Monthly Archives: December 2007

bye 2007

The Tuesday shits at work got much worse as the day progressed. By 2.30pm my bladder had given up the ghost choosing instead to pass it’s workload onto my arsehole that gaily pissed budget Cola from it every half hour. I was beginning to feel slightly feverish, weakened by my condition I discharged myself from work and rode home with my bones shaking in my person like tinned Twiglets.

After cancelling the evening’s appointments I lay down to rest in my bed feeling decidedly nauseous allowing the waves of cold sweat to ripple icy fingers over my skin in between the dark warm waves of sickness. An hour later my mouth yawned over the edge of the bath as I jettisoned 3 terrific blasts of gut broth into the North sea. I felt instantly cured for about 15 seconds until my stomach re-established its foul congregation of vapours. Five minutes later I was back in bed pondering he consequences of my newfound fever.

The biggest threat posed by my condition was to Myfwt who was due to have surgery on Friday. If she contracted this bastard, her appointment, which had taken years to arrange, would be cancelled before she’d even set foot on the ward. Having said that I wasn’t sure if this malaise was due to a bug that I know had been going around, though not in my office, or food poisoning. I’d been feeling queasy since the previous evenings meal, which I apportioned to the asparagus due to my forgetting to wash it.

Aside from the Myfwt equation there was also the matter of my being able to see Hawkwind the following evening. ‘Fuck’ I thought. Then I said it out loud. Then I went to sleep.

The next day I was feeling a little better but the arse gravy was still featuring. I decided an egg with toast would be a good binding agent and I tentatively consumed my first meal in 36 hours. Happily it stayed down and I subsequently felt better. I’d arranged a shopping trip with Myfwt in the afternoon and was deliberating whether or not to risk contact with her should my ‘asparagus food poisoning’ theory, which I’d reasoned was the cause of my woes, be incorrect. I discussed the matter with her and we decided to risk it. The trip took its toll to some degree, I was feeling weary and delicate but this was the only way, psychologically, I was going to be able to make it to the evenings gig. I figured that if I can do the Christmas shopping I can do Hawkwind.

At 6pm Jamie arrived and we headed off to the local to meet James. I’d not had a drink since Sunday and the thought of a pint, worryingly, wasn’t doing it for me. I managed a foul tasting Fosters, really nasty, like drinking paracetamol, and seriously questioned if I was going to be able to see the evening through. Instead of setting off we had another ‘tester’ pint after which I was pretty much on the side of giving the gig a shot. By the time we arrived at Tottenham Court Road I was feeling a bit better and after a couple more at The Royal George I was better still. Astonishingly Jamie and I bumped into an old mate from way back, he’d not changed in the least and evening begun to get hilariously rambunctious. The Astoria was packed solid; a bit too packed to the point we contemplated some counterfeit tickets in circulation, but nonetheless, Hawkwind did a splendid set (which included the quirky Calvert-penned Flying Doctor) and finishing with Silver Machine. Despite this being their seminal number and their best known tune, in the 20 years I’ve being seeing them (this was about my 17th time) I’d never seen them play in. When it began I nearly burst into tears and James had to, well, look after me. I felt like a right berk.

Following the gig we bumped into yet another mate and headed off to the nearest available hostelry with a rather peculiar crew that comprised of mates, friends of friends and few hangers on. Bonded by our penchant for liking a band with an outsider, non conformist oeuvre we merrily bought drinks and chatted, but with an eye on the time in order to secure the last tube home. By the time we arrived back, following a farewell to James at Balham, Jamie and I grabbed a kebab (which I couldn’t eat, my stomach still wasn’t 100%) and arrived home to a sleepy Myfwt.

Next morning after Jamie left Myfwt and I went to finish off our Christmas shopping. On the way to the Kings Road I had to pick up a pair of motorcycle goggles for my dad, the old-fashioned Second World War fellows desired by fighter pilots, specifically, Halcyon Mark 4 Silver Cross. Having failed to find a pair outside of the internet (they never would’ve arrived in time) I was forced to purchase them from a Chelsea Scooters. For a hairy arsed seasoned biker such as I this was tantamount to entering a gay bar and asking to be fellated. Having no choice in the matter I entered the establishment and found myself looking up at a giant skinheaded mod. Oh the difference between the gentlemen motorcycle retailers I’m used to dealing with and these fellows. Whilst perfectly cheery to me the loud and aggressive manner – peppered with very blue language- that was used to communicate with colleagues was startling, frankly. The Skin was unable to locate the item despite his bug-eyed mate insisting they were ‘on the top fucking shelf over the fucking counter’, this made the Skin cross until eventually his mate had to down tools being used to reconnect some elastic to a leaf blower and find the item himself amid much ‘you blind cunt’ and suchlike. When the item was finally presented to me I was told that they’d been hanging around for the past 5 years, subsequently I purchased them at the arcane price of £36 Queen heads when they’re £42 brought direct from Halcyon. I asked the Skin if they were the silver ones with black leather, ‘dunno mate’ he said cheerily ‘lets find out’ and he helpfully ripped the box in half to satisfy my curiosity. I wasn’t going to bother complaining.

Following our final Christmas shopping trip, which was quite a success, we came home and settled down for the night. We had to get up early, at 6am to be precise, as Myfwt had a hospital appointment and I was the designated carer.

Living quite near to St.Georges in Tooting we were able to walk there. It was pitch black and cold outside and neither of us were in any mood for the journey that would end in surgery for one and a wait for the other. By 7am we were in the waiting room with about 20 others, all waiting for the stations to the theatre. At 9am Myfwt was gowned up, I walked her down to theatre with a very ginger male nurse and I said goodbye, assuring her I’d be there when she came round. Needless to say she was nervous, I’ve had two General aesthetics in my life but she was a virgin. My attempts at reassurance hadn’t helped either. Having been an auxiliary nurse (in fact, I had worked at the very hospital we were in) my bedside manner is somewhat pragmatic; I don’t think I was being very helpful in hindsight.

