Monthly Archives: October 2007

hello, ween

I left my rucksack at home, among other things it has my tabs and glasses in it. The tabs I can cope with (I can borrow off people) but the lack of bins is a serious state of affairs.

I’m short sighted, not so severely that I can’t see anything without glasses, but when it comes to reading, writing, TV, driving, seeing in any detail etc., I need them. Lately I’ve discovered that going without them for long periods causes headaches, despite my eyesight not having significantly deteriorated in a decade or so. I’ve been wearing them since I was 4, actually, I even rediscovered my first ever pair last week. They have round faux-Tortoiseshell frames with huge bendy wires coming off the arms to keep them clamped to my frenetic toddler head. I must have looked as Si j’avais un petit peu du downs.

I biked into work today so I wore my dark (prescription) glasses, which I am wearing now in the office. Sideways glances from colleagues are simply counted by a friendly sort of sneer/fuck off package, though by my own reckoning, I look like a fucking tit.

Had a pleasant night. I cycled back home in the bloody dark, actually, it really was pitch black on the tow path, no one has told the council that the clocks have changed, and I arrived home gasping like the Thames Whale (god rest its Dover Soul). A knackered Myfwt joined me shortly and I made us a requested griddled salmon and steamed veg supper. I injected some joy into mine with a mustard sauce. Of course it was delicious dear reader, yeah, but I was in the mood for something that had once had erection.

Very busy day today so this is brief, but I can’t go without wishing my bro and Swineshead Happy Birthdays. I’ve popped something in the post for you both chaps but when I see you, bro, I’ll sort you with something more substantial. SH, you know what’s coming; this year can you please use some butter or something.

win (lose) ter

Yesterday at work was dreadful. The Sunday evening’s indulgence had shattered my resolve and I was tired and vaguely livid. If it wasn’t for the online entertainment I’d have spent the day crying in the loo.

The highlight was lunchtime when I was forced to go into town and get my bro’s b’day present. I’ve decided that the other thing I procured for him last week is more suited to Christmas… (ocd eh? You gotta fucking love it). The ‘highlight’ wasn’t in exchanging cash for goods it was because I could get some sushi from M&S. I love the stuff and could happily eat it perpetually. On leaving the store a couple passed me, he was large unshaven fat man in his 50’s with virtually no hair and glasses like the hubble telescope and she an utterly gorgeous Asian pacific bird who couldn’t have been a day over 20. It was the visual equivalent of a Blue Morpho (morpho menelaus), the world’s rarest and, perhaps, most beautiful butterfly with it’s wings pulled off and all spunk on it.

Despite my malaise it was a beautiful day, I’d even forgotten that at about 4 the light would begin to fade plunging us into darkness by the time I left from work at 5. This came as quite a shock, I (we) are now resigned to no light until the end of March, that’s 5 bloody months away.

Some people don’t mind this shit, despite the fact that according to Research carried out in 1998 by The Transport Research Laboratory predicted that there would be around 450 fewer deaths and serious injuries and between 104 and 138 fewer deaths if the clocks didn’t change in October. The Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents supports the campaign and suggests that the effects of the clocks going back are greatest for the most vulnerable road users, basically, children. In 2004 pedestrian deaths rose from 56 in October to 76 in November and 78 in December.

Outside the field of road safety the measure would also be welcomed due to the positive environmental benefits. It would reduce energy consumption and, therefore, aid carbon emission targets according to a research report carried out at Cambridge University. The Policy Studies Institute estimates that consumer electricity bills would fall by a total of £260 million.

According to the Local Government Association, it would also extend the tourist season and bring an estimated £1 billion extra each year. It would also help general health and well being by increasing exposure to daylight and increasing opportunities to leisure activities.

But despite all of this and taking into consideration that 1 in every 20 people suffer from Seasonal Effective disorder there are still some dreadful optimistic types who simply have to see the good in everything. The following is from the BBC website, grab a bucket before you indulge.

“For me though winter isn’t always doom and gloom. After all there’s nothing like seeing the weak winter sunshine shining on a frosty lawn or a spider’s web first thing in the morning. As the nights draw in remember there’s always the excuse for brewing some mulled wine and toasting crumpets on an open fire. Now you couldn’t do that in the Mediterranean, could you?”

That was either written by a woman or a gentleman who doesn’t like getting his hair wet, either way they don’t live in London. What the hell is a lawn? An open fire? I live in a flat like millions of others, not all of us can afford to reside in country piles in Berkshire with pagodas and stables.

And what sort of a dildo cunts up a decent bottle of wine by putting a sodding herby tea bag in it? If I had my way they’d all be shot right up their arseholes.

Oh. It’s a beautiful day to day, the cycle into work was gorgeous.

I don’t like mungz

It was about 5 minutes following a lengthy discussion with a Glaswegian about extreme violence in Glasgow, much of which involved the gentleman I was talking to, when I informed him that he smelled.

For a split second I was looking into the icy jaws of a crippling hiding from Begby, unfortunately me for me the ‘nice’ that followed ‘smelled’ had been punctuated by a single unexpected cough. After composing himself and before telling me that it was Gucci he also told me how I was a thumb and a forefinger away from eating hospital food for 6 months.

Frank and I had taken the train into town and we were outside in the cold October night drinking and smoking with friends. Den, Harry, Liam were indoors as I chatted to Peter, the Glaswegian I met last week following a coincidental meeting in the pub, and his pal Gucci Sam, who, in spite of my near death at his hands, was a smashing chap.

Friday night whizzed past as is the case, why does an hour seem like 2 at work and 30 minutes during the weekend? I was home by 12.30 and taking advantage of the extra hour in bed on the Saturday night, rocked out until 4am. At some point in the small hours I made a crucial discovery. When drinking neat gin, put loads of ice into a tall glass and as the ice melts the drink automatically keeps filling! I have to say though, the magic only works when one is obliterated.

Saturday was pretty much dismissed, I wrote some stuff and did the usual shop, which was a fucking mess. I nearly abandoned the trolley twice due to a horrific hangover inspired panic attack; I went through the motions of the attack and following its final death throes right at the checkout in front of a visibly suspicious cashier, paid and legged it out.

I was back home in time for the X-Factor, a show that has polarised itself between a toe curling shit fest and extreme vomit inducing sycophancy. It’s like watching someone being resuscitated by the roadside, you don’t want to watch but by the same token you can’t tear your eyes off it. Myfwt joined me later and we ate soup and watched Trainspotting. Bit of a nostalgia trip for us, it’s not dated either and it helped round off a rather pleasant lazy Saturday.

Sunday morning was spent in bed watching Scrapheap Challenge, one of the must-do stations of the weekend before Myfwt departed for lunch with her family and I did some more writing. Annoyingly I’d totally fucked up on Saturdays shopping trip and made the unpleasant decision to go back to fucking Sainsbury and fill in the gaps of yesterdays spree compromised by panicking. It was a relatively simple operation and I did the whole thing in under 30 minutes.

I met my brother in what was the usual Sunday hostilely in Clapham Common at a quarter to 5. It was rather a shock getting off the tube and walking out into darkness, I brushed off the rain and comforted myself with the thought of a pint. My bro was already there and we settled down and caught up. As the pints flowed the conversation took on an emotional bent, I realised that I was much more pissed than I ought, by pint 4 I was utterly fucked, actually, so was my bro. I should imagine the weekends refreshments had caught up with me, it didn’t stop me knocking back a final whisky but the upshot was a half blind zig zagging piss pot who can’t recall getting home. I do remember briefly meeting my bro’s missus on the street and trying hard not to slur and fall over. It was only 9pm.

Despite my condition I managed to eat something before I went to bed. Sitting here at my fucking desk writing this now I’m not sure how I feel. I don’t feel sick or have a headache but I do feel a bit vague. It’s Monday christing morning, the worst part of the week, at least with a hangover it may pass with indifference.


What is it with fucking cycling? Its become all popular and trendy to cycle these days, when I was a kid I always found the idea of grown ups on bikes rather silly, except when my dad cycled to the pub of an evening of course.

