Monthly Archives: November 2007


Interpol were too quiet, in fact, it was the quietest gig I’ve ever been to. Ever. I could happily chat to Myfwt, Gerry and my bro without having to raise my voice. I insist that live music be played at ear splitting volume, even if it’s The Aloud Girls or Spicethat, live music must be fucking loud, but it’s beyond contempt when a rock band can be drowned out by a mouse coughing. Needless to say I let my opinions be known to Alexandra Palace by yelling, I’m good like that when I’m pissed.

Yesterday at work was awful. I had a lunch meeting that would’ve been rather jolly if it wasn’t for the fact my head is choc full o’ snot. We went to some rather swanky Italian restaurant, I’m sure what I had was delicious but I couldn’t taste a bloody thing, that must be the single most unpleasant thing about having a cold, the inability to taste what one is eating. There is no doubt that if it wasn’t for the meeting and the gig I would’ve spent the day lolling about my flat burping the worm, actually, by the end of the working day I was seriously considering fucking the gig as well, I was feeling that rank. Sensibly I figured that after a couple of pints I’d be alright so with that in mind a knackered Myfwt and I boarded the tube to arrive in Covent Garden to meet Gerry by 6.30. We had a pint and moved on to Wood Green to meet my bro. In some godawful (but cheap) Weatherspoons establishment we put two more away and jumped in the shuttle bus (from which I mooned I proud to say) to arrive at Alexandra Palace too late for Blonde Redhead but in time for Interpol.

Ally Pally isn’t a good venue, it’s undeniable gorgeous with the most incredible views over London, but just isn’t suited to gigs. Sound bounces all over the fucking shop, a case in point was that it was vastly louder at the perimeter of the auditorium than it was directly facing the popular outfit. We managed a few more pints whilst the band played in the background (they were jolly good incidentally, just quiet) my bro and I urinated a lot before departing back to the tube station on the shuttle bus. It was now rather late, 11.30-ish? but the dreadful Weatherspoons was still open for business so in we trooped for a few stiff drinks for the journey. More by luck than judgement we caught the very last tube, as it was so late we had an entire carriage to ourselves and we invented a brand new game. Tube tag.

The rules evolved but it requires 4 players, all must be arseholed. Two stand at one end of the carriage and 2 at the other. Then each of the two ‘opponents’ run at each other, high five as they pass, preferably giggling like twats all red faced and gasping, and tag the person waiting at the end, allowing them to indulge in the same pointless activity. It was sublime, making it the best tube journey home in the world, until it was ruined by some bloke with a big nose entering our sacred space.

We got back home at 1am-ish, Gerry and I had a nightcap and ruminated on some dead mates, Myfwt went to bed and I joined her at 2-ish. I have a hangover today, but I also have a fucking cold so I’m not sure which is more responsible for making me feel like gibbon plop. It was, however, a fucking killer night and all worth it.

Righto, the usual sickening Friday list, followed by a final Paul Kaye for your delectation. It is utterly brilliant, a little offensive of course… It remains for me to wish you all splendid weekends, though this isn’t extended to the fucking wankers looking for underage people to whack off to in their filthy hovels.

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hear this

Right, now I feel really ill, yet here I am in work, what a fucking trooper/berk. I suppose a hangover doesn’t help, but really illness prevails.

However, I can hear. I can hear everything. The treatment I undertook yesterday afternoon was a sensation. Allow me to share…

By lunchtime yesterday the deafness in my right here had evolved from just being a fucking nuisance, it was starting to hurt; an ache in my jaw was slowly shifting into a isolated pain in the side of my head. At 3pm the black bitch and I raced across London as the day faded into night, we went through Battersea and over Lambeth bridge past Parliament, round Trafalgar Square and up the Charing Cross road. I still get a huge kick riding a motorcycle round the famed parts of this wonderful city; somehow it feels as if one is privileged, as if its not strictly allowed but personal permission has been granted. I parked up, passing a yelling Chris Evans oddly, second time I’ve seen him in a month, and made my way to the surgery.

An Australian woman met me and went through the procedure; she pretty much assured me that she could resolve the hearing issue. A speculum was placed in my ear and I laid down on a couch. She popped in some drops and using a tiny vacuum began to suck the muck out of my head. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, actually at times it was quite uncomfortable, this was largely because the ‘oh, gracious’ comment from the Australian woman derived from the appalling state of my log ‘oles and the removal of the wax wasn’t as straightforward as it first appeared. The wax had become attached to the skin inside my ear; she needed forceps to detach the stuff, which was apparently squishing my eardrum (which is subsequently bruised) before she could suck it out. The whooshing sound in my ear would periodically stop as the vacuum became blocked with a large portion of cerumen, this was the painful part as it was glued to the inside of my head. After a good 5 minutes there was this immense *pop* and all of a sudden I could hear car doors shutting on Cavendish Square 3 floors below through a closed window. The lump of wax she removed was the size of a marrowfat pea, one of two apparently though the first one had disintegrated. I nearly vomited on her lap.

The procedure was repeated on my ‘good’ ear which it transpired was nearly as bad; she removed a (regular) pea sized ball of cerumen which I was apparently ‘very old’. I asked her how I could avoid this sort of thing in the future, her advice was explicit, don’t put anything in your ear, wipe the concha periodically with a tissue but that’s that. The treatment cost £50 but for some reason the nice lady charged me half that amount, no idea why. I suspect it was because I was wearing biker clothes, leather trousers and motorcycle boots are very sexy, and she wanted to see my penis.

I met up with Frank for a pint later on, oh the luxury of being about to converse without straining or grinning inanely at unheard comments, before returning home to make dinner for Myfwt and I, another sausage casserole, this one better than the last, largely because I could eat it with hearing it being masticated and swallowed and dropping into my stomach.

Interpol tonight, but before all that some more Paul Kaye.

deaf as a post

Last night I hooked up with Frank for a couple of pints (Fortyniner, delicious, like drinking Marmite) and he and I ended up chatting to the landlord who is a rather splendid fellow. Turns out he’s a bit of an expert in turning around failing boozers. A few years ago my local was a fucking slag heap, a place where you were guaranteed warm lager and a fist in your teeth, these days it’s the paradigm of boozer perfection. Hey, I drink in there right? Right ; ) You betcha etc.,

Being ill and all that, I’d not sorted out dinner so was forced to pop by Tesco on my way back home. It may delight some of the readers of Piqued to confess that I bought 2 Tesco Chicken Kievs (and a bottle of wine) as I wasn’t feeling able to do any hard kitchen graft outside of preparing some cabbage and broccoli for steaming. The kievs may or may not have been good/bad, the wine vinegar, I can only taste snots, but this is the least of my worries.

I’m totally deaf in my right ear. It’s actually worse than yesterday as I took a bath and instead of making sure I didn’t get water in my ear by closing the tragus over the external auditory meatus with my index finger, something I’ve been doing for a year or so, I decided to throw caution to the wind –I figured as I was deaf anyway I may as well submerse my sweet little head underwater (without closing the tragus over the external auditory meatus with my index finger) so down I went shouting ‘fuck it yeah, rock and roll, woo-hoo’ before realising that I’d been partially deaf up until that point.

Being deaf in one ear isn’t as bad as being deaf, of course, but being used to hearing with both ears it’s fucking horrible. For a start one half of your mind becomes dormant, if today’s Piqued seems a little odd or strange you can safely assume it’s down to that satan is lord. It’s like being half awake, nothing seems quite real, and no, it’s not surreal for crying out loud… it’s very strange though, surreal, even.

Last night I attempted to watch TV in this condition, it was useless but not as bad as trying to read. I could hear all the blood in my head making a fucking noise which was frankly terrifying, I don’t want to be aware of shit like that, I’m happy it goes on and all that but I’d rather I wasn’t privy to it. I mean, I like a good shit as much as the next fellow but I don’t want to spend any time, outside of a cursory glance, ruminating on what has been jettisoned from my toned body. I gave the radio a shot on the good ear, it was okay but there was nothing on Radio 4 that inspired, music was out from the off so I made do with the TV absorbing the wine to aid my cold. What a fucking mess I am I thought. Help, actually.