For me there began an 8-hour wait. I’d been told to call the relevant department at 10.30 to enquire about her allocation of a bed, then told to call back at 11.30, and so on. After a few hours my mind began to install itself into the wait. I deliberately spent time drifting between teas, cigarettes, sandwiches and various waiting rooms, all fired up to the temperature of fucking Hades, as is the want of such institutions. My book, which I’d been half way through, was soon finished to heightened emotion -Giles Milton, Samurai William, a triumph- and I was forced to purchase a paperback from the woefully inadequate but time-killing hospital shop. Fortunately, amidst all the fucking crap that passes for fiction these days, I found something rather good, a delicious crime novel into which I became immediately engrossed.

After what seemed like 2 days I eventually arrived on the ward at 5pm where Myfwt was due half an hour later, following a conversation with a chap who’d just had his toe amputated, a confused soporific patient with a bandaged limb was parked to rest. The procedure, we were informed by a rather dashing surgeon, had been an unmitigated success. Splendid news. Her sister arrived shortly after and I left them to it. On top of everything, tonight was the office Christmas party and was expected to be there for 7pm.

I didn’t bother going home; I jumped on a bus and in 30 minutes was in the loathsome Wimbledon ascending a staircase to my co-workers, who, it must be said, greeted me with a certain degree of enthusiasm. Most were already half cut, being the model of sobriety I allowed myself to fully indulge in all that was offered in the form of booze and to a lesser extent, food, though my appetite for the latter was virtually non existent. It was a nice evening, everyone in good cheer though toward the end some casualties were dropping off the end. One colleague, the unstable actor I occasionally have cause to chide like an infant, interrupted a colleague and I having a deep and meaningful. Of course I told him to fuck off out of it and he came at me shouting and screaming a few minutes later making an utter twat of himself. I had him removed. He later re-appeared to apologise, the berk.

I brushed of the hangover the next day. I called the hospital and discovered much to my delight Myfwt was ready to be discharged. I drove over and after a paperwork interlude took her back home. When we got back the noise downstairs was a fucking disgrace, despite having informed Cunt that she needed to rest the arsehole had decided to throw a fucking party for his grubby mates. At 11am I went down to tell him to shut the fuck up. He answered the door wearing sunglasses (what a fucking cunt) and clutching a can of strong lager. He apologised with as much sincerity as a Rumsfeld before inexplicably informing me he was Catholic and then, ironically, asking me to give Myfwt his blessing like he was the fucking Pope.

Myfwt was still very dazed by the drugs and spent most of the Saturday asleep in bed while I read, wrote and watched TV next door. The time passed in a not entirely dissimilar way to the previous one, I felt largely removed from reality but was snapped very much into focus when later in the afternoon the noise began again. There were by now a few of them downstairs and I assumed all were pissed stupid, we had no choice but to suffer his utter selfishness, going downstairs again on balance may have been unsafe, besides as Myfwt was largely out of it she didn’t seem overtly fussed by his cuntiness. The noise continued on and off all fucking night but despite it we were both so exhausted/stoned that we slept soundly. On the plus side he must have awoken knowing he’s been an utter wanker as I’ve not heard a peep downstairs since. I’m praying for violent death, of course.

On Sunday I took Myfwt to her sisters in dense fog, it was rather fun but no so much when on returning I got fucking lost. Earlier I’d been forced to Sainsbury to do some last minute food and booze shopping. I wasn’t expecting the place to be so crowded. It was fucking unbelievable actually, it was almost impossible to actually get to anything with a fight and I queued for over three quarters of an hour before I was served. That and the journey back in the fog had soured my mood but I was cheered by a trip to Clapham to meet my bro, Frank and his missus and Harry for a few Christmas drinks. I got back home in time to take delivery of an exhausted Myfwt who’d been dropped off by her sister. We had a lovely quiet evening, exchanged gifts and watched Christmassy shite on the box before retiring. I admit to staying up a little bit later and having a few whiskies, its Christmas, I thought. Why not…

So, here we are, Christmas eve. I’ve just dropped Myfwt off at her sisters (again), as they are all off up t’northern somewhere to meet the rest of family. Shortly I’m off to meet Frank for one last snifter before it all kicks off. Tomorrow I pick up My bro and his missus and we all head off to deepest darkest Surrey for the usual family shenanigans. I have to say I’m rather looking forward to it.

This really is the last Piqued this year, I’ll be back in just over a week so don’t fuck off now. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all of you where ever you may be. (Obviously, I reserve this goodwill for cunts, however.)

Toodle pip.


kris mass

So this is Christmas. This is my last day in the office for 2007, but not the last day of Piqued for the year you’ll be delighted to know, but things will wind down now. No more daily posts until the 7th January 2008 (a week before Piqued’s first birthday) and no more daily music to sustain you. Sorry.

Briefly looking back over the year, it’s been eventful in family terms, a new niece, my parents 40th wedding anniversary, my granddad’s 100th birthday, I’ve had some killer days, mainly involving motorcycles and Myfwt, some marvellous nights out with friends but in other ways it’s been a fucking awful year, no holiday, no more luck with the writing and I still live over a fucking steaming great cunt who even last night was doing his level best to involve me in his miserable pathetic life by playing his guitar at unreasonable volumes. Obviously if I’d come home from work one evening, stepping over a half burnt corpse with all shit coming out of its eyes, 2007 would’ve been the best year ever.