Now I’m one, puffing my sweating red face through the streets of London, putting my life in genuine danger, much more so than riding the fucking wheels off my black bitch, and deliberately hurting myself. Cycling is ridiculous, sort of thing one expects in the third world from Johnny Foreigner but over here we have cars and motorcycles, vans, lorries and Foxtons cunt-mobiles, so why do it?

I cycle for one reason alone -and its arguable I’m actually benefiting in this respect either after all, London isn’t well versed in clean air. I do it to keep my toe dipped in the water of life, to stop my trembling gut from spilling over on to my flys, to prevent my legs from looking like old man Steptoe getting out of a tin bath in the yard.

Obviously the environment is benefiting by my vanity but I’m hardly Mr. Carbon Footprint in the first place. Being a chap who likes to have a jolly good night out and still maintaining the bare bones of responsibility, getting fucked out of your barnet and operating heavy machinery have never been bedfellows. I use The Tube more than my black bitch purely because of drinking and I cycle because I don’t want to look like the BBC’s John Sargeant… Is Piqued saying that drinking and vanity are good for the planet? If we were all just that little bit more pissed, we’d be forced onto public transport or the pavements? Perhaps a bit more self-obsessed we’d get on our pushbikes and ride? I fucking is saying that, yeah. Vote for me *burp* then look at my legs.

I had a nice if not mildly obsessive night in last night. I ate sausages in mash with fart generating sprouts and popped a few cans of Carlsberg into my face. There was an excellent documentary on photography on BBC4 and I took a long fat bath with Radio 4 steaming gently in the background like a freshly boiled egg.

In recent weeks I’ve been sporting an immature beard, I was rather pleased with its progress and decided to make some minor alterations after getting out of the bath. Within 15 minutes the sink looked like Prince and most of the fucking thing was off my face, I was rather annoyed by this and was forced to make amends by having another can of beer. I then remembered the fucking clocks change over the weekend plunging us into permanent darkness for 5 cunting months. So I had another.

Busy weekend again, I’ll spill the 57 Varieties on Monday. I’ll be in a dreadful mood, I hate it when the clocks change, I really do. In the meantime it’s the Friday list a hilarious encounter with humanity at its most raw and uncensored followed by a double bill of choons 4 u. Nice weekends all, rubber up yeah. Don’t forget the fucking clocks change by the way.

(Actually, there is some really nasty stuff in this list. Sincerely, if you’re one of those people looking for kiddie stuff, do us all a favour, slash up your knackers and die)

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pigeon n’ chips

I’ve had a fucking meeting all morning that required the services of my black bitch.

She and I rode hard from Tooting into the West End, the journey was punctuated with peril and danger culminating in grid-lock round Waterloo from which even we couldn’t escape. Evasive action in the form of riding on pavements and firing up a one-way street in the negative direction saw me make my appointment with seconds to spare. Yes, I won.

The ride back was quite lovely, like a scene from Grand Theft Auto. Needless to say I came first. See? Even riding around in the city is serendipity, and that rhymed.

Last night Myfwt came over, she was suffering from that thing what happens to chicks under 50, yeah. I fixed her with a chicken and mushroom pie which even by my standards was exceptional, and some Bordeaux in front of the TV. That Russell Brand chap, he’s awfully good we thought before going to bed in utter peace.

I thought Cunt was out as it was so quiet but at about 11pm I heard a soft cough from downstairs, indeed, he’d been in all night as quiet as an ickle brain damaged mouse. I really hope that the bollocking on Tuesday has made its mark. Though I suspect it’s not. Well, he does it again and it won’t just be me banging on his greasy door, I’ve made contact with the council. May I wish him all the ills of humanity.

Right, a first for Piqued, a mate of mine sent me an email which I’ve decided to stuff into these hallowed pages as it amused me so, make yourselves a nice cup of tea, build a joint and lay back and relax with this…

“There was a pigeon which was looking odd yesterday, and I was all for killing it as there’s a pigeon lurgy going round. But oh no, the missus didn’t want it. So this morning it was sat sadly on the bird table, with one eye closed/missing and it’s beak crossed over, with drool down it’s front. Enough, says I, and got ma gun. (This was bought after an unfortunate incident with my mate A kicking a mixy rabbit into a freezing ditch last year in an attempt to get it across our bridge, before it went and died under the shed or something. Faced with either ignoring it or dashing it’s head in with a lump hammer I resolved to get an air rifle. Next day I leave the shop with a cheap Chinese rifle and a rather splendid Pith helmet). Anyway, I plan to tell the missus it was the dignified way to do it. The Mother-In-Law doesn’t know what’s happening until she sees me with the rifle. It has telescopic sights I got as part payment for something. Anyway, I’m feeling a little bit cool as she gasps and scuttles indoors. Then I go up to this pigeon, who is so clearly ill it lets me put the barrel to it’s face, and I blow the back of it’s head off. It sits there for a second, and then the fucker launches itself at me! There’s flapping, blood and brains spraying and a lot of feathers, along with a mewling, whimpering noise. I pistol whip it a bit, then shoot its head again, which bursts. Finally (and I really hope nobody saw this) I have it pinned to the ground, shooting it through the heart in a superstitious belief now that it’s ‘the only way to stop it’. Slowly the whimpering noise stops, and I realise it was me. I then have to carry this dripping carcass to a misty field, where I bury it, still warm, along with the dead mixy rabbit which next door asked me to remove yesterday. Country living eh?”

Enjoy that? I did

stubble knackered

I’m fucking exhausted again.

I spent yesterday in an otherworldly fug, as a soporific automaton, the entire days energy was spent putting up the blog, having online slanging matches with a few tits and then keeping my head upright and blinking at my desk. This is what happens when you’re living over the top of spoilt unemployed caveman with no human contact save the occasional visit by his idiotic dad, presumably to drop off ready meals, cash and teddies, who doesn’t have any fucking regard for anyone outside of his own spiteful cuntish little fucking self he will die he will die.

At 5pm I blasted back home on the Black Bitch ready to confront the little fucknuckle that had woken me three times the previous night. I was so angry, in fact, that I hit over a ton in 30 zone which even by my standards is obscenely stupid.

After getting off my bitch and wrapping her in sweet smelling soft green canvas, I took off my helmet and let myself in. I checked the time just in case I needed to recall it for the police.

I rapped hard on his door. Nothing, then a stirring. Almost a minute later tentative footsteps approached and I heard the latch release. The door opened gingerly, only a few inches, then a bit more, so I could at last see it’s fucking bulbous tool of a head.

“You woke me up” HE said
“You fucking WHAT?!!” I yelled, “Last fucking night YOU woke ME up 3 fucking times, you… you… you played your fucking guitar ALL FUCKING NIGHT…”
I glared at him, the door closed a little. I fought the urge to push my crash helmet into his mouth.
“Well, I get inspired…” He whined like a 5 year old being told off for not making it to the potty in time.
My toes curled in my boots and I shoved my teeth hard into my lip.
“Inspired…?” I hissed the word with genuine malice, this was useless, there was nothing more I could do here, it was like conversing with an outpatient. I made the decision to take this up with the council on the spot “…well, I need to fucking well sleep, no more guitar.” And that was that.

That night all was silent, I watched some TV after meeting Frank in the local for a couple, took a long bath, made a scooby doo type sandwich for supper and watched BBC4. I went off to bed at 11 and read a quarter of an excellent graphic novel recommended by a mate called ‘Fell’ and went off to sleep.

I dreamt about all sorts of things, Alex James and I travelled through the Proms in the Park in a Tram, my mate Jamie was repairing his Mini in my offices at work, Myfwt and I had a row over where or not to resuscitate a pensioner when all of a sudden this dreadful noise started from behind a thin pale blue door. I went over and banged on it, Cunt answered covered in sweat holding a Gibson, glaring at me.

“If I was President, I’d have you killed.” He said

Just as I was diving screaming into his throat I woke up with a start in perfect silence, pitch black darkness. It was 4.18am. It would be another 4 hours before I got back to sleep, 5 minutes after I was due to get up for work. You just can’t win can you.