So I’m dong something about it, I’m full of fucking fuck off cold pills today and I’ve just booked an appointment in some place in Soho to have my ears vacuumed this very afternoon. A bloke here in the office had it done a few months ago, apparently they put some stuff in your lug ‘ol to soften the wax, fire or something, and then literally suck it all out. The bloke at work says it was amazing, could hear a sparrow closing its beak 100 yards off. It does cost fifty fucking quid though, still I really can’t wait. I’m seeing Interpol tomorrow night (with Blonde Redhead supporting, I prefer them to Interpol actually) and I’d like to be able to hear all of it it, not just half.

More Paul Kaye today, this is quite marvellous, but be warned he says ‘fuck’ in it and it depicts the usage of a drugs…

deaf bike

I am with cold and have been deaf in my right sodding ear now since Sunday when washing the luxurious hair on my sweet little head I blasted a jet of water right into the side of my brains. Pardon? What? It’s really bastard annoying.

The weekend was unremarkable but quite lovely. I’m fully resigned to all this winter nonsense. At some point on Friday men, big men, from the council arrived and removed all the dead branches and leaves from the trees down the street, including the fellow outside my flat. Obviously I responded to this with casseroles and stews, wines and newspapers. Actually, apart from a spot of shopping (for food and a scarf, I left mine in the pub last week and what with this cold and all…Pardon?) Myfwt and I spent virtually all of it in the flat watching Scrapheap Challenge, Come Dine with Me and Top Gear (s) to accompany the gastric delights. Quick recipe for you, this was so good I nearly grated my helmet, venison and wine sausages (in season at Sainzburry at the mo) browned and chopped up, par boiled sliced potatoes (use Maris Piper, mmm? What? Yes MARIS PIPER…) and flash fry roughly chopped onion, garlic, leeks and peas. Season the lot, bung in some herbs and all that shit, then layer the ingredients in a oven proof dish: potato, veg, sausage, potato, veg sausage etc., slosh half a pint of chicken stock and red wine over the lot and shove in the oven for an hour and half. I reckon it’s one of the best things I’ve had all year.

Yesterday morning I was up at 6.30am. It was dark and weird. I dressed, jumped on the bitch of blackness and rode over to my folks in the rush hour as the dawn broke. It was an oddly serene experience, despite all the suits in their fucking cars arsing about. I dropped the bike orf and dad and I headed up to Birmingham for the 2007 International Bike show at the NEC. We’ve been going to this show since I was a wee nipper, it used to be held at Earl’s Court but was moved to the Midlands to make it more accessible to the Northern types, and I still retain the same mawkish delight sitting on an array of beautifully crafted metal for the purposes of satisfying my groundless urge to ride motorcycles. I sat on the updated version of the black bitch, keeerrrchhing! I will have one next year, but the most gorgeous bike I sat on was the new Ducati 1098, an unfeasibly beautiful machine but not practical for everyday use sadly. If I had the cash and a garage I’d bite off my mum arms to have one in my possession. Dad and I stuffed our eyes for a few hours, pausing only for lunch, a Subway sandwich which was fucking fantastic, despite the chilli causing the old man some concern in advance of the following days ablutions, and returned to the bikes for some more giggling.

The journey back home was choc-full-o nattering, I was a little rushed for time as I had to get back home, meet Myfwt, and get into town in time for the Ballet at the Royal Albert Hall, St Petersburg Ballet were performing fucking Swan Lake, and my client had given us the best box in the house.

I’ve decided to review the episode in Watch With Mothers, link to the right. Check back later. In the meantime, no music but this. It’s utterly hilarious but not for those of a nervous disposition, don’t say I didn’t warn you.


lost in museik

I was as busy as furious bee yesterday, for some reason everything needed doing at once, and in between all of this I spent a good deal of time having an online conversation (with a bloke called Earache whom I’ve linked to on the right) about the Guardian’s top 1000 albums. Entertaining it may’ve been but it was a right load of old bollocks with some dreadful emissions, no Dead Kennedys, Marilyn Manson, Mudhoney, Butthole Surfers… (but Girls Aloud and Rachael Stevens were in???) I really could go on but there will be enough listing on today’s Piqued, it’s Friday after all.

However, there were a few surprises (Space Ritual by Hawkwind, for example, which was let down by the balls written about it) and one in particular which I’ve posted as today’s guest youtube link. Listen to as loud as possible after taking drugs; it will utterly blow your head orf.

Just discovered a long blonde alien hair in my beard, pulling a long blonde (any colour actually, I’m no racist) alien hair out of ones beard feels almost as enjoyable as a ruddy great poo, but I digress. Last night I met up with my bro at Clapham Common tube following a small altercation with London Transport when my Oyster card split and there was no fucker to let me through the barrier. My bro was privy to my yelling at a gesticulating man behind a screen, who I couldn’t see because I wasn’t wearing my bins, desperately, apparently, trying to corral me to another barrier.

We arrived at the pub in good cheer, if a little frustrated on my part and imbibed Guinness whilst discussing the wonders of wanking. Shortly we were joined by my bros mate, Andy, where the conversation took a turn for more fruitiness, that’s right, prior to my having to leave hurriedly at 8 in order to get back and get supper on. I’d planned (line caught) smoked cod on steamed leek and broccoli with a mustard and spring onion sauce and was running out of time before Myfwt came back.

Of course the meal was a success, and we cheerfully shoved Cava down our faces whilst watching River Cottage Gone Fishing on 4+1 after we’d eaten. The evening passed rapidly over a conversation and a few tabs, and a G&T before bed.

There will be no Piqued on Monday as I’m off to Birmingham with dad to visit the International Motorcycle Show, in the evening I’m, and I can’t believe I’m typing this, off to the fucking Ballet. It’s a work related thing that I can’t refuse, the only consolation to this awfulness is that Myfwt is coming and she’s rather excited about it, being a girl and all that.

So, Tuesday then, dear reader. In the meantime, have a jolly good weekends (except the people that find themselves reading these hallowed words after asking to see something unspeakable. You don’t deserve to read this; you deserve to be shorn of your genitals).

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ing day

I think I may have slept too long; I’m bloody shattered today, exhausted and feeling vaguely removed, as if I’m existing in a gelatinous aura.

The office is dead, quite dead. Today is going to be long and uninspired; I may have to wind up the failed actor for some amusement, schadenfreude, it’s lower down the ladder than sarcasm but twice as nice.

There is something going on downstairs that I’ve failed to figure. Cunt has people in there. Possibly more than one. I hear his gibbon tones, over everyone else of course, but he’s definitely conversing with ‘people’. Last night one drove off and there was certainly another in there who may or may not have left later. Obviously, if we were talking about a normal individual here having people over it wouldn’t be worth a seconds thought. But we’re not. I suspect something controversial, possibly illegal.

Yesterday evening after returning home I made my way to the tube. By the time I reached the station it was drizzling, when I alighted at the other end it was like the air had become water, I was soaked in seconds and arrived at the pub in Clapham looking like a woodland creature after swimming lessons. I thought my leather jacket on drying would resemble a wankers tissue but it’s been cured and treated remarkably well and I was delighted to see it wasn’t effect one jot.

I’m not a gay (here on in ‘Ing’ there is a link to his website to the right —> thus) arrived minutes after looking suitable drenched. He and I sipped beers and discussed recent topics (that you are free to read about on both our blogs) in a most convivial fashion. After a lengthy chat about motorcycles, transpires his dad actually built a bike, we managed to drink heartily, but not excessively, as the football droned on in the background. Like me, Ing has a female companion referred to (with all due respect to both) as an abbreviation and we thought it would be rather jolly if, shortly, they should meet under our wise guidance. Then we talked about doing some more hash cakes together and getting all fucked up.

After a while Ing and I walked back to the tube were we said a fond farewell and returned to our respective dwellings. I decided that another can of beer wasn’t in order; I ate and went to bed early to read in utter peace. Lovely. Be nice if Cunt was involved in some bizarre suicide pact.