But there has been one consistent element to 2007, something that began through a desire to be able to overtly release a steam of consciousness, pour out my guts in public if you will, and in doing so sate the need to write, whether it be good or bad isn’t the issue here. Piqued fulfils certain necessities and I’m appreciative of my core and every growing readership, whomsoever you may be, for, well, reading it. Most of the stuff you read on this site is real, hyperbole permitting of course, but I’m keen to preserve my wider anonymity (and that of my friends) so I may write without impunity…having said that, if you look at early articles they’re quite different to their current incarnation, this is purely because all of my friends read this these days …but I still don’t know most of you personally and I’m keen to keep it that way, with all due respect of course.

So what’s next? In the short term Hawkwind tomorrow evening, Myfwt has to go to hospital for some minor surgery on Friday which will require me to look after her up until Christmas (something I’m delighted to do by the way, the only thing I’m concerned about is Cunt disturbing her convalescence, should that occur I’ll go public on the fucking news) then of course it’s Christmas with all if it’s boozy trimmings.

Speaking of booze, I didn’t touch a drop last night. I think Piqued has helped me realise that whilst not alcoholic I have propensity for drinking too much, it’s one of those things that can creep up on a chap. By publicly setting goals in the cold light of day (i.e., I’m not going to drink once a week and I’m cutting back when I do) helps me to fulfil my objectives, after all, insincerity is such a despicable trait in a person. What is fucking annoying is that today, despite being a good boy last night, I’ve a dose of the shits, you just can’t fucking win can you.


sub hum enz

Last night I met Colin in Camden. I’d not seen him since Myfwt and I went up to Leeds for his 40th and by sheer luck he was able to make it to a popular music concert that I was facing the prospect of seeing on my own due to the lack of interest from mates.

The weekend had begun rather well following a dismal Friday afternoon in the office having failed at lunch to secure the last of the Christmas fucking shopping. At 6.30 I met up with Harry and Frank in the local for a couple of pints and left those two to touch cockends at about 8 in order to see Myfwt back at the flat. She was exhausted following another ridiculously successful day, which had subsequently unleashed the green-eyed monster from the dribbling bitch in her workplace, so I patted her down and made her some steamed haddock with a few glasses of Rioja in front of the TV.

The following morning after a spell of Saturday kitchen in bed where some miniscule overseas twit said ‘fucking’ whilst showing off to camera and then tried to appear really interested in what was happening because he knew he’s fucked up substantially, after that we went out. Myfwt had a lot of Christmas shopping to do and I was happy to tag along, yes, you read that correctly. I don’t mind Christmas shopping with her, despite being totally disorganised she has this way of connecting me to that childish anticipation of Christmas, I’m not entirely sure why either. It was a splendid afternoon but sadly curtailed by Myfwt having to visit a friend in the early evening. I found solace in the pub with Frank and his missus and returned home to suffer Hostel 2 which is fucking dreadful, the effects are appalling and it goes for the lowest common denominator in terms of cheap shocks -executing children for crying out loud. Bollocks.

Foolishly, following that, I put my headphones on and kissed mother earth goodnight. I woke Sunday feeling a bit squiffy but remarkably well. Ted popped over for a cup of tea and a few spliffs at lunch and we caught up, he seems to have become a sort of country gentleman, the bucolic life suits him well and I found myself yearning for sprawling trees, fields dotted with cows and fat angry racists, perhaps I’ll exchange the latter for the crawk of crows. Ted, bless him, brought me a Christmas present which couldn’t have more astute if it had screamed bollocks and spat in my face.

The reason Colin and I were I Camden was to seeing the Subhumans and the gift from Ted was the gift of music, in the form a 3 rare EP’s from the aforementioned band which he and I listen to as we sipped tea and discussed butter. By the time I arrived in Camden Colin was already at the World’s End trying to score a pint, the pub, a huge boozer not really known for its subtlety was already furnished with some proper old fashioned punk fellows, mowhawks, spikes, DM’s, studded leather, bondage trousers… I wasn’t exactly looking tidy but by these chaps I could’ve been wearing a fucking whistle. We finished our pint and went next door to get tickets from the box office; the collection of punks outside the venue was reminiscent of 1977 on the Kings Road, lots of posturing and swearing but nothing threatening, even a Scottish chap with ‘Celtic fuck off’ (among other things) tattooed on his head who was a little bit cross about everything melted when security asked him to be patient and wait his turn in the queue.

Colin and I got our tickets and went back into the pub to carry on drinking. As luck would have it, Dick, the lead singer of the band passed our table and of course, being the congenial fellow I am I made my acquaintance and lent him my chair so he could have his tea. Colin, Dick and I chatted for about 20 minutes, we discovered that this was the last gig of the tour, that people in Newcastle were very lively when they played, that people in Bristol were not, that he listens to dub reggae and classical music when not being a punk and that he was rather surprised by their recent popularity. We also discovered the band were on at 10 giving Colin and I even more time to drink Guiness. After a skinfull we arrived at The Underworld just in time to catch them play, they were magnificent, they played 2 of the songs from my new EP’s and one of my favourite tunes of all time. The crowd at the front were having a riot but it was all good natured stuff whilst Colin and I observed from the balcony occasionally punching the air, like.

After we enjoyed a drunken stand off with a shawarma, one of the best I’ve ever had, I missed the last tube home. Colin was able to make his as he was going North so after a fond farewell we went our separate ways. I was transported back to my flat by a large racist fellow from Sierra Leone, we had a blazing row for virtually all the journey which was rather fun actually.