Piqued may be late tomorrow due to meetings. Finally, just before the clip, I’d like to remember Alan Coren who died last week. Bloody bad show I say.

Great song, great video.

short, sharp break

I will not mention the F1 in todays post

After getting up and eating a very basic breakfast of fresh cheese bread and butter, Myfwt and I grabbed the tube and headed off to Angel in t’north London. Despite us drinking a rather large quantity of booze the previous evening and having had succumbed to the ridiculous game of Rugby in which England were given a fucking pasting, we were both remarkably well.

That Saturday we ate a carpet picnic, a rather lazy of way of eating that involves deli food laid out on the, well, carpet, and picked at. We had a selection of breads and cheeses, roll mop herring, smoked salmon, anchovy stuffed olives, marinade garlic, rocket and watercress, fresh sausage rolls and pub snacks. This was eaten with wine and the odd G&T and I should imagine the lengthy meal took much of the hangover in hand and dumped it in the North Sea on Sunday morning. Specifically during Scrapheap Challenge on More 4.

It was a glorious Sunday afternoon when we arrived at a rather splendid gastropub called The Duke of Cambridge. One of our friends had called on us to help celebrate her birthday with Sunday lunch and a few drinks on the side. Myfwt and I were early, despite being late, but were shortly joined by twenty or so other guests, most of which I knew quite well. Myfwt, my bro and I were sat at the end of the table where we were joined by a chap whose face was familiar but I couldn’t place. When we were introduced to each other we exchanged surreptitious glances, it then dawned on both of us that the last time we’d met he and I had got so utterly fucked we’d virtually forgotten our encounter though something told me it had been fun, mischievous even.

On his arrival I knew the day was gone, my intention of leaving the pub at 4 to return home in time for the Grand Prix was sliding out of reach. Pete is a Glaswegian film producer in his 50’s, he sports an Eraserhead shock of hair and is quiet clearly the last person you’d like to get on the wrong side of, however, he’s a funny, charismatic fellow with a magnetic personality and a like of the drink that puts me to shame. After 5 minutes of arriving he was drinking cider, champagne and Medoc in rotation.

Three hours after eating (I had roast beef, tough but delicious) most of the guests had left leaving a hardcore of 7 of us to carry on into the evening. I figured I could make it back in time to see the F1 highlights, so long as I didn’t know the result I’d be content. Myfwt was unwisely gulping back organic cider; I varied between wine and this rather excellent (organic) ale called SB and Peter was drinking anything he got in his hand. The birthday girl too was pissed but like the rest of us in congenial spirits, though she required a cab back home as she wasn’t safe for public transport, her head rested precariously out of the window as we waved her off. The rest of us chatted away until 11-ish when the pub closed. Myfwt had to hold Peter up on the walk back the tube station; by this time the latter was blowing bubbles and the former was a giggling mess. We put Peter on his train and went and caught ours home.

A few stops before Tooting the train stopped at a station and a load of Underground staff appeared with 2-way radios. For 10 minutes they arsed about while a load of us sat on the carriage watching a group of 5 lads falling over each other on the opposite platform. Being the inebriated gitface I was I decided to enquire as to why we weren’t going anywhere with an subtle ‘..some of us need .a fucking piss, lets get going…’ much to Myfwts and few passengers amusement. This didn’t go down will with some officious little skinhead employee who told me to sit down. I refused and I was informed that somebody was under the train. ‘Fucking rubbish’ I slurred back, pompously informing the tool that we’d have been kept in the tunnel if indeed someone was lying on the rails. I’m not entirely sure if my comment had any bearing on proceedings but the doors suddenly closed and we were off. Don’t let it be said that drunken behaviour is always as negative as The Daily Mail would have you believe, I got a result by be a belligerent and uncompromising. And pissed.

The weekend had started off in a fairly boozy manner; I met an old friend in The Intrepid Fox on St. Giles High Street and we had a pair of beers before walking into Chinatown for dinner. We selected a place that didn’t smell as if the carpets and walls were made from hot msg and ordered. It was an odd meal, despite the excellent company, some of the items were outrageously delicious or woefully poor, ‘crab roll tempura’ was a fucking deep fried crabstick, but all was made up for by the chilli and salt fried squid rings.

Laura and I chatted whilst I gulped my way through a half bottle of Saki, she and her partner are in the pornography business, the business side I hasten to add and it’s rather amusing having an adult conversation that is being punctuated by the aspect of red hot filth, literally an ‘adult’ conversation I suppose.

After a final glass of wine I bid my dining companion a fond farewell and wandered off to Piccadilly Circus to visit Virgin. I wanted to make 2 cd purchases for a tenner, and I was up for being open-minded, but first I wanted to stare at all the pretty lights and enjoy being from the city in which I was stood, well, weaving, a bit. I left Virgin wordlessly with ‘Close to the Edge’ by ‘Yes’ and ‘Blonde on Blonde’ by Dylan, both repurchases of course, I’m trying to modernise my tape collection. When I got home I rocked out, I began with ‘Yes’ (which I’d not heard properly since I was 15) and after many hours ended with The Subhumans in a joyous state of punk apoplexy.

Due to the Sunday I had Monday off, Myfwt took a half-day. We stayed in bed all morning groaning with hangovers before Myfwt took me to Clapham Junction on her way to work. I had a simple mission, go and pick up a present for my brothers birthday next week.

It had been a while since I’d been on an overground train. I was pleasantly surprised by the condition and comfort of the carriages. It was a lovely day and instead of reading my book (Samurai William, its superb) I found myself watching out of the window enjoying the passing scenery. Unfortunately my bro reads Piqued so my destination and purchase will have to remain, for now, confidential.

So, all is good dear reader. Or is it. I was woken up this morning 3 times in the small hours by Cunt playing his guitar, on the third occasion I was forced to get up and bang on the floor. This evening I will have to have a word with him, a task I dread because as soon and I look at his gormless idiotic face and find myself translating the grunting stream of psychopseudo gutmud that spills forth from his pestilent lips, I’m already thinking of how I can dispose of his vile cadaver.

Tune in tomorrow to find out what happened.

In the meantime.

pitch cack

The weekend seems to have sealed itself; I’m committed from one end of it to the other, arsehole to beak to paraphrase Jake The Poacher.

In one respect this is a good thing, I can look forward to the different facets of the weekend as they offer themselves to me in due course, but on the other I’ll have to fight for those weekend moments of enjoying doing nothing apart from lying in bed and lolling on the couch watching Saturday Kitchen or Scrapheap Challenge.

But the most awkward aspect of the weekend is juggling a mates birthday lunch and the final leg of the 2007 F1 season. I’m very much looking forward to the lunch I hasten to add, there are a lot of friends going at it will be plenty of fun, but I have to be home by 5 when the racing starts.

This may or may not be a problem, I can’t think of anyone else at the table who gives a shit if Lewis Hamilton clinches the championship or not (making him the youngest F1 champ ever and the first to start his season as a rookie and end with the title, a staggering achievement, if he does it) or that the last time the world championship went to the wire where one of three drivers could clinch it was 1976, 31 fucking years ago for crying out loud.

Trouble is a I do care, I’m worried that as the clock ticks towards my tube deadline (4pm to be safe, 4.15 as a push) I’m going to start displaying signs of acute nervousness, a slight tick, hysterical laughter, flinging poo like a chimp, that sort of thing. Lunch is booked for 1.30, is 2.5 hours enough? We’ll see.

Last night was very peculiar. I had a couple with Frank, we sampled two delicious guest ales, and I got back to the flat for supper, stir fry rice with onion, mushrooms and bacon in a marvellously seasoned sock that really stocked my knocks off…The weird thing was the deathly silence, none of the downstairs lights were on either so naturally I assumed Cunt was out, but he wasn’t.

Yes, he was sat there alone in the dark.

