Monthly Archives: September 2007

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.

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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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Yesterday
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2007-09-12
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2007-09-11
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2007-09-10
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2007-09-09
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2007-09-08
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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.