The failed actor has just kicked off, he’s wandering round the office with a bright red face, rictus grin, hands clasped to the side of his head and he’s actually whining. I just asked him what the fuck is the matter with him, ‘I c c c c can’t get online’ he whimpered.

I have to say, it felt rather nice to laugh into the twats face.

This is a classic…

howareyous day

I’ve come to the very sensible conclusion that Tuesday is by far and away the most unpleasant day of the week. Even a Monday can be saved by the fading dreams of a fine weekend and the, albeit few and infrequent, Bank Holiday, but a Tuesday sits there for the sole purpose of listlessly extending the time between one and 5pm Friday. It suffers from its being mundane, indifferent, inconsequential, it’s not the start of the week nor the middle of it, it’s nothing but a 24 hour bastard. Fuck Tuesday.

As usual the day at work was a trudge from start to finish, it was cold, rainy and the office was removed of its vaguely cheery gritty character. I even watched Budd Dwyer blowing his brains out again just to allow the juddering chill of horror to change the direction of the bland passing of office time. I’d resigned myself to have a night off the pop, it’s not as if I’ve been particularly bad over the past few weeks but I’d not had a night off since late October which I justified via the season and darkness and temperature… I intended to spend the night in front of the TV eating sausages, early night, that sort of thing.

Then late pm I get a call from Harry. Within seconds I had plans to go out to the local pub, suddenly Tuesday didn’t seem so awful. He and I met at a little after 7 and we remained there until 11.30. Drinking a fine drop of Adnams Explorer we chatted away in a heated tent in the beer garden covering all manner of topics in a most congenial fashion. On the way home we grabbed pizza from Tesco, we were too late to purchase wine and Myfwt and I had rid ourselves of the weekly stock at home through sheer conviviality, but I had beers in the fridge.

On entering chez Piqued Cunts door opened and a naughty little face popped out to obsequiously ask if ‘it was too loud’. He was clearly off his face, the prick. I informed him I’d not a clue, having just walked in etc., (how grimly unintelligent) but at least Harry was able to actually see in action the manifestation of horror that is Cunt. Now he knows. Indeed Cunt treated us to more delights, for the first time I can recall he had a friend over (rare anyway) who actually stayed there for more than an hour. Naturally such a person must share a similar view of the world, you know, ————-, and this was reflected in their conversation which consisted of making yourself heard by shouting like a fucking docker and laughing maniacally as if ones frontal cortex was being macerated by a knitting needle. I just hope that when they did move onto the flinging their own faeces about the place they showered after.

Still Harry didn’t seem too fussed as we enjoyed Dead Ringers (the film, not that fucking amazingly shit TV show with that bloke who, like Mike Yarwood back in the 70’s, hasn’t realised that a wig does not an impersonation make) and after a night cap we hit the sack at about 2-ish, in separate rooms obviously, whilst I’ve nothing against them I’m not one to push Maltesers north.

So, there you have it, Tuesday saved right at the end. Yes, I have a mild hangover but it’s the middle of the week and it’s a gorgeous lovely sunny day Ducks.

This is beautiful, if you don’t know about this fellow, check him out at once. You’ll be surprised…

Hi. How are you?


I had a fucking nose bleed this morning. I’ve not had one of those for years. I woke up, blew my nose and there was claret pissing all out of my face. As a kid I used to get them really badly, hour-long streams of bright red blood splotting into a constant loop of refreshed toilet tissue wondering when it was going to stop. When it finally did stop one existed for days with a large purple nostril-bung compromising the respiratory system. Of course, as it crumbled away, naughty little fingers would aid it’s passage inevitably resulting in the clot suddenly giving way spraying blood all up the walls. At 16 I had one half way up a mountain in Switzerland, it refused to stop and I lost so much blood I had to be carted back down to the chalet feeling all faint and weird. Since then the largely accepted ‘I get nose bleeds’ was replaced by a ‘shit. Nose bleed’. They became more sinister and as I get older a nosebleed of course equals brain haemorrhage or some dreadful virus. But this morning I was thinking of Budd Dwyer. If you knew about Budd you’d know why, as far as nose bleeds go, he had rather a nasty one. Confused? Well I wrote an essay on Budd a few years back and have decided to publish it on Piqued.

Hey man, nice shot *

In January 1987 Senator R. Budd Dwyer called a press conference that was anticipating his public resignation from politics. He had been convicted for fraud and was due to be sentenced the following day for a maximum term of 55 years in what he described as an ‘American Gulag’. Instead of resigning, midway through an emotive and at times rambling speech he pulled a .357 Magnum with a 6.5-inch barrel from a brown Manila envelope and fired a single round into his mouth.

This may seem fairly unremarkable; let’s face it we hear of this sort of shit going down on a daily basis. Suicide isn’t a unique or isolated event; most of know someone who has had to deal with the aftermath of such a killing. My mate Henry strung himself up 6 years ago leaving a wake of confused and angry family and friends but the fucker didn’t invite us all round and make us watch.

The footage of Budd Dwyer taking his life is now freely available, with the minimum of search parameters, for all to see on the Internet. Just download the M-peg and you have 45 seconds of frank and utter horror.

The shock of the film initially arises from the graphic violence that occurs when a person shoots himself or herself in the face. The stock Hollywood treatment of such a killing usually depicts vast amounts of brain matter blasting out from the back of someone’s head, sliding in lumps down walls and/or spraying annoyingly red blood over furniture. The Budd killing is more sedate. Firstly, he is standing upright and when he discharges the magnum into his mouth a small puff of smoke appears over his head and he speedily crumples into a heap. It is only then as he sits with his head slowly falling to his left does gore make an appearance. This bit is very nasty; Dwyer’s sinuses were shredded by the blast and the result is a remarkable amount of bloody gook pouring from his nose like a fast running tap, his eyes roll back into his head and the lids slowly close…

Budd Dwyer was born in 1939 and was clearly destined for a career in politics; by the age of 26 he was a member of the Pennsylvania state house of representatives before reaching the Pennsylvania state senate at 31. At the age of 45 he made it to his final post as the Pennsylvania State Treasurer but had he survived he would be well on his way to the Whitehouse and certainly had the right stuff to become top dog.

As it turned out his career would end in Pennsylvania but by all accounts this is because Budd was framed for a crime he arguably didn’t commit. He was married with two children and outside of his family regarded as affable, honest and helpful renown for his sense of humour. The city councilman from Budd’s hometown of Meadville said of him “if you needed something done, you knew who to call, and you always got a straight answer.”

He was convicted on conspiracy of mail fraud and racketeering charges stemming from the ‘award’ of a state computer contract to a California firm known as Computer Technology Associates. The contract was intended to review the hundreds of thousands records of public school employees after Pennsylvania public officials declared they had paid too much in Social Security investment. Budd was appointed by the state treasury to check the records and collect overpayments and he contracted John Torquato (a carpetbagger from California) of the CTA to take on the work. Allegedly Budd accepted a kickback for his and other prominent Pennsylvania politicians’ efforts for having the contract ‘steered’ in the way of Mr. Torquato. Theoretically Dwyer alone was to receive $300,000.

It was only when Al Benedict a former state auditor and gubernatorial wannabe exposed the CTA scandal and specifically pointed the finger at Dwyer that a 2 1/2 year political wrangle ended in Budd’s conviction. Apart from Dwyer the accused consisted of former state Republican Chairman and Robert Asher (who went to prison) and a recently obtained list of co-conspirators that contained the names of 10 prominent Democratic and Republican Pennsylvania politicians, some of whom are still around today as either officeholders or lobbyists. Today Asher is Pennsylvania’s Republican National Committeeperson and Benedict the accuser, one year on from Dwyer’s initial arrest, pleaded guilty to an ‘unrelated charge’ and went to prison.

Before the actual killing you can listen to the end of a peculiar speech by an individual who was clearly driven out of his mind, this is illustrated in the sharp preparation of his death and by analysing a transcript of his closing statement that exists just before the m-peg cuts in.

