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?

12 responses to “poshnoshtosh

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    What a chore eh? Oh, if only my weekend wasn’t going to be spoiled by my voluntarily going to the last night of the Proms! Woe is me!


  • piqued

    It’s fucking awful NP, really dreadful. You’d hate it as much as I

    I have no choice, without going into detail, it’s part of my work

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    Your work forces you to go to the last night of the Proms? What bloody job’s this then eh? Off the top of my head I can conjure up four jobs that would require an employee to attend the last night of the Proms …

    Member of an orchestra
    Working for the BBC
    Lying toad who doesn’t need to be there just like the other 99.9999999999% of the British population don’t need to be there neither

    So what is it? Hmmmm?

  • piqued

    Maybe one of those, but there are other things that require a person to be at the last night of the proms, it may be one of those… but I can assure you I do HAVE to fucking go

    (and it’s not security or bar work, I know how your mind works I KNOW U OF OLDZ)

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    I can rule out critic for a start. You’d mention theatre ‘n’ stuff more on this site if you were a critic, and you don’t, so you’re not. I can’t bring myself to believe you’re talented enough to be in an orchestra, so that’s out. You’re enough up your own backside and Londoncentric to work for the BBC … yet … you contribute to a site where you continuously slag off telly. Telly types tend to be such mewling, self-centred fuckwits that they wouldn’t think to piss on the doorstep of their own ‘creative (a-ha-ha-ha) industry (waaa-ah-ha-ha-ha)’ because they’re not capable of thought (unless it’s about themselves, of course)… so that’s out too.

    That leaves lying toad who doesn’t need to be at the last night of the Proms. Am I right?

  • piqued

    All that for a straight ‘no’

    Look, you may have gleaned some idea of my music taste just by checking this website once, I don’t remember the last time I put up some Vargner or Bark, and my RIP is missing following the fatal explosion of Pavorotti this morning, simply because I couldn’t give a tinkers cuss

    Classical music bores me NP, it bor zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

  • mostlylouche

    All this talk of the harbour reminds me of going to the pub near there with five chaps after taking special cakes and laughing so much the man with leather trousers who was listening to our conversation fell out of his chair.

    Oh and Fin being cheated out of money by a precocious child.

  • piqued

    It was mostlylouche, I WAS THAT CHILD

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    I’m afraid I don’t ever bother looking at those silly videos you post. As a well-respected rock journalist I know good music when I sees ‘n’ hears it, and a grainy little box containing the utterly diabolical Nirvana singing drivel aint it chump.

    I’ve realised what you’ll be doing at the Proms …

    Piqued: Towel sir? Aftershave sir?
    Man who’s just finished pissing: Get away from me you filthy creature!
    Piqued: Chuppa-Chup massa?

  • piqued

    A ‘well respected rock-journalist’

    If you were one of those you’d appear regularly on the top best 100-rock videos/bands/stars/deaths/groupies/ etc., that tell me shit I’ve known since I was an embryonic pea

    But you don’t, therefore I challenge your notion that you’re a ‘well respected rock-journalist’ precisely because you don’t appear on the top best 100-rock videos/bands/stars/deaths/groupies/ etc.,

    Having said all of that, are you sure I can’t tempt you in some Yardley Gold? No? Perhaps Sir would like a dash of exotic hand soap for the poo? Where are you going? Excuse me, come back HERE AT ONCE, CUNT, GET THE FUCK BACK HERE AND BUY A FUCKING POLO

  • Napoleon Cockaparte

    Of course I’m not a well-respected rock journalist. Who the fuck respects rock journalists? Bunch of miserable obsessives, the lot of ’em. You just know, meeting ’em, that if it wasn’t rock it’d be Star Trek or train spotting … fools.

    Just a splash of Blue Stratos please …

  • piqued

    I really do insist you have some exotic handwash

    *glares at huge turd on the back of NP’s hand*

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