Today I have a hangover, but I am soothed by the fact that this the second to last day in the office for 2007. Terrific.


fink ployd: the final cunt

When I got in last night, a tad tipsy as a result of wine involvement at the beeb, Myfwt was already in, on the phone of course to a sister (giggling) but ready to serve me with Rioja and pizza, specifically a meat feast as she’d an inkling ‘I’d be pissed’. Fucking ace. This morning not all was ace, in addition to a hangover, my morning movement wasn’t the usual Trafalgar Square Lapper, oh no, it was more of a case of farting out a Gormley, my delicate freckle subsequently feels as if Janet Street Porter has been eating habanero chillies orf it.

I read something yesterday evening from the revolting tabloid that is the Metro that caused me to say ‘cunt’ on the tube in front of strangers and hurl the fucking rag down the carriage, allow me to hand this one over to you. Some 17-year-old ginger halfwit was given a piano by a relative. So far so good, but it turns out that said piano was rescued from a recording studio previously used by Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and Queen … Indeed Freddie Mercury himself had paid to have it repaired after he damaged it ‘playing too roughly’. But the recipient of this legendary instrument is far from happy, Emily Davies, 17, from the forest of fucking Dean says the bands ‘hammered it so its not a very good piano’, and it’s covered in fag burns. Her piano, the headline claims, isn’t a ‘Steinway to Heaven’ and she’d like to ‘have a word with Led Zeppelin for wrecking it’. I’m not going to make any more comment on this but if you’re not apoplectic with seething rage after reading that there is something wrong with you. I hope Emily’s fanny eats her alive.

Right, busy day and a busy weekend to boot. Due to all of this I’ve decided to publish an article on Piqued that I wrote about getting a kidney stone, you’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll want Morphine. Following that the usual despicable Friday list, the last one of 2007, and to cap the lot orf, some very early Pink Floyd as promised in yesterdays ramblings. It’s probably my best ever youtube find, it’s astonishing, quite lovely.

Do have nice weekends won’t you.

Renal Chronic

It was about 9 in the pub when I noticed that the stitch-like pain in my side wasn’t pulsing like indigestion or a pulled muscle. It was just there. It didn’t alter no matter how I shifted in my chair or rubbed the area directly below my rib cage on the left hand side of my stomach. When I climbed into bed it was still present but the 4 pints of beer and a large spliff ensured that I got a good nights sleep.

The following morning at work the pain had somewhat increased, still in the same place it had now become a major distraction and I figured that it was time to make an appointment to visit a doctor. By lunchtime whilst walking to the bank I was in a state of denial, now it was starting to really hurt but the knowledge of my decision to have it checked out somehow, remarkably, comforted my usual state of paranoia.

Then it got really bad. My colleague noticed that I had turned a whiter shade of green and it was at this very point that I asked her to drive me to the hospital, as soon as this decision left my lips all hell broke loose and I was in a excruciating agony. In her car I writhed and bit my hand to transfer the awful feeling to another area but it was no use, I was in the grip of a peculiar fever and was dimly aware of a loss of mental faculties, to such an extent that when I went into casualty I had pulled down my trousers and was stood in my pants trying to tell a receptionist what was wrong. I think I was gibbering, I decided to lie down on the hospital floor, and then decided to stand up again.

After what seemed like a day I was put on a trolley a wheeled into a large room with other trolley’s, nurses and curtains. During the wait for assistance my trolley became a sort of climbing frame, I wrapped myself round the steel bars and clearly remember climbing under it. A nurse asked me what I was doing, something in my eyes sparked some attention and I was handed some pills. They came immediately back out of me along with my unspecified lunch. Catherine, who had taken me in her car was holding a cardboard kidney tray full of my stinking vomit, this was beyond the call of her work detail. I think I said thank you.

Mercifully, after losing my lunch I was wheeled off by the most beautiful nurse who took me to a cubicle, muttered something sweet and chucked 10mg of Morphine into my leg. My sticky veins instantly opened wide and within seconds all manner of pain had melted to nothing, ironically replaced by a wonderful delirium. Take the awesome delights of a cold sweat, add half a bottle of claret and the peak of a long bout of laughing, then remove any form of discomfort in any way association with the above. I could feel the hairs on my arms reaching out for pleasure and when they arrived in the form of Myfwt, when her long fingers ran slowly through my hair rippling fizzy bubbles of ecstasy through my feet, up my calves, in my stomach and over the back of my jaw, I was already gravity free and floating gently in space

Its quite comforting to know that in the last stages of life, if the patient is suffering discomfort, they rig them up to a machine known in medical slang as the death-pump. That equates to 40 mgs of morphine an hour. You people won’t fear the reaper, I promise, you’ll be asking him to back to your flat for a nightcap.

I lay on the trolley in a room with just Myfwt and me. I was there for hours and hours, I lay on my stomach the muscles in my body gently creaking as they relaxed from the earlier pain. Presently 2 doctors came into the room. They were both young and seemed to be in good spirits, I seem to remember them both as very handsome and it seemed somehow inappropriate that we were all in this room together, especially as someone had put me in a surgical gown so my arse was pointing at them.

It would seem, however that this was the intention. They introduced themselves, Dr. Crippen and Dr. Kildare (I dunno, I was caned) and suggested to me that what they were about to do may be uncomfortable.
‘Mr. Piqued, I am going to examine you by just putting my finger into your rectum and checking for any abnormalities’.
I think I said bring it on.
Either way following the snap of a latex glove a chubby finger slip into my freckle. I asked the doctor if we had been properly introduced. I think someone laughed, I am sure it was me but either way the feeling was nothing short of magnificent. I had to stifled a gurgle.
‘Mr. Piqued, as I suspected you have a kidney stone, it has now left your blah blah and is travelling, as we speak down your blah blah, blah…blah.. piss it out in 3 days in pieces after we have radiated you (or something like that).

