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.