I see this as a positive thing. A person who voluntarily spends a lot of time in the pitch-blackness when they could be bathing in front of the warm glow of the TV or reading under an Ikea halogen spotlight is either deeply religious (Cunt has the morals of a Nazi) or is manically depressed, possibly (hopefully?) suicidal.

When I was a little, my best mate and I were regularly listeners of a BBC LP of ‘horror’ noises. It was quite excellent and included such gems as the sound of a person being beheaded, wolves howling in Mooreland, creaky doors and cackles but possibly the highlight was a good minute of people wailing and moaning punctuated by the occasional agonising scream.

I need to have this in my possession. I’m required to play it on loop for hours on end at volume. Anything I can do to help push the prick over the edge. Indeed, I see it as my social responsibility to go to ebay right after finishing this and make it mine.

Please enjoy the Friday list of those oddballs that find Piqued whilst searching for ‘other’ then soothe yourselves by the daily youtube link. It’s a beauty, despite cutting off at the end, annoyingly.

Piqued may or may not feature on Monday as I may be having a day off, either way, nice weekends all.

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gud un night owt

Last night I went to the launch of a book in a pub Highgate.

Highgate is a long way on the Northern Line from Tooting; it takes ages to get there and I’m no fan of the tube in terms of being sat in it for a fucking hour with people pushing and shoving, and touching. I was saved partially by a jolly good book, which I may recommend; I will see how I feel later.

I arrived feeling ill due having breathed a million Londoners farts and walked to the venue via the off licence to get some tabs for my lungs, for medicinal purposes. When I arrived the place was sparsely populated but I instantly recognised a face, well, a part of one as George has a massive white beard and long hair. I was sorry to be informed that his charming wife has cancer and is undergoing Chemo, this rather knocked me for six and we spent a further half hour talking rather seriously, which isn’t usually our want, despite a short Bob Dylan moment.

Den and his wife Rose arrived and we managed to get a seat in front of the stage. As the venue began to fill I drifted around chatting to mates and faces I’d not seen in a while. Sue was there looking radiant and sporting a rather large bump, so was Tim, Jack and Graham…Annoyingly I didn’t recognise Sebastian Hoarsely, partially hidden under a huge stovepipe hat as I had a question for him regarding an earlier conversation with Clair at The Urban Woo (link right) and to quiz his taste in music following something he’d said in his blog. I’ll sort a link out tomorrow.

Some of the acts on were superb but by now I my mind was working on a hand to mouth basis like so many others present. After chatting to Pete in the beer garden, splendid chap, Postman by the day, Peter Cook expert by night, Den suggested that we nipped orf to The Groucho for a burger and some more drinks, so we stepped onto an oddly empty Northern Line, straight out of an American Werewolf in London (incidentally the actor playing the victim worked with me a few years back, nice chap) and arrived flushed with a degree of sobriety. We three were joined by Sam and his colleague and ordered food and wine. The place was rather packed but by this time but I couldn’t have cared less if it was reclining in a deck chair by the North sea, I wasn’t mortal by any means but for a weekday I’d pushed myself. Den and I engaged ourselves in a deep and meaningful, being rather less pissed than I can only hope I didn’t come across as an utter berk/prick.

Many drinks later I was coerced into a cab by my pals and whisked off home, the cabbie was a most congenial fellow and we gassed until I arrived home, quite pissed, at about 3 am

A jolly good night.

I have un hangover.


I’m back in the christing office. I shouldn’t really complain, I seem to spend my waking life in here but having 4 days off on the trot reminds you there is a flat in Tooting that doesn’t know of human contents on a weekday. Yes, on Monday and Tuesday I changed that.

What was even more delightful is that, until yesterday evening, Cunt had been away. His hairy kid and emaciated ‘girlfriend’ have gone and he’s been at his mummy and daddy’s house (I know this because I witnessed daddy picking him up and dropping him off) presumably because he can’t bear being alone after their departure (the departure that he is 100% responsible for I hasten to add) in the flat that daddy made for him, you know, the one he inhabits for fuck all.

I was thinking about this last night. Now I’m bloody sure Cunt is claiming benefit, ‘job seekers allowance’ I think it’s called these days, which means he will most probably be getting housing benefit, what’s the zippy name for that? ‘Daytime TV vouchers’ I think, which his dad will almost certainly let Cunt keep. Essentially, you don’t get housing benefit if you’re employed and housing benefit is a fuck of a lot more than ‘jobseekers allowance’. Scam.

I vividly recall a conversation having taken place a couple of years back when I came back from work to find Cunt, bereft of friends and human company, wandering about in the hallway with a can of Carling. Now you must understand, we’re dealing with a person who, in addition to being an infinitesimal prick, is socially and mentally inept and I think it’s only fair to describe the conversation in the form of a script as it beggars belief as mere description.

C Alright
P (Christ) Alright
C Yeah, drinking, bit early, I shouldn’t, bad for you, never do hard drugs or drink. I got caught drink driving, twice, second time I only just got by license back, Ha! Ever been with a prostitute?
P No
C I have, nice day?
P No
C Oh. What do you do?
P Awful. Office based.
C Oh I could never work in an office never. Not me. I’m an artist
P I’m going upstairs
C You got any tobacco?

I reckon I could fill this fucking blog with exchanges like that. Anyway, notice he says he could ‘never work in an office’, right, that means he’s in direct contravention of the job seekers allowance as he’s refusing to take office work, and round here its mainly office work. Or traffic wardenry (be good if he did that then I could ‘legally’ smash his face off)

Christ some of my National Insurance and tax pays his fucking way. What a fucking cunt.This is for him…

(please be warned, this is G G Allin live and contains shit eating)


I realised mid way through Sunday that my black bitch is nearly 9 years old. I’ve had her for over 6 years, the longest time I’ve ever owned a bike that long.

The black bitch is my 7th bike and the best so far by far, despite owning a glorious Ducati 900ss a decade ago, but times moves on. Triumph have been making better and better Speed Triples since they gave birth to mine and the 2007 version is their best yet. Even when it’s stood still it actually looks terrifying, when you sit on the bitch it pulls your shoulders out and raises your arse up high maximising an aggressive posture which is all the more conducive to riding. I can only imagine what it must be like to ride…

Shortly mine is up for its 25,000 service. This isn’t cheap but if I want to retain the bikes value it’s imperative. I was thinking about this and I reasoned that if a nice man at Triumph made me an offer, a part exchange sort of offer, what would I do? I can’t really afford a new bike but I can re-mortgage the flat to release a bit of capital without compromising too much future development, I’ve no dependants, I’m wholly irresponsible, why not, I pondered. Unfortunately this has hit the OCD part of my barnet to the point I’m finding it hard to focus on anything else.

Yesterday after getting lost in deepest darkest sarf landan on the BB, I met James’ son, virtually 4 days old and barely a foot long. My niece was a little overdone, she was relatively large when she arrived, this little fellow is the size a new born should be, he’s all pink and smooth like rhubarb, his tiny face looks perpetually stunned, shock at being out of his dark warm home for the past 9 months.

James is a natural dad; already he’s flinging his son in and out of nappies, babygrows, into the arms of its mother and his friends. James’ missus gave birth by caesarean and is still moving fairly slowly. This wasn’t a lifestyle option, like my sister, this was medical necessity. She seems as awestruck as her son; she’s taken very well to breast-feeding but is finding the whole experience beautifully alarming. She has him laid on her chest and remarks regularly with a certain degree of surprise, ‘he’s so cute!’ Despite all the newness and unfamiliarity of the seemingly instant arrival of a third person into their family, it’s as if he’s always been there. Life, it really is fucking weird.

When I got back home it was dusk, I prepared dinner and Myfwt arrived at 8 exhausted from a long days work. She was all worried about her 6-month assessment due on Thursday, her boss had decided to take her out for lunch and in her mind she’d figured this would be a gentle way to introduce to her an impending dismissal, despite the fact she works hard, is bringing a lot of contracts into the firm and is popular and well liked by her colleagues. Women, their brains is all wired funny. Obviously I laid her fears to rest by plying her with food and drink, hey presto! It worked, until this morning that is when a rather sullen hungover Myfwt trudged off as paranoid as ever. Women, I mean what can you do? Can’t live with them, can’t inject them horse tranquilliser, crazy.