Cool.

Still creamed off my noggin I decided it was time for a cigarette, temporarily forgetting that I was now wired to a drip and had to push a little trolley from which was suspended saline solution. Basically I went and the little trolley followed wherever I went, sort of like Mary and her little lamb but not as comforting.

I approached Myfwt who had cleared a path for my wheels, standing outside and crying softly at the sight of me. I must have looked pathetic, white and boggled eyed in utter confusion from the outside of me but inside, all was well thank you. I tried to explain this but I think it came out as swearing.

When we got back to the ward I was awarded my very own trolley which was eventually discreetly pushed into a corner where curtains were drawn around me and, to my utter delight, a sleeping Myfwt. I woke up thinking I had done something wrong until the creeping ache around my waste signified another attack of pain. Instead of a lesson in visiting hours the first nurse that saw me smiled and injected another 10mgs of Morphine into my leg, once again delighted with my situation we left our temporary dwellings and wondered off toward the canteen to get some coffee where I relieved myself of a good 35 seconds worth of foul smelling gases. They left making the sound of a slow handclap, which I found to be the funniest thing since that elephant shat on the Blue Peter studio floor.

Needless to say the rest of the events in the hospital are a bit of a muddle, I was put on a ward that coincidentally, I had worked on during my time as an auxiliary nurse whilst studying as an art student. I also remember that I was put into Mr. Dougherty’s old bed who had died of pneumonia about an hour before my shift had finished. At some point in the following afternoon since my initial arrival, Myfwt had to go, her sister was about to have her first child and throughout the whole process she was phoning her on the hour to check up on proceedings. In spite of the regular admissions of Morphine her leaving was nonetheless a severe blow and for the first time I began to get frightened of the impersonal aspect of my surroundings.

That first night on the ward was vaguely unpleasant; one of the patients was snoring at sonic boom level, which caused some of the other patients to randomly shout obscenities. My predicament was worsened by the lights being turned off at 10.30 at least 2 hours before my body clock was due to begin shut down and as a result I began to enter the first stages of a panic attack, even when my night-night dose of Morphine was administered the charm-less nurse stuck the needle in my leg with such force I carried a high intensity bruise for a full month.

The following day Myfwt came to see me, she had spent the night in my flat and her sisters baby was now officially overdue, my brother also dropped by but I have no recollection of his visit. I do, however, remember Myfwt rushing up to tell me that her sisters waters had broken and she rushed off to see the arrival of her niece, Isabella who arrived into the world with some temporary complications at 8lbs.

When in the full woolly grip of the Morphine I have smoky memories of reading motorcycle magazines, endlessly going to the toilet and peeing for what seemed like hours on end and being given injections. I remember every one because they were becoming painful albeit very welcome. I have no real recollection of the rest of that day or that night but I do remember that in the morning of day four I was sent down for tests. There was an issue about the amount of time of my arrival to the actual test but someone else championed this on my behalf, though it may well just have easily been me complaining. Who knows?

The intention was to dye my urinary tract and x-ray the area to identify the location of the rock in my system, this would then be zapped by ultra sound but this was not to be. I was informed that, after lying on my back for 2 hours with the taste of rust in my mouth, the stone had reached the end of its journey at it would come out on its own; I was in all intents and purposes free to leave. I was wheeled back to the ward where I was allowed to eat some ‘matter’, I collected my belongings and made for the nurses station. I informed the nurse that I was off and politely requested a final shot of Morphine for my journey. Without any sense of irony she actually told me to fuck off.

I wandered out into the street, abandoned, out of my brains, weak and extraordinarily confused. I needed a cab but didn’t have the cash or the capacity to figure out how to go about getting one so I found my way to the bus stop. It was only sheer luck that I knew where I was and which bus to take home.

When it finally arrived I was feeling, as I would imagine, like an old man. I felt venerable and confused, my bones clattered together with the smallest quark of movement and every time the dumb suspension of the bus failed to soak up a pothole my teeth shook in my skull. I was also aware of the Morphine beginning to leave my system, it made me anxious and paranoid that the pain was going to return, bearing in mind that that I was in the knowledge that an uncut diamond had been slicing its way through hair sized tubes and was now resting, waiting to exit at the bottom of my guts, I had good reason to assume that more may be lurking within.

Two days later it unceremoniously came out. I was taking a pee and my system sort of shuddered and came to a brief halt during mid flow, there was a gorgeous eye-rolling induced feeling throughout the entire length of my manhood and with an audible ‘ping’ a small perfectly white stone shot out of me, hit the porcelain and disappeared forever into the pan.

I felt purged, cured and concerned that I may see more in due course, I have forced myself to drink more water, the basic preventative solution to stones but have fallen down on the instruction to avoid cheeses and wine. Ever time I get a pain in my side I get a little concerned but when all is said and done it’s hardly a life threatening condition.

Lately I met a woman who in addition to having 2 children had also passed a stone. She told me the pain was just as bad as childbirth, well, I said, at least you get something out of childbirth, something to show for your agony, with kidney stone you get, well, a stone from your kidney.

And Morphine, she said. I nodded in agreement. I suppose after all it wasn’t all that bad.

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fink ployd

I spent yesterday afternoon shadowing some fellow from Dynorod, the boss had fucked off for the afternoon leaving me to make sure that he didn’t do anything common, like drinking tea from a mug with a spoon in it, or eating an uncut sandwich with both hands… it’s rather a wonderful English trait, the innate suspicion the middle classes have for the working classes, really, they’ll steal your silver as soon as knees up muvver brahn. Having said that it cuts both ways, being a bit of both and all that, Squire.

