorged with desire and fart sour milk all over your face. Then be very rude about the size of your winkle if the sour milk thing didn’t put you off.

It won’t fool me; I’ll resist its tempting temperate climbs as it tries to suck me into the belief that we’ve another month and a half of glittering mornings and balmy evenings. Instead I’ll mentally turn on the central heating, put on a fucking big coat and sit in the dark, moaning loudly about cunts fucking of to Thailand for the winter fiddling with kids I shouldn’t wonder, it makes me sick.

Last night following a couple of pints with Frank in the beer garden, the weather was perfect, actually the sunset on the way home was one of the best I’ve seen this year… I mean it was cold and shit, I got home and ran a gorge bath and just as I was settling into a bit of lavender pandering remembered that Nigella Lawson’s new programme, Big Hooter Express or something, was due to start in 5. I leapt out of the bath as if it was filled with Anthrax, the band, and patted my firm, hard body dry sensually. I’d taken the liberty of throwing a couple of sausages into the oven and preparing my excellent onion, mustard and cheese sauce prior to bathing so it was just a question of steaming some broccoli and settling down with Nige and a fork. I think I was giggling.

The programme is utter twaddle. Really, who the fuck keeps prepared squid knocking about in the freezer soley in case some turd pops by for sup sups? The series is focussing on fast food but the vast quantity of preparation and post cooking grief easily shits on the whole ‘it only takes 10 minutes!’ nonsense. In between viciously edited footage of Nige throwing things into pans, mugging at the camera and eating food like she’s a rare breed of Gloucester pig, we see her going about her daily business emphasising her ‘hectic busy lifestyle’ which seems to consist of making notes in the back of cabs passing through a Dick Van Dyke London. It would seem our Nige has spent quite a lot of time sitting in the backs of cabs between series, she’s now the size of a doormobile.

Short Piqued, I have work to do. Instead of posting some music today I thought I’d post some footage of what happens if you’ve got too much money and attitude but you’ve overlooked the fact you’re a cunt. When I first saw this I laughed so much I thought my face was going to split.

(Actually. Even if she had farted sour milk on my face and insulted my winkie I still think I’d be good to go)


It’s that the time of year again, I find myself atop the seasonal slagheap, bejewelled and dappled it may be with russet browns and burnt orange hues perfectly framed by a smoky blue sky… Pap! ‘tis no more than a beauty born of deceit and lies. Soon the relentless hand of time will shove me gently from the summit, down, down towards the wilful jaws of winter, sliding hopelessly through v-shaped geese heading for warmer climbs, backward clocks, skeletal trees until finally tumbling through the gnashing teeth of misery where we flounder in the darkness and cold for what seems like eternity, our only friend is endless, ceaseless despair…

My bike ride yesterday afternoon had that awful feeling of cessation about it. As the motorcycle season begins preparation for hibernation, my ride, following a very disappointing Moto GP (the last few races have been, actually) was notable for two reasons. Firstly the leaves are beginning to turn, I was passing through the same stretch of road as last week, in that short space of time things had deteriorated, the green of the trees and fields has been compromised with a telling twinge of brown ‘other’. The second dead give away was the air, not so much the temperature, it was fairly mild but the freshness of it belied something that had hardened, within it there was an element of strength, wicked advantage even. Soon the air will be perfumed with a note of wood smoke before collapsing into a default odour of sheer bleakness. Shit.

The ride was still a triumph despite being buffeted extensively on some of the faster open roads –my neck is growing scaffolding- and made all the better for a visit to my month old niece. She’s beginning to focus now and for the first time actually looked directly at me. She looked confused, bemused and perplexed but within it all there was something in the way of recognition, I stared at her little blue haematite eyes as they grasped at all these new images before her, then her little face became frozen in a visage of shock and turned colour of plum, she burped loudly in my face. She is one of us. Not you, us.

The weekend was largely pleasant. Following the hangover on Friday, and the fact I’d not had an alcohol free for a fortnight, I decided that I’d abstain that very night. Frankly, I was feeling quite jaded from the boozy past few weeks, I was exhausted enough to be able to watch the BB finale and go off to sleep pretty much unchallenged by the screams from the bottles in the kitchen. At 7pm James called me asking if I fancied a pint, how could I refuse? We met at 9pm in my local and sat under the pergola in the garden, it was truly the last day of summer. We supped ale and chatted away, I’m glad I made it out despite not committing to my intended plan, we’ve been friends practically from birth (despite the fact he dropped a kettle on my head when we were three) so there is no pressure for either party to perform, it’s the purest form of relaxation, really.

I went to bed before 1 am and awoke at 10.30. Myfwt was supposed to have called me the previous evening following a night out on the tiles with work colleagues; I made a cup of tea and gave her a ring. She answered, clearly still pissed from the night out but also suffering the early stages of what would be a behemoth hangover. She softly requested I came to get her following each sentence with a nervous laugh, this wasn’t a good sign.

When I arrived at her house she appeared looking as beautiful as ever but as if recently electrocuted. She rigidly got into my vehicle grasping a bottle of water and gulping back last night’s entertainment. We arrived back at the flat and I put her to bed following a tentative sandwich. In the afternoon I met up with my mate Gerry, we had a couple of points and caught up. Bang went my second intention to abstain. Went I got back Myfwt had just made it to the couch, she wasn’t at all well but was gradually coming to life. We watched films as I imbibed steadily and I accidentally pulled off a 3am one, Myfwt having gone to bed sensibly some four hours earlier.

Subsequently last night I managed to stay off the pop. I knew it was the right course of action and today I feel all the better for it, so much so I decided to cycle in. I’ve noticed as I finish off Monday’s blog that the sun had just come out. That’s autumn for you, a googly-bowling bastard bounder.

This is out of sync…