I decided to take another day off. I just feel like it, it’s raining outside and I’m still letting the past few days drip feed into my psyche. After this I’m going to have some more tea, eat a kipper with toast and then I’m going to do some more writing.

Later I may have a bloody great wank, really, I owe it to myself.


Sorry this is late, took a day off to catch up and visit James’ brand new son.

Friday evening began on the tube with Frank; we were heading off to the Coach and Horses in Soho to meet Den, Bill, Roge and my bro. Den and my bro were already there and we caught up over some ales, Bill joined us later with his assistants, he’s a rather accomplished fashion photographer but doesn’t bear the scars of being a conceited little prick as so many in that business do. After a while we said a fond farewell to our friends and in my case family, Bill and I went on to the Theatre Arts Club to carry on our Friday. Bill lives in Paris and was staying at a plush hotel off the Tottenham Court road. After more drinks at the club (a dance, even, I was getting pretty squiffy, I don’t do dancing) we grabbed some greasy food on the corner of Oxford Street and headed back to his place.

The following morning Bill and I chatted as our heads cleared with tea on the vast balcony overlooking London to the East and West. Waking up hungover in a hotel in your hometown offers one the chance to see ones city through alien eyes, London seemed extraordinarily beautiful and fresh, it was mild and sunny and walking back to the tube it almost felt as if was a tourist enjoying experiencing a place for the first time. After I arrived home I took a long bath and did some writing prior to the usual Saturday shop, my intention following was to stay in and watch movies but Jamie called to enquire of my movements in the evening, there was no way I was turning that down. Our attempt to find a pub that wasn’t showing the Rugby was fruitless so we found a place that wasn’t stuffed full with too many no necked skins and got ourselves ensconced. As luck would have it Frank arrived with his missus, none of us being Rugby fans we followed the ‘if you can’t beat them join them’ mantra and decided to enjoy the match with derogatory comments from our little group at the expense of players and fans alike. It was even rather nice when England eventually won.

Because I had to get up early the following day Jamie and I didn’t go too over the top with the beers, we had a can each and a couple of joints with some Hawkwind on our return but were in bed before 1am. I was up by 9am, Myfwt arrived shortly after and I made breakfast for everyone, by 10am, Jamie had gone and Myfwt and I were getting ready to sit on the black bitch.

Unless you have experience of something its very hard to know how it actually feels by proxy. Take yesterday for example, being absorbed into a pack of forty bikers on the M25 all heading for same destination on powerful machines with similar bhp, braking and handling capacity. The pace was frenetic, most cruised at 100 to 120 with the odd machine flying past at breakneck speeds and backing off until the pack was once again uniform. Along the way, other groups and riders joined the melee, some filtered through, some clung on. It’s virtually impossible to convey this euphoric sensation unless you’ve experienced it; for the riders yesterday it’s innate, a given, by the very fact you’re on board a powerful bike and heading for Brands Hatch means you all have a fundamental understanding of ‘it’ and each other, in its purest of form it’s a brotherhood.

The final round of the British Superbikes was always going to be a charged affair, season enders always are and the sublime October weather just added that little extra, when out of the bike gear I spent the entire day in a t-shirt in the sunshine. Myfwt and I met my dad after we arrived at Brands glowing from our journey. We had tea and settled down in an area between Paddock (a sweeping left hander that drops sharply away) and Druid’s (an unforgiving hairpin at the top of the hill) to watch the racing.

The best part of any motorcycle race is the start, the huge crescendo of sound as the revs redline to time the split second the lights go out, the roar as the power is applied in unison and 50 machines thunder into the entrance of one tiny corner is enough to make the biggest and hairiest of motorheads swoon. Where we were stood we could see the pack enter turn one, Paddock, drop onto their right knees in horizontal succession to ride the corner before partially straightening and applying the power down the short hill that dips and rises up to meet Druids.

Dad first took me to Brands when I was 4, on my first visit I saw a photographer get decapitated by a formula 3 car when it’s aerofoil broke and it lifted off catching the unfortunate chap in the neck, I was saved the rest of the graphics by my dads large hand covering my eyes. Despite this I’ve been at least once every single year of my life, always with the old man and on occasion, the odd guest. It’s a very special place, I’ve been lucky enough to ride on the circuit, indeed Mywt and dad have ridden it too, the former in the latter’s sidecar and it’s generally regarded, when all is said and done, to be the best circuit in the world.

We were perfectly positioned to watch three high-speed spills, a combination of extreme danger, physics and poetry. On every occasion when the riders stood to their feet following the fall the crowd would heartily applaud their survival. Annoyingly a crowd favourite, ‘Shaky’ Sean Byrne binned his Kawasaki as he was about to take the lead off the now new BSB 2007 Champion Ryuichi Kiyonari, the bike flipped him off (it’s called a ‘highside’ dear reader) as he excited Paddock and Shaky slid through the gravel trap at 120mph before coming to a rest a few feet from where we were stood, the accident was so beautiful I nearly burst into tears. He got a standing ovation.

After each race some of the riders would gather in front of us on the circuit and light up their rear tyres (known as a burnout, the front brake is applied and the rear wheel spins on the asphalt) and amid plumes of tyre smoke politely waved at thousands of grinning faces.

I was enjoying myself so much that I had a pre-emptive strike of nostalgia, as I was stood there with my dad beside me and Myfwt sitting on the ground watching the bikes roar past I knew I was having a day that would be one of those that flashed before my eyes in my final seconds. After saying bye to dad the ride back home was the icing on the cake. This time I took point, I spearheaded dozens of bikes setting a rapid but manageable pace down the motorway, I warned the group at signs of police and they responded, when I felt it safe to perform iffy undertaking manoeuvres they followed. Myfwt, the perfect pillion, was also providing some sort of entertainment by displaying the top of her buns to the bikers behind. But perhaps the best part of all was when I slowed to come off the M25 for Dorking and they all passed waving us goodbye.

We shot through Surrey picking up a few Sunday riders coming home from Boxhill and kept the pace up until hitting a crowded A3. I was stuck behind some little twat in a hatchback sitting in the outside lane at 50 gassing to his bird, I flashed him, beeped but he still refused to move over so I was forced to aggressively undertake the prick making it clear that I was displeased with him with gestures. Myfwt later said he and his girlfriend looked petrified, which delighted me, and we raced off leaving him miles behind in seconds before arriving home exhilarated and sated in equal measures.

My granddad once told me this. ‘Claret for boys, Bordeaux for men and Champagne for heroes’. Champagne it was then, with roasted duck and potatoes for dinner followed by a Bob Dylan odyssey on BBC4 which moved me to tears. I was emotionally charged you see, I reckon I’d just had one of the best days of my life.

bull league-erd

Yesterday had two highlights, the food at the restaurant for lunch where my boss and I met a client and the big fat cunt that works here falling on her elephantine arse. Please, please let me indulge you.

Lately she’s been worse than normal, obviously I’m not involved in any of this, she drew the line in the sand on day one and I’m delighted to have nothing whatsoever to do with the bovine harridan. So I watch from the comfort (and safety) of my desk, really you don’t want to be stood in the way of that lump of gristle when it’s about to charge, she’s a hair trigger temper at the best of times, in one instant this place can shift from a quiet friendly office to a the streets of Pamplona.

I’ve also deduced that the red scowling face isn’t due to her carrying about a vast quantity of big boned-ness, I know plenty of large people, my own sister isn’t exactly what one would describe as svelte, and they don’t bear the perpetual visage of furious crushed raspberries. I reckon she likes a drink, a lot. This may or may not have been borne out yesterday when I watched her try to park in an office chair, I observed in fascination as she failed to grasp the arms of the chair just as her behemoth backside fired the wheeled seat away from her descending frame, rather like Roger Federer returning a volley, resulting in her lowering into woefully inadequate thin air. The expression of shock as she realised she was going to fall had already caused me to explode in laughter, this wasn’t curbed but the inevitable crash on the deck and the rear roll as gravity followed through, whilst she stoically clung onto the expression of abject shock until coming to rest in a position of magnificent indignity. It was comedy gold to such an extreme I got a heavy dick, the collective sigh of concern from the girls in the office merely added fuel to my hysterics, I had to actually go under my desk to calm myself down and thereby avoid accusations of warped Schadenfreude.