It’s absurdly cold today but again, quite stunning. I do like cold winter mornings when it’s fucking sunny and frosty and shit… You see, I moaned about autumn but maintained that when I was actually in winter I didn’t mind, I’ve just proved it right there. The light is Golden and I’ve not seen so much frost in a year, the whole world seems coated in icing sugar or cocaine depending on your predilections (or speed if you’re working class).

The only pisser about today, apart from the office aspect to it, is that I’m wearing a fucking suit, a black suit with a white shirt, and deliberately obtuse black tie. I look like Mr. Pink off to a funeral, sort of cool but not quite. The reason for this fancy dressery is a drinks do at the BBC this evening to wave some poor fellow off, it sticks a bloody great nail in my evening and I’m anticipating being arseholed by 8, I’m on the fence as to how I feel about that.

Last night was pleasant. Myfwt came over in time to talk on the phone to her sister all the way through Russell Brand on BBC4 doing a sort of documentary about Kerouac’s On the Road, from what I could glean, in between the sisterly guffawing and banter, was that it wasn’t bad at all. Actually, Myfwt isn’t a happy bunny at the mo, some woman at work has taken a dislike to her because she’s essentially walked into a company and turned it round single handedly. Her bosses are ecstatic, her colleagues impressed, save this one jealous co-worker. She’s such a nice person Myfwt, she doesn’t deserve people being horrid to her… I’ve half a mind to go round to her office and kick the horrid lady in the cunt.

After Russell there was a very satisfactory documentary on Pink Floyd. I’ve been a fan from the off, at the same time my auntie gave me Dark Side of the Moon when I was 10 I bought Relics (assuming it would be in the same vain as Dsotm) from Woolies for 99p with my pocket money. Dsotm is relatively easy listening for a youngster over the more experimental early stuff, but I grew to love it dearly and my little brain ‘got’ psychedelia. I’ve no doubt it created a foundation for my adolescence; through it I knew who I was very early on. Even now I still take drugs.

So, in celebration of Pink Floyd, today and tomorrow a tune from both ends of their chronology. I heard this song last night and forgot how fucking good it is, brought a lump to my throat. Self indulgent, even cheesy, fuck it. Listen.


zapped panini

It’s fucking freezing this morning, literally. Ice all over the shop. The ride in was fraught with horrific danger, black ice nestling in tarmac, on concrete, waiting to remove the traction of an unwitting tyre and slam some poor cunt teeth first into the ground. For the most part of my journey I rode in back brake only, sliding on the rear can have correctable consequences, but front brake on ice and you go in one direction whilst the machine goes in another, usually with hurty and expensive consequences.

Still, I’m not complaining, it’s another stunning day and one less to my leaving for Christmas, yes I have a shit load of work to do before then but my optimism informs me that this will only lubricate the passage of time towards my break. An unadulterated ‘goody’.

Yesterday at lunch, right here in this fucking office, I did something I’ve never done before. This may seem incredulous but I can assure all of you, that until yesterday at 13.17 I’d never used a microwave oven. I’ve never a need for them, my parents didn’t have one when I was living at home (they do now) and I’ve always regarded them with deep suspicion, which over the years has transmogrified into fearful distain. I don’t like things that radiate molecules; I was in CND for years don’t you know, and not being a lazy eater I’ve never had any need for them despite how good they may be at ‘reheating food’, the single reason people throw at me to justify having one when they know that they only have the appliance because they’re fucking bone-idle…

So what led me to break my microwave virginity? Simple, a fucking sandwich in the Co-Op. I’d seen them lurking in there for the past week, snappy packaging boasting a panini with cheese and roasted chicken norks. It was suitably cold yesterday to force me into a shame spiral of what might be if I had one in my possession, a hot lunch (not as in the urban dictionary definition of one, look it up if you’re wondering what that might be…) as opposed to a cold sandwich. I returned to the office clutching my ill-gotten gains and approached the microwave contraption full of trepidation. After a good 5 minutes I’d sort of figured out how it worked, full power for 1.20 mins, turn the sandwich over and do the same on the other side. To my complete joy I removed a piping hot panini, cooked to perfection, hotter than the sun and completely delicious, damn it all I am having another one today. But I still wouldn’t have one of those zappy things in the house, I was in CND for years don’t you know, I remember Chernobyl and Tokaimura too.

Fill up your crack pipe and let the good times roll


mr frosty

Cunt has a friend. He’s been there now since Sunday, needless to say, he must be as much of a fucking cunt as Cunt or he wouldn’t be in his company. This is extraordinarily bad news because now Cunt Co., are installed in the room directly below my lounge (as opposed to the one over my kitchen) making me privy to their Attenborough male bonding rituals which includes grunting faux chuckles, faux aggression, faux faux and playing music that goes boom boom boom, you know, the stuff that is one below a fucking lobotomy.

Possibly more annoying is that the volume levels aren’t enough to cause me to stamp on the ceiling/ go and complain/ make a fucking phone call to a very nasty mate, mainly because they’re inconsistent and when they do breach what I consider an acceptable sound level they’re not unacceptable for long enough. It’s psychological warfare, essentially.

Needless to say, at around 11.30-ish just as we went to bed it was sort of quiet but by fucking 2am the guitars were out, but only for 2 minutes. Just enough to wake me up and leave me fuming in the darkness for an hour until sleep finally clasped me to its soporific bosom and took me away from myself.

