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.