I had Lamb Kofta for lunch, incidentally.

Actually there was a third highlight; my mate James and his wife had their first kid, he was born yesterday afternoon by caesarean and weighed in at an impressive 6lbs. One more of us, one less of them.

After yesterdays surprisingly successful meeting I got back in the office and caught up on emails left by clients and friends alike. The weekend is shaping up to be a good one, tonight I’m meeting a whole rainbow of mates in Soho for drinks, some of which I’ve not seen in months and on Sunday Myfwt and my dad and I are off to Brands Hatch to watch the last round of the British Superbikes. Like the F1 the championship is going right to the wire, odds on to win is the hugely talented and unpredictable Japanese rider Ryuichi Kiyonari. Whatever happens, watching a load of chaps wringing the fucking shit out of hugely powered motorcycles is sight and sound nirvana. They’re showing it on TV, who knows, you may spot me in the crowd.

The usual Friday list followed by our final offing by The Anti-Nowhere League, well sort of, Metallica doing ‘So What’ (there is a version with Animal from the league playing with them here but it won’t up load on Piqued) this only leaves me to wish you all a jolly weekend.

(what the fuck is a ‘cunt shave bank’?)

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“lewis hamilton” smoker


My guts are rotten today; I only had a croque monsieur with some cucumber and tomato late last night, it landed on top of a few pints of fizzy fucking lager following a hilarious trip out with my bro to the hostility in Clapham what I bangs on about on occasion.

Anyway, the upshot, or the outshit, of this is brown fire, I feel dreadful and, as I write this, the experience is quid’s on for repetition. This would be bad enough as it is but in an hours time I’ve got to go into the city with my boss for lunch with a client to negotiate a fucking contract. If one were to put elements as far away from my true self as possible, religion, dance music, teetotalism, ITV, then ‘negotiate a contract’ would be the furthest away. It’s not me, I don’t like it, I don’t want to go, I feel ill, are we nearly there yet.

I’m sat at my desk wearing my smart clothes, black shirt, brown pinstripe trousers and posh boots, my stomach boiling as I perspire gently wondering when I’m going to be dragged by my nipsy into the small room.

Short one today as I have to do work things before I fuck off out of it until the afternoon, console yourselves with more from The League and a WWM, link over there ————>

gay beard

Until yesterday night at 11.42pm I had a beard.

Through my late teens to my late 20’s I had a beard, it varied in length and precision cuts were made into its basic shape, but essentially, Piqued, in addition to his long hair, was known casually as Jesus-Man. Then one day, just to see how my face looked without it, I shaved it off in bits until a fucking great Maris Piper with piss-hole eyes was staring back at me in utter horror.

Early last week I made the decision to grow it back properly, not just sport tuffs of chin weed or sideboard runs, no, a fucking beard, maybe work into it in a month or two but get it on first. It was looking great last night when after half a bottle of Claret I decided to tweak a rogue hair -half an hour later all I was left with were my fucking sideboards and extreme rage.

OCD you see, it’s just there for the moving furniture and stuff about until it’s in its optimum position, no, it works on the face too.

Tried doing some work on the second book last night and I’ve decided it’s like my second tattoo. The first book was pondered and mulled over for nearly 15 years before anything happened, where’s this one only germinated as an idea in the spring and already I’ve something to show for it. The second Tattoo is better too so I hope my simile retains its integrity.

As I was waking up this morning I heard more about the ongoing suggestion that taking the piss out of someone for their sexual orientation would be, as seen in the eyes of the law, as bad as calling a black person a nigger. The fuzzy logic which is leading towards such fucking nonsense must be along the lines of ‘well you can’t chose the colour of your skin anymore than one can chose ones sexual orientation’. Which is of course true. But the two things are a million poles apart.

What the fuck is going on here? Has everyone had a sense of humour failure? If I go up to a black man and call him a nigger then I get what I deserve, similarly if I approach a homosexual and call him a faggot. But what if I make comments that imply a person is gay by saying he’s ‘good with colours’ a ‘puddle jumper’ ‘doesn’t follow Rugby’ etc? New legislation would make quips such as that an offence, therefore if a gay man calls me ‘darling’ (and they do, gays) surely I could do him for discrimination as he’s mocking my heterosexuality? There is a big difference between pulling someone’s leg over stereotypes (everyone is a fucking stereotype to someone) and another to be a hateful cunt.

Christ, when you got Christopher Biggins on Radio 4, whose gayer than Marc Almond crocheting a tea cosy in Madam Jo Jo’s, squealing out against the proposed law calling it draconian and fundamentally preposterous you suddenly realise that it’s a lot more dangerous than it initially sounds, think about it.

Oh, Friday night I get a text from my brother, as he was leaving work he bumped into a chap, instead of saying ‘sorry buddy’ or ‘sorry dude’, it came out as ‘sorry daddy’… Christ. The fucking shame…

This is a lovely little ditty, do turn it up. Many thanks (hilarious introduction)

nowhere kipperz

When I arrived at the Royal Festival Hall it was already dark. As I went in to the main entrance I recalled an earlier happier time when I went to see Motorhead with Myfwt and Jamie, you may have even read about it right here.

I found my way to the function room and walked in due, due to the clement October weather I suddenly realised that I was perspiring like a fucking pig just as a room roomful of total strangers gave me the once over simultaneously. A rivulet of syrupy sweat raced down my cheekbone and disappeared behind my jaw. Where the fuck was my client? I scanned the room dead casual like, I stepped back towards the bar area nearly sending a tray of drinkies over some big mouth berk giving it large on corporate responsibility. I grabbed a drinkie, nice drinkie, and drained it.

Standing in a room full of strangers that you’ve been invited to associate with is very peculiar. You have one thing in common with each and every one which forces you into a corner, either one makes oneself known to them as they’ve clearly noticed you (‘who was the sweaty cunt who nearly threw the shampoo over Brian?’ Etc.,) or one courts attention by looking wistfully out of the window as if trying to recall romantic poetry. I did both; the wistful window shit can only work for a few minutes, as can fiddling with your mobile suavely ‘reading’ non-existent text messages from all of your high-powered associates, so I was forced to hover round a bloke who looked liked he’d had a few and get in there. He was blabbing away to 3 subservient business types, I reasoned that if I targeted the mouthpiece he’d be forced to pass on my gratuities to his audience thus rolling the social ball. As he was pausing for breath I jumped in, introducing myself and reaching out a clammy paw in one badly coordinated move, he looked momentarily startled before suspiciously shaking my hand with a visage of abject confusion. As if cued in by Peter Hall my client appeared, ‘oh, I was just about to introduce you…’ she said to both of us. I was in.

Being much smaller than the Albert Hall, the Festival Hall space is much more intimate, ‘thanks’ to my client I was very close to the orchestra. It was only when I was taking my seat I discovered my ticket had cost fucking £75. To make matters worse I’d also been given a ticket for my un-guest, I’d forgotten to tell them Myfwt was away, which was rather embarrassing. £75 down the pan right there, well at least it wasn’t my money. Easy come easy go, eh…

The Chicago Symphony orchestra are reputed to be one of world’s best, the conductor I was informed, is a genius, my boss had earlier informed that he had a reputation for being a right cunt too. Either way, none of this meant anything to me; I was about to lose over two hours of my life. Of course I tried to get into it, concentrate on what was happening, offset the yawn factor with the visual experience when what I was hearing got dull and vice versa. Nothing helped, not even the bloke playing the Clarinet who went the colour of a ripe Strawberry every time he put the reed to his fat lips. After the first movement of Tchaikovsky’s 6th I was in a fucking coma, the disgusting coordinated coughing and hacking from the so-called posh when there was a break between pieces pulled me back from the brink of death, I’ve seen better manners in anal porn.