Firstly, he quite naturally, protests his innocence before gently attacking the justice system and why carrying out plans to ‘expose the warts on the legal system’ are for him essentially hopeless. Some time earlier a film crew had begun packing up their equipment, the resignation of a bent senator was already being covered by 5 TV crews and numerous newspaper reporters and perhaps felt that they were just surplus to requirement, but Budd had insisted that they stay. He then begins handing out sealed envelopes to his aides stipulating that the one for his wife Joanne has a note in it. It is only here that the gun is produced sending the room into a flurry of panic.

If you search on the internet you can find footage of Bud’s death in colour and you can just hear what is being said if you follow the transcript (also available online. I could post links to both but I feel that you may see something for the sake of it when really you should think about why you’re watching something like this). With the gun in his hand he starts to say something but is beaten down by a shouting room of ‘Don’t do it Budd’. As an aside and to demonstrate how Budd may have been viewed by his peers, the people in the room are clearly not fearing for their own safety in spite of the fact that a large fruitcake is waving a fucking huge gun around in their faces, they are genuinely concerned for him. That and the fact they really don’t want to see his insides.

Budd says ‘please leave the room if this will offend you.’ I personally think that in spite of all the preparation of his suicide it was only at this very point that he realises that he is going to die by his hand. The background pleading in the room begins to get quite loud when Budd politely asks them not to try and stop him. The last thing he says is ‘this will hurt someone’ (he’s quite right) and very quickly he pushes the barrel in his mouth with one hand and fires with the other.

The room erupts in screams and shouts then Dwyer’s aide speaks, ‘someone call the ambulance and a doctor (!) and the police…show a little decorum, please…dear God in heaven…’ But all the while the camera is continuously focused on a close up of Budd slumped against a wall with brains pissing out of his face.

Not being an American passionate about American politics in the 80’s what possible justification is there in watching this movie outside of the gratuitous voyeurism?

I feel there are two main reasons why I feel the film should be viewed. Firstly, one is given a chance to face ones own and others mortality. In an age of TV nannying where a generation of people have never really seen or felt the consequences of warfare, unless one is extremely unlucky in reality, we just don’t see killing or even death. Conflicts that have recently taken place Iraq, Afghanistan and Darfur result in the unseen deaths of tens and thousands, Rowanda alone casually reported 500 children being massacred one afternoon by machete wielding men. I don’t want to see what was inevitably filmed but at the same time we are rarely even given the chance to imagine what that must have actually looked like. Why? It happened, it is relevant to us. Reeling off a figure like ‘500 children massacred’ is beyond belief so it almost becomes surreal. But if we had seen it live or on film we would really (Roland Barthes would take issue here but you get the picture) know what happened; when someone is injured with a knife, bits come off, disturbingly vivid colours of hidden guts come out, people mortally scream because unlike in the movies, people don’t always instantly just die.

In short it can be justifiably argued that by viewing Budd’s killing a dormant side of our human selves has a better chance of correctly forming. Life isn’t like the sanitised world of ‘Midsummer Murders’, which ‘entertain’ via a digestible form violence, murder and death. It is this sort of programming that allows all of the horrors we read about in the news to just wash over us without a chance to really understand what suffering is and how we can collectively help stop it. In some ways the Budd film readdresses this deficit.

Secondly, because Budd wanted his death filmed by whatever warped mechanism in his head that clearly derives from a very desperately sad man, he arranged it with precision, always with the viewer in his mind (the same mind that you get to see running out of his nose). He demonstrates what can happen to an individual driven beyond despair whilst (in Budd’s case) reminding those responsible what they have done by using him as a pawn in a larger gaming plan. To us the film should act as a stark and shocking warning as to the lengths people will go to gain and sustain power and the very real result that can occur by the consequences of their actions.

Only Pennsylvania TV broadcast the killing in full, every TV station in the country cut the actual execution but the state where Budd was the treasurer took the (brave) decision to show what he really did to himself. Out of respect? Acknowledgement of their own guilt? Possibly in subjecting the very people that could have saved Budd from the trumped up charges against him to a few moments of film that would stick in their heads for the rest of their lives.

You have, nonetheless, been warned.

*The title refers to the 1998 song by ‘Filter’ based on Budd Dwyer’s death. See below

lazy face

The ride in this morning on the black bitch was incredible, I faced a steel grey sky with a perfect rainbow illuminating the future with brilliant white light bursting from behind. It was like being in an overexposed negative or the squinting eye shielding the Mediterranean sun, in the midst of this the rain and cold were relentless. Monday morning surrealism, I’d rather these things happened at the weekend when I can enjoy it.

My weekend was quite unremarkable in one respect. I didn’t really do anything, but in another it was possibly the most relaxing two days I‘ve had in an age. I always knew Friday was going to be spent in with Myfwt joining me later. What I wasn’t expecting as I was covering my black bitch up after arriving home was Cunt to apologise for his appalling behaviour last week, and sincerely inform me that he’ll keep the noise down before offering me a grubby little hand, which I reluctantly took, of course. I’m sure he’ll forget about his pledge shortly but in the meantime, I have peace and quiet and a crime reference number in my pocket should I have any more wankery.

On Saturday morning Myfwt went off to see her sister whilst I stayed in bed until lunchtime, I made breakfast then accidentally watched all of Diamonds are Forever, which I enjoyed immensely, much to my surprise. The shopping trip on Saturday was a lot more hardcore than usual, I had lots of stupid little bloody things to include among the regular items, but before all that I had to go to Homebase to get some grout for the bathroom sink. Rock and Roll, yeah.

In the evening I hooked up with Frank for a couple of ales in the local, which had a few very drunk Scottish people in it drowning their sorrows at volume. When I got home I made these rather clever little ham pepperoni cheese things with a spring onion sauce which Myfwt helped me eat when she got back.

Sunday was the best day of the lot, a true day of rest, 3 Scrapheap Challenges, 4 Grand Designs –which reminded me to grout the bathroom sink, it took 10 minutes and was beautiful job. I raced out to grab the Sunday papers at 2-ish and spent the entire afternoon lolling around on my tight buns watching TV and reading both broadsheet and tabloid without any shame whatsoever. It was fucking gorgeous, especially when it started to rain and I got one of those. ‘oooh, it’s nice in here and horrid out there’ ones you only get in the winter. I met Frank for a couple of ales in the early evening; it rained hard on my walk to and from the boozer. I cared not a jot as I was correctly attired in waterproofs, which made the walk into the flat even more satisfying.

With my eye on TopGear I made a chicken and mushroom pie with leak and potato, which was fucking stunning. By now I was so laid back I greeted Myfwt when she arrived back home with a ‘Yo’. We had a nightcap and shuffled off to bed. I slept like a log in complete peace, the first Sunday night in months.

I come into work this morning and a co-worker says to me, ‘are you growing a beard?’ I’ve had a full beard now for 3 weeks; it looks fucking superb I hasten to add… I replied, ‘no, I’m not growing a beard’. She looked confused, ‘what’s all the hair on your face, then?’

‘A beard’ I said.

eastern promises

I have a BT land line through which my internet goes, I’m connected via the internet with a Freeserve connection package which I believe became Wanadoo yet they still retain some sort of ID on my PC. A few weeks ago my Fucking Slaptop started to take it upon itself to randomly disconnect itself from t’internet, so confusingly, I had to phone Orange. Why fucking Orange? What the shits has it to do with them?

So, I call them, as soon as I’m connected I’m informed my calls will cost about a pound a minute, that my calls are being recorded for training purposes, that my calls may be monitored, interfered with, taken to the pub and felt up by a retired headmaster with an arthritic knee and a lazy fucking eye for the love of all that is just… this diatribe takes about 45 seconds, i.e., 75p

Finally the cunt shuts up in order to take my question whereupon he gives me another phone number on which to call. I call and suddenly I’m aware that I’m no longer speaking to a person from these emerald isles. Firstly, the line sounds like it’s full of clouds, and secondly, the person on the line whilst perfectly good at understanding English, due to exotic interference and generic accent, isn’t quite as adept as making themselves understood to me. But after about 15 minutes of misunderstandings and computer related jiggery pokery my connection to t’internet seems a little more stable. Jolly good show.

