Monthly Archives: November 2007

nosebleed

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

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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.


cuntzoff

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.