After what seemed like weeks there was a break, I nipped off for a fag and a slash and got back to the function room in time to drink some fruity fucking cocktail thing. The second half was due to be shorter; shame the booze wasn’t helping speed things up a bit. I returned to my seat, the conductor ponced back on with his nose in the air and initiated another archaic drone from his underlings. Christ, I’ve not been as bored as this since got so ill I couldn’t get up to turn off Country File, another piece finished, cue a bust of fucking hacking, and off we were again, the final piece, the home straight at last. It went on for ages and bloody ages until, suddenly a burst of applause signalled the end.

Oh Joy! I clapped for my life, the conductor pointed at members of the orchestra who he thought deserved adulation, the egomaniacal wanker, and they dutifully stood to swelling cheers and shout of ‘bravo’ Then they all stood up and the conductor bowed, he glided out the room with his head held high, the applause continued, some cunt shouted ‘more’, ‘no way motherfucker’ I thought, this gig’s scheduled to finish at 9.30, it was 9.30! Ha! I clapped harder, the conductor came on again to receive more adulation, he fucking loved himself, and then off he went again. The applause was unbroken; I waited for it to die down before leaving like a scalded rat, but the clapping had seemed to intensify, surely they weren’t hoping for an enc… Oh Christ no.

To my horror the conductor called for calm and addressed the audience. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, I was praying he’d just keel over, but I heard the word ‘Schubert’ and before I’d a chance to scream ‘Noooooooooooo’ off they all went again. A miserable dirge rose from the musicians, this was the sort of shit they played as the Titanic sunk, fucking hell, I’d seen Motorhead in this very place less than 4 months ago, I’d have gladly swapped the Chicago Symphony Orchestra to watch Lemmy checking his clockweights for lumps. Another age passed, when they finished this time I wasn’t going to hang about, fuck my clients, contacts, job, I was out the door. Gone in 60 seconds. I was free.

I rattled home on the tube infuriated that my Friday have been stoved in and that due to the time I may not make it to the off licence to procure life saving wine. I made it, just, and got back in time for the start of Phone Booth, what a load of fucking shit. No idea what time I went to bed, I rocked out after that.

On Saturday I got up in time for the F1 qualifying and to check my emails. Yesterday after posting the Anti Nowhere League vid on youtube I went out checked out their site. I last saw The League 15 years ago in a shut venue called The Jolly Boatman in Hampton Court. When I was a kid it used to be a café and mum would take me there for ice cream, and there I was 15 years later being sick in a bin. I digress.

The site has a posting for a splendid single called ‘Mother, your a liar’, that’s ‘your’ not ‘you’re’. Being a pedantic little shit I decided to post Animal an e-mail to tell him. Not expect anything back I was rather chuffed when I received an amusing reply.

After the F1 and the fucking shopping I went out to meet with Frank at the pub, we had a couple in the midst of a load of Rugby types resting after the England/Aussie match. I went back home and rocked out until the small hours.

Full of trepidation I flicked on The Chinese F1 at 11.30 with a kipper on my lap (it was on a plate dear reader, I’m not falling for that one again) only to watch Hamilton’s team, McClaren, make the worst decision in history since someone bought George Best a pint. The upshot was disappointment personified but he’s still in with a chance. Fuck, though.

I decided a blast on the black bitch was the only solution so I headed off to the country to see my sis, bro in law and my still very new niece. It was a beautiful autumn day, warm with touch of crispness, the light was bright and sharp and I gave her a right handful, not my niece, my black bitch… I hung about for a couple of hours watching her blow bubbles and chatting with her parents whilst drinking tea and smoking tabs (outside of course).

The evening passed slouched in front of the box eating and drinking, I had Monday off; I could push the boat out as far as I wished. On Monday I didn’t get up until 1pm, I was free of any hangover, had slept straight for nearly 12 hours and Myfwt had left me a message saying he was coming back a day early. Acer. I took a long bath, ate another kipper and spent the remaining afternoon writing before hooking up with Frank for a couple of Theakston’s prior to the return of Myfwt. I must admit, when she did finally arrive it was jolly fucking nice to see her.

Cunt news just in. Following the row last week I can now confirm that the mother of his hairy kid and indeed, the hairy kid are no longer in the building. This means no more screaming from junior or indeed, them, but it could signal the restart of his wank jelqing career resulting on him embarking on the ‘I’m a cunt of such magnanimous vastness I should fucking die, now’ tour, the tour will take place nightly in a dirty little corner his grief hole. I will, of course, be the sole audience member of the ‘show’. I’m willing to show extreme anger and hate in his ludicrous face just to show my appreciation, for an encore I will kick his teeth in.

Right, its Anti Nowhere League week, this is one for the laydeez

two u tube

I sort of had my Friday night indulgencies last night; I have a chirpy hangover with roachey finish and I’m feeling totally mediocre. Apart from eating sausages and broccoli with Piqued’s quintessential sauce, I took a bath and selected my fucking uniform for tonight’s soiree in full OCD mode. I then drank wine, smoked slate and watched TV.

Tonight’s concert finishes at 9.30, unless I can find some pals in the locale I will skulk off home and rock out. Actually, my plans for the weekend at large are at best vague, tomorrow I may or may not be meeting with Jamie or Frank or my bro, same on Sunday, but I do have Monday off so no Piqued until Tuesday. I will news you all up then.

Incredibly busy day so here’s something I made earlier, a rejected Watch With Mothers article because someone had already commented on this advert a month earlier. You may be interested to know that my latest WWM offing went up yesterday, link to the right ———>

Picture a loan

By far and away the worst advert ever made is for a loans organisation called Picture. So bad is this that it makes all other irritating loan adverts, including those with the behemoth Carol Vorderman reducing things with her sausage fingers, redundant

Watch it at your peril

Right then, where to begin

First the music, eagle eared UK resident residing readers over the age of 30 will recognise it as the Gallery theme tune for Take Hart. The show ran until 1984 so obviously the music regurgitates a younger time and brings to mind sardines on toast the Beano by torchlight after lights out and bicycle races with friends, an age of innocence, yes, purity. It’s a bit like being knocked over the head by a rubber nostalgia cosh, it disarms one, and you feel confused, perhaps afraid. Is that you mummy?

I digress

So, with the soothing music fading out (daddy I done a poo poo… sorry) we are invited to witness the most faked heap of shittery ever seen

A woman films her husband talking on the phone whilst he arranges a loan. Yes, you did read that correctly.

We know he’s a man because within seconds he’s garbled the word football, that’s right ‘its so easy to talk to those people at Picture, as you can actually have an adult conversation’ As opposed to what you fat cunt? A business employing mewling puking infants that randomly scream potty or choclit at you, or a bunch of inebriated tramps shouting at their piss sodden socks. No I think most businesses prefer to employ adults, and I’m fairly sure that it’s in a loans company interest to ensure the salesperson is coherent and polite in order to secure the business.

So, he wanders about this fucking mansion of a house (why don’t they just re-mortgage, we know he has one because ‘Mark from Picture’ his new best mate, asks him) with his git of a wife filming him gurning expressions of ‘really, its this easy!!’ and ‘you’re actually kidding, I can’t believe it’s that simple!!’ and ‘FUCK ME NO !!!! I DON’T BELIEVE HOW FUCKING WONDERFUL YOU GUYZ R!!!!!!!!!!!! *explode*’

And then comes the crunch, how much does he want to borrow? The cunt looks momentarily confused, ooh, he doesn’t know, he must think, how much again, Dear? I mean it was only casually mentioned we’d be borrowing 25 fucking K and a few months later paying back nearly double… He mouths ’25,000’to his subservient prick of a wife and she sticks up her thumb like he’s just fucking well won it on a scratchcard. Yes, 25,000, yeah.