I’m fairly knackered today, but not too bad. We didn’t drink much last night, the best thing is that Myfwt wasn’t particularly fussed about the sound from downstairs and she slept through the noise in the wee hours, so this morning she was all bright and breezy which is always enough to put me in good cheer. Incidentally, it’s a beautiful day today, cold with a sharp edge to the air but the most sensational golden light pervades, the plants and trees are frosted with glitter, concrete and metal serves to frame the bluest of cloudless skies and make the geometry of the city one of desirable delicious contemplation, as opposed to the typical existentialist angst of the mundane. It’s fucking gorgeous out.

Work is busy at the moment, not in a good way either. There is a sense of desperation in the air as we struggle to meet deadlines and figures for the month, which has been cut short by a fabulously positioned Christmas in a fortnight from today; indeed, in a week today I’ll be enjoying my last day at work for 2007. This will have ramifications for Piqued.co.uk but I’ll let you know more nearer the time.

For now have some of this.


very very drunk

After visiting James and his new son, a lovely little fellow who has grown an extraordinary amount since I last saw him, Friday night took a turn for the dark side.

Myfwt came back from her office party at about 1.30 am quite pissed, I mean really pissed. This in itself wasn’t an issue; she’s usually a jolly little soul after a few, but after a slurred giggly chat it was clearly time she hit the sack, about the same time as Cunt and some mates (this is a first, there were two of them down there, two!) decided to ‘sing’ with guitars. Imagine if you will 3 cunts singing The Drugs Don’t Work to an out of tune toneless guitar, with Cunt trying to out ‘sing’ all of them. It’s Friday night, they’re not playing through amps so I’m not overly fussed under the circumstances, but the snag is the room in which they were making this cacophony is right over the bathroom -which has not carpet, the same bathroom that Myfwt need to visit to throw her guts up.

In the space of an hour Myfwt went to the bathroom 16 times, accompanied by yours truly to ensure her safety as by now her motor skills had gone to shit. On each occasion we’d return to bed, she’d lie down and minutes later she’s be up and out the bedroom, opening the door to the bathroom to allow the fucking hideousness downstairs to run alongside the dulcet tones of Myfwt removing gins, sambuca, beer and whisky from her face. Put my desire to sleep into the equation and you can see how I felt as if looped in some sort of apocalyptic nightmare.

Even quiet the sound of the fucking 3 Amigos downstairs was permeating into the bedroom; this wasn’t helping so I made up the sofa bed in the lounge. I’m not entirely sure why but this hit the spot in terms of breaking the puke-cycle of Myfwt and we slept soundly until the following morning where we swapped back to our usual sleeping device to finish off our rest.

I made Myfwt some breakfast which alerted her system into one of recovery, I supplied her with tea and sympathy before leaving her in bed and taking the bus to Wimbledon train station. It was a cold wet morning but I was comforted by The Guardian and a fresh coffee on the station platform waiting for my bro and his missus, who were running late.

When they eventually arrived we jumped on the train for the 25 minute journey to Oxshott where we met up with my sister, whose birthday was the reason for our meeting in a restaurant fro lunch, my bro-in-law, niece, mum and dad. The afternoon passed in a most congenial manner, the wine flowed and traditional English fare sated our appetites amid much sniggering and conversation. My niece was being a little stroppy initially but she soon fell into the congenial mood of the family. It was a splendid afternoon and all too soon we were back on the train heading homewards. I’d had a few wines and was required to decide if I should stop or carry on… the latter decision was put upon me by Frank who requested my company for a couple of ales at the local.

I got back home at 8 or so, again, do I stop or continue? Spurning food, I was still digesting lunch, I opened a bottle of wine a fell into my headphones, beginning with the Suno ))) album which blew my head off and moving through Nirvana, Yes, PJ Harvey, Subhumans, Slayer, Machine Head, Bob Dylan, Korn… smoking and drinking all the while and wrapped in the most glorious cloud of sound and drugs.

At about 3 I was done, well and truly. I awoke at 1pm on Sunday feeling dreadful. The afternoon was written off but as luck would have it Back to the Future 2 was on to nurse me through my malaise. At 6 Myfwt arrived with some shopping and she made us supper after taking pity on my condition and going some way to repaying me for my care on Friday night. We both spurned drinks, preferring tea to accompany an evening sat quietly in front of the TV.

Christmas is fast approaching, this is my last full week at work until next year, a delightful prospect but one also fraught with having to finish off the seasonal gift-getting and wotnot. On the other hand it’s still Monday, it’s cold and wet and despite not having drunk last night, I feel crap.

Good Morning


mr bear

At times a charity rope me in to help them out, being the kind hearted prick I am, I like to do my bit, yeah.

It’s very simple task, the charity gives me a teddy bear of surprising quality and a form containing about 40 possible bear names. One of the names will correspond to the name concealed under a peel off sticker. For a quid you choose the ‘most likely’ name of the bear.

Obviously the name of the bear is at random, the charity don’t sit in a boardroom studying the bear, turning it over, cuddling it and giggling at it’s fucking hairy face to ascertain what name it most likely resembles…

My task is to simply go round the office, clutching said bear as proof, with a form and ask my colleagues to sign their names in a box next to the ‘most likely’ name of the bear and give me a quid. That’s it.

But it isn’t is it. First off, as soon as I say ‘name the bear…’ virtually everyone says Mohammed, once I’ve wiped away the tears of fucking hilarity said colleague begins randomly firing names at me, Mulberry, Farquar, Stanley… until I point out that they must select one of the pre-chosen 40 names on the form, which seems to irritate and confuse them in equal measure.