On Tuesday my connection to the golden world of nudity and dildos, I mean, being able to check my emails, became very intermittent, much worse than before. I’m fairly sure my modem isn’t working correctly. Failing to locate the second phone number taking me straight to a call centre in somewhere in South Asia I’m forced to dial the ££££-a-heartbeat line. Of course, as soon as I’m connected I get the terms and conditions quoted to me, being fully aware of the costs, training purposes, monitoring bollocks I attempt to intervene the dulcet tones of the cunt on the other line by loudly telling them that I know all this and may I just have the number for the bloody broadband technical support… To my disgust monotone voice on the other end merely counters my volume without breaking stride, so I raise mine according, accidentally doing a little swear in the process and being instantly cut off. This happened three more times in a row.

By now, incandescent with rage, and desperately needing to lose some weight off my pills, I bear with the Orange Cunts on the £££££-a-palpitation number, get the broadband number and find myself Eastside communicating down a line so appalling that the lady on the other end may as well have been gargling sand in a skip. This was very frustrating dear reader, but I managed to keep calm, mention the modem, and after another 30 minutes of ‘pardon? PARDON?’ I established that I had to download some software (obviously at work) and re-install it.

Last night I came home clutching the shiny silver round ticket to the tissue glue factory, following the instructions to the letter, I uninstalled all previous programmes and shoved in the CD. Of course, it took ages loading and then right at the last knockings fell down on its arse. I tried a couple more times; close to tears I was, before facing the very real fact that I’d have to phone technical support. Again.

At least I had their number so I could avoid calling the premium rate numb… No. NO!! I’d lost it. My skin rippling with blood busting veins I dial the premium line, listen to the fucking t&c message, ask for technical support, am given the number before being asked if they can help me with anything else, I say ‘big fat cocks’ and hang up, then I call technical support, speak to someone in space for over an hour poking at my PC and occasionally having to cup my hand over the phone to scream, finally, after essentially doing precisely what I’d already done, but slower, I’m told that my modem isn’t working and that one will be despatched in the next 2 to 5 (workings) days, and could they help me with anything else before thanking me for calling Orange and throwing me into a cybertitless existence for a fucking week. Shhhhh, shhhhh, everything is going to be alright. Shhhh, be calm. Calm

After all of this horror I get a call from Myfwt who tells me she’s in Chelsea and her car has been stolen, of course it has everything in it, credit cards, mobile, sat nav, costly glass samples for her work, gym kit… she’s remains calm, possibly in shock. She calls the police to discover it’d been towed away, and it will cost her £300 to get the bastard back, despite having a ticket and wotnot. Apparently the only bay in the street, the one in which she parked, had been ‘suspended’. That’s another fucking load of red tape/moaning grief for the week to come. Hurray.

Nonetheless, when she did finally return at 10.30 we did have a nice evening. Aren’t humans wonderful at coping with adversity. Speaking of humans, the search engine entries of the guttersnipes that prowl the internet looking for horrors will be revealed to you in the weekly Friday list. After which a tune will aim to soothe you.

May I wish you all a wonderful weekend, though, as usual, this doesn’t extend to those fucknockers looking for dreadful imagery and winding up on here.

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(check valve timing or carbs, sir)

eye one

I have to confess that over the last few weeks I’ve been nonchalantly buying lottery tickets with my tabs on a Saturday, you know, ‘20 B&H silver and a lucky dip’ it rolls off the tongue rather easily as you can plainly see.

Once you have a ticket in your possession one can’t help but speculate on what one would do with the cash should one win. Won one. A tenner yesterday, I’m a lottery winner and will spend my fortunes on 40 B&H Silver. The 10 quid win, which is better than a smack in the mouth, follows my first online Lottery play after I became a bit bored at work.

Just knowing you might win is a rather nice, it’s a bit like taking reality LSD in which you find your mind wandering into the possible realms of suddenly being able to buy houses in cash. Despite knowing it’s highly unlikely the mind gently chews the options automatically and occasionally will pervade your afternoon with motorcycle collections, cocktails acquired with a click, huge white condos framed by azure blue… where the fuck is the Marmite?

I’m still waiting for the cops to call to make my statement, they phoned yesterday to make sure I’d gone into the police station to make a report, which I though was rather nice, then a bit odd. Last night I met up with Frank for a pint in the local, jolly nice it was too, no idea which guest ale was on but it was fucking gorgeous. I walked home on the bitter cold enjoying the resistance from my less than a week old leather jacket. As usual I wondered what the situation would be like at home, annoyed at being put into this position and, like winning the lottery, I started imagine what my reaction would be if, when I opened the door, I walked into a pair of suspended piss soaked legs and looked up to discover Cunt with his tongue all hanging out gently swinging from a light fitting by his dressing gown chord. I think I’d have nightmares for weeks actually, so there’s a lesson there, be careful what you wish for…

As in the previous evenings I spent the evening with silence from below. I know it won’t last so being able to fully relax isn’t really possible, besides, traditionally he’s usually fairly quiet at this point in the week, Sunday and Monday are the bad days for some reason. Christ that annoyed me just writing that, another thing, he gets up when I get in from work…. The sooner plod call the better, I reckon he’s headed for a full on freak out.

This is lovely, just pics of my favourite band of all time with one of their most beautiful offings…

nick prick

As I mentioned yesterday, I contacted the local nick and told them about the incident on Monday evening with that bloke who lives downstairs, forgotten his name… oh, yes. Cunt.

Surprisingly they viewed the incident with some concern and urged me to actually go to the local nick and make a statement. I was informed that being asked out for a fight is a ‘threat of assault’, which, along with all the fucking eyeballing makes complete sense. Despite the fact that last night I didn’t hear a peep out the little fuck all night (he was in btw) that the incident may have had some effect on the squidgy-skulled tool (perhaps my eyeballs were more ballsey than his, after all, it was he who shut the door on me) this morning I found myself inside a police station, a place I’d rather not be in, talking to a macho coppergirl about what happened. To my relief I was advised to fill out a form, as opposed to having to actually talk to police people, explaining what had occurred and so forth. I was then told that I’d be called to give a phone statement, and to impress upon the police person that calls that I wanted the incident recorded and no further action to be taken unless/until, it happens again. Really, it’s a question of covering ones bottom if things get out of hand, though I’m even more angry with Cunt then ever for putting me in this position in the first fucking place. Perhaps I should shove euthanasia literature through his door and get Myfwt to kindly advise him that really, it would be the best thing to do, you know, for all our sakes, but especially his, the miserable useless arse.

After a while, when I was sure that Cunt wasn’t going to start barking grunts over his out of tune strungs (yes, ‘strungs’) I had a pleasant evening, Myfwt joined me at 8.30, all full of beans because the dentist had put her tooth right back in place without any fuss, and then we actually had some beans, on toast, with cheese. And Worcester sauce (and a couple of glasses of Beaujolais and watched Ramsey).

The thing is, though, is now I feel on permanent tenterhooks in my own fucking flat, I don’t feel properly relaxed anymore, my ‘home’ doesn’t exist as it once did, actually, it hasn’t for a while so I am going to have to move. I mentioned moving a few months ago but this desire petered out due to a combination of laziness and my unwillingness to deal with all the financial shit that comes with it. The move will now happen, it will take a few months because it’s not something I want to rush into. In spite of Cunt the time is right I suppose, I’ve been there 5 years and I’m bored of the area, the flat and I really would like to have a garden in which to grow vegetables and bury bodies.

Guilty pleasure coming up, this bloke was able to sing in four octaves, he uses them all on this song, his best I think.


My encounter with Cunt didn’t go as expected. In fact, it went so badly that after this I’m going to call the local nick and tell them what happened.