The scene ends off with the 25K ‘richer’ cunt reclining in his chair fiddling with a football (he’s obsessed with footie, the big man that he is) finishing off the call while his clearly sick wife (who WON’T have to fill out any forms) gets all close and, well, rude-like and films him wanking off (not literally but the actor looks the sort that would actually film himself wanking off on camera) on how fucking wonderful those loan sharks are for lending him money with an APR that makes the combined debt of the third world look the money raised by a scout with a stomach upset during bob a job week.

Writing that has put me in an appalling mood, I’m off to hurt some schoolchildren.

Right, the Friday list, Casey still dominates but both Ziggy (still?) and Nigella seem to be tickling the fancy of the disparate and lonely…

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I think ‘Barry Cryer wanking’ must win this week, for fucks sake.

I’ll leave you all with an antidote to my musical extravaganza this evening, spare a thought, nice weekends all.

(Actually this is so fucking good I urge you to listen with your genitals out, spot Captain Sensible. Loud, loud, loud)

ratboy rat

Right, someone is fucking about with the controls on the weather, a warm, sunny October day is fucking unholy. Riding about the city yesterday on my black bitch in my new hot leathers courting attention from men and women alike, I noticed a clemency on the air. Of course I didn’t say anything.

I cycled in today, all the cunting leaves have gone a chrome yellow and were falling in my face as I passed through the dwindling…hang on

sorry, just needed to roll a bum cigar, Christ that is so much better… canopy by the stream, it was all rather beautiful, serendipity if you will.

I decided that a beer in the evening was essential. I hooked up with a mate from work, Nick, his missus, Fee and their 6-month-old daughter who is a smiling pink little thing. We sat in a walled garden supping ale and playing with Sunny who was happily gurgling away. The sun went down and there we still were, quite suddenly a fucking rat the size of a fucking rat shot past me, I leapt into the air nearly knocking my pint over. At about the time I recovered the fucker ran back again, suddenly feeling very unhappy in my location we upped sticks and went back to Nick and Fee’s for a night cap and to put Sunny to bed. On my walk home I saw at least 6 rats, all large enough to be of major concern to a musophobe (or indeed murophobe) such as myself and fully responsible for disrupting my sleep on account of nightmare encounters with a variety of the cunts presented as a series of short horror stories. Ugggh.

When I got back home yesterday I was rather hoping to see a police car outside my flat and two large officers having a word with Cunt, no such luck of course but there was no sound from downstairs. As I was leaving for the pub I heard a baby crying, ‘shit’ I thought, I was rather hoping they’d all been taken into care.

I got in last night at 10-ish and made ham and cheese on toast, my intention to eat a defrosted rice and chicken thing I made a few weeks ago didn’t happen as the fucker wasn’t fully defrosted and you don’t want to be buggering about with re-heated rice -get it very wrong and it can be fatal believe it or not- besides I required something beer friendly. After an hour I realised that I not heard anything from downstairs, at about this point Cunt crashed in through the front door, he’d obviously decided to take his little fucked up self on a solo bender because he’s unable to cope with the fucking pressures of not having to work at all, having a free fucking house with all mod cons, state of the art musical equipment (which as you may have ascertained is about as effective as giving Stephen Hawkins running shoes, but that’s not the point) and a healthy baby daughter and a women* that loves him. Oh, poor ickle fuck-wit, my fucking heart bleeds for it.

Mercifully that was the last I heard from the drip all night, sadly my chance to catch up on sleep without the grunting plunking fuckery of a retard permeating my somnambulist psyche was interrupted by black rats the size of cats jumping out of pushchairs to sink their teeth into my eyes. You just can’t win can you.

*clearly mad

Post punk anyone? (turn it up) Great video too

happy family

This is late because I’ve been in the city having high profile meetings with corporations that own most of the fucking world, the upshot of all this is was a well meant invitation to some swanky fucking concert, an invitation I am unable to refuse thus satisfactorily putting a throbbing bulls dick in my Friday evening. To make matters worse Myfwt is in flat cap and clog land to see her mum for a birthday, so as all of my friends enjoy the relaxing sounds of grindcore and metal, I will arrive alone for the concert on Friday looking like the first cunt out of water.

I had a busy day yesterday that bore some fruit, finally, and I cycled home in the pissing rain gladdened by the arranged visit from Myfwt in the evening. I made supper; chicken and mushroom pasta bake which, although a bit Delia, was a triumph. We watched some TV, Family Guy stamped a prodigious end to the evening before bed happened.

At precisely 6.07 I was awoken by a sort of shrieking sobbing, I think this may have been going on for some time because the dream I was having involved an argument with rock-titted Dannii Minogue after she’s tried to nick my Yukata, and I was being such a cunt I made the robot faced hottie weep uncontrollably. Needing a piss I got up to find the source of this horrific noise, ‘please don’t let it be downstairs’ I sadly hoped to myself. No surprise when it turned out it was.

Their hairy kid was now also crying, I heard bits of conversation, ‘you said you were going to marry me’ she said ‘I fucking never’ came the heroic reply. I can just imagine him promise the poor cow heaven and earth just for a fucking reach around, the despicable snivelling little fuck. She then began to really howl and he naturally lost his rag. Obviously we’re dealing with damage incorporated here, a woefully sad story of a pathetic grunting fuck-wit taking advantage of a sad vulnerable girl and him not having the required intelligence or care to take responsibility for his actions. So in one puff of jism two lives are permanently destroyed, the hairy one never even had a chance, and mankind takes another step towards destruction. The conversation ended with him yelling ‘fuck you’ and lots of door slamming as she wailed herself to sleep a few feet below me. Mercifully Myfwt slept through the whole thing, I didn’t get back to sleep and am fucking exhausted subsequently.

RIP Ned Sherrin

Odd/crap video, great song under the circumstances


I am a puffing red faced mess, I have this cough with a squeaky tail on it, its pitch is of such height I must be annoying dogs up to half a mile away. Yes, I cycled in with a hangover that contained Moroccan.

Yesterday was fucking awful; I landed on Monday like a tramps turd dropping into a cradle of threadbare underpant. I felt reluctant to breathe; it was one of those fucking days where one is wallowing in a combination of worthlessness and nonchalance, I could barely be arsed to summon up the desire to exist. As far I was concerned, this was it, my life was an office based fuck up, I’d never subscribed to this when I finished my fucking MA, this was meant to be a stop gap…

The day flopped on; I moaned at Myfwt when she called at lunch, emailed friends copped it in the neck, colleagues barely got the time of day. By the time I left work I was at the end of my tether, Christ, I saw Stephen Fry moaning about how depressed he was over the weekend (on TV I hasten to add) he should try seeing it from the side of someone whose not a cunting millionaire genius loved by all and fucking sundry. Even Jesus would forgive him for being a bummer.

I switch on my PC when I got in to check for any straggling emails, a friend aware of my general malaise advised me to go home and carry on with the book. The fucking book, no one gave a tinkers cuss about the first one (which, I’ll admit needs some tidying, but it’s okay though) so what hope does this one have? I looked at what I’d done, the sub plot synopsis, the dialogue, the wanky characters, utter fucking rubbish; I couldn’t progress with this… Bye bye book.

Just on the brink of zapping the whole thing into the recycle bin when it occurred to me that I was gawping at one fundamental mistake, which, if undone, would unblock the plug, solve the sub plot and offer me freedom to move within the structure I’d set. The answer, give the main character an office based job.

It doesn’t need to have anything to do with this place, though naturally elements of it will creep in, but the politics, the conversation, the arseholes in an office offer scope for so much richness, obviously. I’d originally settled on my character being a despatch rider (I used to be one) but when I did it mobile phones weren’t around, it was all two way radios, so I was trying to set it in the early 90’s and half remembering how it all worked and how that in turn effected the fucking plot, because it wasn’t helping shit… REMOVE this one element, one has nirvana.

So, I wrote last night, only a couple of hours, I wanted to sit back and drink to my health, toast my plot and let it swirl round in my brain in it’s new incarnation. I sort of forgot to eat but the Bordeaux was excellent and the pair of G&T that followed saw me off into a calm and relaxed sleep.

Back in the office today, doing research.