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?