I spent most of yesterday exhausted because of a lack of sleep, because of Cunt, so by the time I’d cycled home I wasn’t in the best of moods. I walked into the hallway and rapped on his door. The door flew open and before I had a chance to say a word he yelled.
“…Look what ever it is I’m not interested…”
“…You woke me up AGAIN last night….”
“Right, do you want to take this outside for a fight?”
“A fight? You what? I’m asking you to not play your guitar ALL FUCKING NIGHT”
“I was playing like a little mouse…”
“Well I heard it, it woke me up at 3…”
“I’m not fucking interested I’ve had enough…”
“Look I’m politely asking you to not play your guitar all night…”

At this point Cunt eyeballed me in silence for a good 15 seconds, I may as well have informed him that I’d molested his fucking mother, he’s obviously been watching too many Hollywood crash bang wallop films. I remained glaring back at him before he slammed the door in my face.

It’s perfectly obvious that I’m not dealing with a rationale human here. As I’ve pointed out countless times, he doesn’t work, never has, he’s certainly delusional, refers to himself in public as an ‘artist’ ‘musician’, he seldom goes out and he’s got no friends. In short he’s a fucking loony and by their very nature loons are unpredictable, you know, inclined to act spontaneously, stab stab stab…

I discussed the matter with Frank and Myfwt who both agreed that informing the police of the threat of violence would be enough to at least cover me should he kick off and I’ve got to defend myself/property etc., The other fortuitous aspect to all this is that I have a log of all the times he’s been a fucking gitprong right here in this very blog. In addition to that I know the neighbours on one side have moaned to me about the fucking racket he makes and when push comes to shove he’s such an appallingly unintelligent little fucking turd I could of course just fuck the cops and have a word with a friend of mine…

Having said all that Myfwt and I slept in blissful silence last night.

shopping for shit

The usual late Saturday afternoon hell in Sainsbury took on an extraordinary dimension. Apart from being more crowded than I’ve even seen in previous visits, there weren’t enough trolleys and I had to race an inactive middle age slattern for the last available one, well I say ‘race’ I simply walked faster than she did, she sped up of course but, dead casual like, I was even pretending to find something in my nose, I walked as fast as I could (though making it seem as if I wasn’t) and grabbed the trolley at the last second prior to her Cumberland sausage fingers closing over the bar, and made my way into food utopia, smirking.

Of course, I got my comeuppance. Having secured a trolley and being used to the lay out of the store I made adequate progress through all the track suited fuckwits and gold hooped jizz guzzlers to reach my goal, the alcohol isle, before paying one of the worn out cashiers and getting out of it. But I’d forgotten Marmite. Marmite is one of the hardest fucking things to find in a supermarket because it defies category, making it more confusing is the little jams, marmalades, peanut butter section (essentially ‘spreads’) near ‘cakes and bread’, doesn’t feature Marmite… After wandering about for ages picking up little bits of stuff along the way, I found Marmite-land at the END of an isle. I angrily grabbed a jar and went back to my trolley, which was… where?

I have this habit of occasionally parking my trolley; it’s quicker to move around without it, and coming back to it with goods. Due to all of the exasperation in locating Marmite and being distracted by the throngs of prols I’d utterly forgotten where the punctured Christ I’d left it… With an armful of Marmite, tinned tomatoes, peppercorns and shoe polish of all things, Saturday shoppers were privy to a red faced man on the verge of a full on fucking freak out darting from isle to isle with his eyeballs out on stalks. I caught the eye of a 6-year-old boy, who’d been griping about crisps; in seconds he was clutching his mothers leg with a look of mortal terror on his face, the little shit. After 20 fucking minutes, 20, I found it in the dog and cat food section, parked by my caring subconscious, as that was the place least likely to cause an obstruction to the wankers in the store. I was close to tears, not just from frustration but because of the milk of my human kindness.

Friday evening began at 4pm when my bro called to tell me that he was indeed about for a few beers. I’d resigned myself to a night in so the change in fortune was welcome. I was in the boozer in Clapham before 6, remarkably tables were still available and within 10 minutes there were 3 of us, the third person being a mate of my bro, Andy, who like me has a penchant for screaming men singing about the glories of Satan. It was a top night, 3 men, beers, talking about metal, pop-ups and birds, yes, birds with tits and things. I was home rocking out by 12 and later joined by Myfwt at 1 who’d been out with one of her pals.

After the awful shopping trip I expected to spend the night with a bottle of wine, TV and headphones but my plans were delightfully thwarted by a call from James with an offer of the pub. Fifteen minutes before he and I were due to meet I got a call from a very distressed Mytfwt who was on her way to a party. Last year following some expensive (and painful) root canal work she’d had a crown fitted on her second premolar. To her utter horror the fucking thing had decided to fall out. She was forced to cancel her engagement and I urged her to return home at once for some soothing wines, James was diverted to my place and before I knew it, a little impromptu party was underway. By 1am we were all thoroughly giggling pissed, Blonde on Blonde in the background, candles blazing with all the woes of the day left miles behind to sob on the side of the kerb.

Subsequently Sunday morning was written off, most of the afternoon was spent in bed watching Jamie at Home until Myfwt and I decided we should go into town for a spot of book shopping. We came back and I made roast pork with all the expected trimmings, Top Gear, Ewan and Charlie then bed followed. Then Cunt started making a fucking noise at midnight which was suppressed by me kicking the floor. The fucking snivelling little oh why wasn’t he aborted woke me up at 3.30 forcing me to boot the floor again and make an appointment to give him a bollocking when I get back this evening.

James knows all about Cunt so when I told him I was going to go to the Council to make an official complaint he flagged up a warning. Theoretically Cunt is devaluing my property by being a ‘noisy neighbour’, having this officially noted could be bad news when it comes to selling… I wish him testicular cancer.

Play close attention to following.

fishy business

J Sheekey is the oldest fish restaurant in London; it’s been around for 110 years and has quite a reputation among the great and the good of this fair city of ours. Francis Bacon spent a lot of time hanging out there, on most days from lunchtime to the evening, before he popped over to The French or Muriels, he’d while away hours sampling dishes and drinking the best of the excellent cellar. In more recent years it plays host to the stars of stage (it’s right in the middle of the theatre district) and screen, keeping it’s tradition of feeding the art establishment, Damien Hirst is a regular, and it’s reputation of being a damn fine eatery over and above all the tish and fippery. At least once a week Gordon Ramsey and his wife will pop by late for fish and chippery.

So, when I got a call last week from the proprietor, inviting me out for a late lunch to discuss some business, I was duly chuffed, and, for want of better phrase, partially honoured. Yesterday afternoon I found myself outside the restaurant at the appointed time crushing a cigarette into the street before making my way through the door.

The interior is unostentatious, wood panelled walls are lined with black and white signed photographs of artists, musicians, performers etc., and neat little round tables are shrouded in white cotton cloths tidily captured by shaker style chairs. It smells woody and warm. And fishy.

I was introduced to the proprietor who I liked instantly, a stocky open-faced man with Italian locks and small moustache who made me feel at ease in an instant. I was informed that our table was ready and drinks were ordered from impeccable waiters who treated me with the courtesy reserved for those in positions of power.

It has to be said we did little business that afternoon; instead we spent 2 hours chatting, telling anecdotes and eating and drinking… My companion ordered a delicious bottle of Brolio and the venison (much to my amusement). I was intrigued to know what their version of a fish pie would taste like, being a bit of a dab hand at them myself. This was the way to work, I thought, as a waiter rushed over to charge my glass at the very instant I mentally concluded I was running low, sitting here enjoying the company, the food and wine, this what I call a meeting. I didn’t even want to leave, on the contrary, I was actually disappointed when at 5pm my companion was obliged to see to other matters.

I left the restaurant feeling sated, a bit tipsy but very pleased with myself. I already knew my evening was pretty much consigned to a bath and TV then bed, but I couldn’t help having a glass or two of Chianti just to see me on my way.

Strange weekend coming up, everything is unplanned, in the air. I’m secretly hoping for a quiet one, things are due to hot up as the fucking festive bloody season opens it’s arse crack so perhaps relaxing at home wouldn’t be a bad idea. But before all that the Friday list and some jolly music.

Oh, the conclusion on The Fisherman’s Pie? It was, of course, excellent. It used similar ingredients, certainly the same sort of fish, a mustard sauce with a similar taste and texture (perhaps a little creamier) and it was certainly better than mine, but, and I don’t stutter here, only just.

Nice weekends all. (Except you cunts looking for abhorrent imagery, I hope you puke out all your insides)

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full on nightmare

I had to yell at one of my colleagues for being a cunt at work yesterday, he’s a 50 year old man, married with two kids, yet at time behaves like some sort of 7 year old with learning difficulties. The rest of then time he’s quite a nice chap, on occasion he’s a jolly good company but yesterday, he was a fucking prick.

The only reason I’m mentioning this as last night he pervaded my dreams, I can’t recall the entire scenario but the ‘action’ took place in a newly built warehouse, it involved moderate time travel and a stalker, the cunt at work being the stalker. For some bizarre reason my dreams over the past few nights have been full on horror-show bastards. Happily consigned to my psyche, last nights visit to my brains has passed into the ether but the two the night before are still stark and disturbing and I’d like to indulge you.

The first was seen from the third person and featured an assassin about to do her last job. She had instructions to rendezvous in a secret location where she was informed she’d be given a meal and debriefed prior to executing the hit. The location was on wasteland, a row of 8 disused portaloos, in which the fourth one from the left was distinguished by a grubby white boiler suit. I watched her walk in and push the right hand wall, which opened, and in she went. The dream then cut, almost with some sort of editing tool, where I was aware that I was a cop, on the same wasteground facing the row of disused portaloos. After discovering there was no secret door in the 4th one I walked over to a large metal bin to the right of the loos. On the top of a pile of female cadavers in varying states of putrification was the ‘assassin’ who’d been partially dismembered and sexually assaulted.

After I stop freaking out following my sudden waking I managed to get back to sleep, and then this happened.

My parents had gone out (for some reason I was living at home again) and mum had suggested that I might like to enjoy the rather large egg on the side in the kitchen, she told me it would take 10 minutes to soft boil due to its unusual vastness, which I didn’t question. When cooked I peeled the egg which by now was larger than a rugby ball. The shell fell away easily to reveal the egg white and a huge yellow-ish yolk. It wasn’t right this yolk. It had a dark brown centre to it, which seemed to contain some sort of organic inner workings; gingerly I prodded at it with a butter knife. The yolk shuddered for a few seconds until, to my utter horror, a large chicken-like limb slowly unfurled from one side of the yolk and began to descend toward the floor, a second smaller limb began to arrive at the opposite end of the yolk and in between a mournful face with huge bird-like eyes began to protrude, it started to reach towards my own screaming head just as the larger of the two limbs made contact with the kitchen floor. I ran out of the kitchen and slammed the door. What the fuck do I do? Should I call someone, the RSPCA, who?

I went back into the kitchen against my better nature and the creature had disappeared, I breathed a sigh of relief ironically assuming I must have dreamt it. This was until I heard a faint noise above me. I looked up and hanging by its long limb was the creature, its face two feet from mine staring into my very soul. I was just about to scream again when it released itself and in dead slow motion began to fall towards me, the face getting ever closer, and closer, and closer….

I woke with a start, shaking like shit and covered in sweat. Such was the vividness of this little head fuck that I couldn’t clear my mind of the awfulness of its form, it nearly made me physically sick actually and it took me over 2 hours to get back to sleep, about an hour before I was due to get up.

I suppose this may explain why I feeling fraught yesterday, maybe why I yelled at my colleague and thus perpetuated more horrors.

Another busy day at the office beckons…


Cycling into work when it’s cold and windy is fucking shit. You begin the journey in denial, then reluctance until soulless misery rejoices in the icy teeth of a furious wind and a base temperature that would’ve kept Captain Oates in the tent, this gradually shifts unto an uncomfortable acceptance of what one is doing, which slowly fades into full on agonising pain in the face of sheer adversity as your entire body burns like napalm in the sun… Shutting down you arrive at your destination gibbering about traffic, sweating like Meatloaf and close to tears. The ten minutes that follow the cycle result in the body flushing from hot to cold in milliseconds as the mind fluctuates from screaming euphoria to Darfur depression. It’s hideous and wrong; this morning I actually hit ‘the wall’ walking down the fucking stairs. I never want to do it again. Shit, I have to get home. Shits.

Actually, cycling back, whilst a little easier -a flat full of wine, food, skunk and pornography is more of a carrot on a stick than a bloody office full of vacuous questions- is certainly more dangerous, especially now it’s dark. Homewards I’m required to spend more time on the roads with a hoard of motorists as keen to get back to their dwellings as I, no doubt for similar reasons. This makes people more edgy, they are prepared to take risks at your expense, a veritable peeled testicle on two flimsy wheels amid the pounding metal hammers of fuming cars and rumbling lorries, and of course, they’re not as alert as they were. In addition bleary eyes workers on foot wander in and out of the road like chickens, not having the roar of a triple cylinder 955cc injected engine, I zip through the night virtually unseen and silent to all and sundry. Christ, I’m only cycling because I don’t want to wind up with the physique of the late, awful, Bernard Manning yet there is a bloody good chance I could get killed, or maimed, or get home safely feeling chuffed with myself for not taking the easy, beautiful option of getting on her, yes, her, the black bitch.

When I did get home the evening went as follows, Radio 4 (Down the Line, 6.30 Tuesdays, one of the funniest shows, ever) whilst I cooked a spaghetti sauce (white onion, scallion, bacon, tinned tomatoes, tomato puree, tomato ketchup, beef stock, wine, chilli, lime juice, sugar, basil, parsley, salt and black pepper and of course, minced beef which was all cooked for 2 hours) in the meantime I bathed (I was naked, my soft skin complimenting the firmness of my toned taut body) and shaved around my new beard, which is marvellous, ‘magnificent’ as passers by say. When Myfwt arrived we drank wine and chatted, the spaghetti was cooked and added to the sauce, topped with some cheese and consumed gently, it was sublime. Look there is the recipe (make sure you fry the onion, bacon and scallion and add to the rest of the mixture in one large pot, prior to browning off the beef in the same frying pan, draining it off excess fat and combining it with all the other ingredients).

Balls, I have a meeting.

sisters of squeak

I woke up yesterday morning; it was cold and grey outside. Myfwt got up and got ready for work, she breezed in at 8.20 to say goodbye, and then she was gone. I lay in bed for a few minutes. ‘No’, I thought, ‘I’m not getting up’. So I didn’t. I texted a mate at work to inform the office and went back to sleep. Lovely.

Arriving at work in the afternoon is so much easier. I got just as much done as I would’ve if I’d been in the office all day and because I was at max just over 3 hours from leaving, and falling by the second, I was in a much better frame of mind. It’s the future surely?

Last night I hooked up with Frank for a couple of beers in the local. We de-briefed the skinhead situation and discussed right wing fanatics, sensibly concluding that extreme intolerant views see no race or class, ironically. By 8pm I was home in my kitchen, I removed the ingredients for dinner from the fridge and ran a bath.

There was something I heard on Radio 4 last week about how pre and post war households would make meals from leftovers, this was on the back of a report that we throw away billions of tonnes of perfectly edible food daily because of the fucking sell by/use by date, which is always ridiculously pessimistic in order to cover the food industry asses should someone get ill eating a rancid product. With this in mind I discovered that bubble and squeak was pretty much standard Monday supper fare, as much part of the English tradition of fish on Friday and Sunday roast, from where the basic ingredients of the dish evolve; mashed roast potatoes and green vegetables, usually cabbage.

I became a little obsessed with eating it; I’d had it years ago as a kid (at granny’s which may tell you something) and thought it was great, even if it did have green bits in it. I checked some recipes online, dead simple, mash stuff up, season, fry. So, on Sunday I ‘accidentally’ made too many roast potatoes and ‘oh for heavens sake I don’t need these many vegetables (specifically, leeks, shredded Savoy cabbage and peas) tsk’ etc.,

After the bath, the steam still glistening on my smooth skin, I smashed all the ingredients up, added lots of salt and pepper and made the mixture into 2 patties with my bare, naked hands, and shallow fried them in butter whilst I yanked on some slob slacks and a sawn off t-shirt. When they were ‘golden brown’ (a contemptuous phrase but in this case wholly appropriate) I let them cool whilst I shoved on the grill and grated some strong cheddar. I covered the bubble and squeak in Wiltshire off the bone ham, then the cheese, and grilled it until the fucking cheese was all bubbling and shit. The whole cunting lot was eaten with a fork in front of Dragons Den in a state of near ecstasy. It was so nice I nearly did a wet out of my end.

nazi aggro

Many years ago in my local pub in Clapham, a large, young, Irish headbanger called Mick approached me and I was informed that he was starting a band, and could I play. Following a gig when I was 17 in which I was almost booed off -I sort of play the bass- I decided that I’d spurn his offer, but mentioned my mate Jamie who is a veritable guitar hero. The two were put in touch and went on to become one of the most popular metal acts in the UK.

Well, not really, Jamie and Mick played together for while, the latter under the guidance of the former who eventually went off to form his own band.

This is why I found myself in fucking Croydon of all places on Friday night with Jamie watching Mick’s band, Infiniteuem, or something. I have to say after a shaky start they weren’t half band, one of their screaming ditties actually being quite good, but that was about as good it was going to get in the pub.

Jamie and I had already had a couple of pints in the Tooting local before opting for a cab ride to the chod bin of sarf Landan. In addition to the few pints I had when we were in the venue I was still extremely unnerved by the arrival of 5 very unpleasant looking skinheads, especially when the peanut-brained ‘leader’ gave his crew a full on Nazi salute on his arrival. This Broadmoor of bollock heads were fucking bad news ladies and gentlemen. I was therefore delighted when after the band had played to discover that they’d N effed off back to their cave.

I began chatting to an ex-member of the band and his wife. I couldn’t help but voice my disapproval of some young cunt goose-stepping around a pub, yelling across the bar and making possibly the most offensive gesture in the history of the world. Turned out the ex-members wife knew them, she’d lived in Croydon all her life and apparently, they were okay.

I went to the bar and returned, to my horror one of the SS had come back into the pub and was chatting to the ex-members wife, he was the biggest of the crew by far, a huge chrome-domed moron with a head like Stewie from Family Guy, or if you prefer, a rugby ball on its side. As the Fuhrer wasn’t around I slipped into ‘mildly-concerned’ mode, rather hoping she wouldn’t inform him of my earlier comments, and carried on chatting to the ex-member (a nice chap) and as his wife seemed okay too, so by default this shaven ape of a man must be, despite everything, at least ‘alright’.

Jamie and I decided to nip off for a smoke; we were just about to set off when Jamie said, ‘where’s your pint gone?’
I looked about, one minute it was in front of me, the next it’s vanished, gone.
‘No idea,’ I said catching Jamie’s eye. Jamie stared at me and gestured with his eyes to Attenborough’s mate who was quite casually drinking my beer. He was also staring at me, intently.

I couldn’t just ignore this; pretend it was perfectly acceptable to have another man taking your drink at your expense and indeed, humiliation. Having said that, I didn’t fancy having his fists and boots pummelling my bones into flour…
‘You’re drinking my pint…’ I heard myself say.
Two bulbous eyes gripped my vision.
‘Nah, this is mine…’ the beginnings of a kicking appeared over the hill.
‘It’s not yours, it’s mine…’ I said, shocked at hearing my voice again, his mouth turned down, ‘oh shit’ I thought, and I so wanted children too.

Out of nowhere a short girl grabbed the pint from his meaty fist and offered it back to me smiling sheepishly. I politely told her I didn’t want it and briefly deliberated the option of loudly announcing I was HIV positive and riddled with syphilis and leprosy. I looked back at the skinhead who was frantically texting someone, it wasn’t rocket science who so I calmly suggested to Jamie we go and have the cigarette, we walked out the bar and straight into a black cab, in 15 minutes we were back in the local. It was rather like being in heaven, metaphorically as opposed to actually, with my face all smashed up.

On Saturday morning we both awoke with mild hangovers and had some breakfast with Saturday kitchen providing excuses to be silly. Jamie left at 11 to be replaced by a Myfwt at 12. We had a date with the family in the dark Surrey countryside to celebrate my bro’s birthday. We set off in the car and within 15 we were totally and utterly grid locked due to some incident on the A3, we attempted to turn round but this made the situation even worse. After an hour, which we’d completely wasted, we managed to get back home via some creative navigation and dump the car, get the bus, then the train to arrive at hour destination about 2 and half hours late.

It was a jolly afternoon, lots of giggling and idiocy, my parents are like two big kids, we ate and drank, played with my niece who wasn’t sure if she was in a good mood or not and nattered away until the evening. My bro his missus, Myfwt and I took the train back to London, Myfwt and I went to the pub to sit by the enormous bonfire and watch the fireworks until midnight or so when we returned home full of good cheer.

On Sunday morning Scrapheap Challenge was undertaken in bed as the hangovers drifted off into the ether, Myfwt went out for the afternoon and I wrote, casually watching Jamie at Home on TV. Inspired I went shopping and got some stuff for dinner and made pork chops with roast potato which was served with cabbage, peas and leeks, a wonderful combination but the icing on this culinary cake was the gravy I made with a roasted onion, chicken stocks and seasoning. Bye bye Bisto.

We spent the evening reading in front of Top Gear and The Long Way Down which seems to have lost it’s way, ironically. Check for a review on Watch With Mothers due shortly; go on, the links on the right ——————>

This is for the skinheads. (The original version isn’t available; this will have to do, which it does rather well. Bless)


The ‘is life futile?’ debate will continue to rage on until the end of time, but no one will argue that life is random. Suicide bombers, pile-ups, fertility, gardening accidents, bingo, sudden death, disease… we can’t even predict the weather, who could have predicted my friend Gavin would’ve died of a brain tumour 10 years back, or that Giles, who died on wednesday, would’ve got Motor Neurone disease.

I didn’t know Giles very well, but a few readers of Piqued were very close to him, best friends, they lived with him as students and remained close to him until fairly recently when he refused to take visitors.

Giles was tall and very handsome, beautiful, actually (from my point of view he was the bloke you kept your girlfriend away from). The last time I saw him, maybe 4 years ago, he was already showing the first signs of Motor Neurone disease, indeed, that was the last time I saw him. I witnessed his demise from the testimony of his friends. What followed is almost too horrible to contemplate. Of all the illnesses for a person to contract, it seems ironic, almost a cruel joke, that he had the one that attacks the physical body, stripping it of its movement by twisting itself into the very fibres of form and draining it of it’s electricity to leave a weightless emaciated shell.

Giles didn’t want anyone to see him like that. For that reason I hope we/they won’t remember him like too. We can take comfort that he wouldn’t have suffered in his final hours, modern drugs, they’re so pedantic, that he would’ve resigned himself to his fate a long time before he stopped seeing his friends, that he was at peace with himself before the Morphine made him forget about all the worry of pain, of life and of death.

In the pub with Frank last night, one of his closest friends who’d had a pretty rotten day by anyone’s standards, I asked what Giles had been doing before he became ill. ‘He was a TV Graphic designer, ‘ said Frank staring into his third pint, ‘you know that fish thing that the BBC use for their ‘Bitesize’ programmes for schools? That’s him, that’s Giles’.

The weekend is shaping up nicely, seeing an old friend in town this evening and tomorrow the family are colliding at lunchtime in deepest darkest Surrey to celebrate my brother’s birthday with a view to maintaining the inertia until the evening. Sunday I may have to go fucking shopping, it’s possible that last weeks double trip was enough to avoid this Sunday shafting episode, we’ll see.

Piqued may well be late on Monday but it’ll be up. I say that with such conviction after writing today’s post, with good luck and fortune, it’ll be up.

The Friday list… Christ help us, I’m sure it’s getting worse. Following it is a wee ditty and after that is my wish that you all have jolly good weekends. All of you.

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