Once they’ve recovered they then begin to scrutinise the fucking bear in incredible detail before poring over the list of possible names as if it’s fucking Schindler’s list in order to ascertain the name they think most closely resembles it, ‘mmm, is it a Holly? Maybe… no, looks more like a Twinkle, mmm…’ whilst I’m stood there trying to explain that THE ENTIRE FUCKING THING IS FUCKING RANDOM. PICK A FUCKING NAME BEFORE I BLIND YOU..!

I have a hangover this morning, I fell into some wine after doing some writing last night, Myfwt joined me later for a late supper of beans on toast which hit the spot perfectly. Pardon the brief post.

Following today’s depressing Friday list (that now requires me to change ‘o’ with ‘0’ and ‘u’ with ‘v’ to prevent Piqued from becoming the premier site to for the potential of seeing pictures of ‘br0thers fvcking their sm@ll sle3ping s1sterz’ for fucks sake) I’ve a tune for you all.

This leaves me only to wish most of you gorgeous weekends.

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the horror the… oh

It is incredible how on occasion ones body can conspire against itself. Please allow me.

Yesterday evening I decided to abstain, I got home, looked at some ladies bottoms, took a bath, did some writing which pleased me immensely and ate supper with nothing more than water. Then at about 9.20 a rogue moustache hair, stronger and more developed than the others, the sort of hair you’d find on a boars back, suddenly stabbed me through the top of my lip. I’ve broken bones, slipped a disc, passed a fucking kidney stone but somehow the irritating pain of this pathetic injury seemed to be proportionately worse as it was so fucking annoying. Yes, perhaps it was a lesson in vanity, my beard is quite magnificent, I’m now more awesome to both sexes; revered my men, desired by women in a way I could only dream of when I was facially bald, but sitting on my sofa with my eyes watering scratching insanely at my face in order to unplug a hirsute spear from my labium superior ruined everything and I even considered shaving the whole lot off in a fit of, well, pique.

It’s fine today though.

The winter has born forth horror films. On Monday evening Myfwt and I watched The Descent, an above average British horror with lots of birds in it fighting Morlock type creatures in a cave in the Appalachian Mountains. To be frank it would’ve been better without the monsters and played off as a girls stuck in a cave with a loony-in-the-dark element. The simple solution can’t be applied to 28 Weeks Later, which I watched last night following the hair attack. Whilst over played the first incarnation was a rather good stab at the zombie genre, this one falls down on its arse by pandering to the zombie-genre ‘get out’…The military. The reason this usually ends in disaster is simply because if Marshall Law was imposed on a community region etc., the film would be about as interesting as watching Noel Edmonds sleeping, so in order for the plot to run (as opposed to work) the most absurd injustices are taken with reality ballsing the whole christing lot up. I refuse to go into detail, really, it’s not worth it.

Another thing, and this can be directed at The Descent too, is the flurry of gore one is subject to in sudden bursts of lightening fast editing: growling/screaming blood, blood, matter, blood and then usually a close up of a dead eye. I’ve no idea what has just happened save the fact a thing just knacked a person. Think back to the wonderful horror movies of the 70’s, Tom Savini made an effort to show the audience what was happening, ‘look! That fellow has just had a giant chuck of flesh bitten orf his arm, good Lord!’ as opposed to ‘!!!!!! ?’

My final moan at British horror moves can be summarised in 2 words. Token Americans.

A cure for both theses British stabs at horror is the wonderful Zombie Diaries, it’s not perfect by any means but one of the best horror films I’ve seen in an age and worth double the two cited on today’s mutterings. The film was orginally recommeded by the chap that runs WWM (link top right) go there now and read my discourse on the Iceland advert whilst you’re about it.

This is a lovely touch, even if I do say so myself


recycle Jackie

Once a week the chaps from the council come along to collect the recyclables. We are provided with two bins per household (meaning I have to share with Cunt) a purple one for plastic and tins (which is pathetic because the former can only be recycled by type not generically –still, I chuck all my plastic in anyway, just in case it won’t wind up in a landfill) and a green one for bottles and newspapers.

Last night at about 11pm Cunt decided to recycle his stuff, something he doesn’t usually bother doing because he’s a dribbling gitprong, so, of course instead of popping it quietly in the fucking bin like a normal human he stands a few feet away and throws each item in one by one, just so the whole of fucking south London knows of his benevolence to humanity. This morning when I came down one bin was full of the remnants of fine wines and broadsheets, the other full of tins of Stella Artois and Carling and a single copy of last Thursday’s Sun.

I had a pleasant evening, met up with Frank in the local for a couple of chocolaty ales and a couple of tabs in the marquee out back, before returning home for a luxury bath in which I was able to submerge my sweet little head without fear of winding up like that bloke in the John Betjeman Poem with the egg shaped head and crap tie. I ate supper, steamed broccoli and the other Chicken Kiev I bought last week, it wasn’t very nice to be honest, never again, as I watched Gordon Ramsey doing his magicians act for some cunts in Wales.

At some point between acts, an advert appeared on TV for ‘Jackie, the Album’. Jackie was a girl’s magazine in the 70’s, it was aimed at girls older than my sister but my mate Paul had a sister who was just the right age. We used to ‘borrow’ her copy primarily to read the problem pages, first time I ever saw the phrase ‘smelly discharge’ and I nearly died laughing, I digress, I was just leaving the room to get some more wine when I was forced back to listen to the featured tracks. It was like being stunned with a nostalgia gun, one of the songs my granny used to sing to me, another I’d not heard since the long drought of 1976, another one I really liked but didn’t know who the fuck the band was… I must have it in my possession, sod the fact that it will be the gayest thing I’ve ever had, ever. Even gayer than Eddie Izzard kissing the tiny face of a weeping fairy sat on a daisy.

After the News and an Alan P on Dave I became bored. It was too early for bed and too late to get steaming so I challenged myself to a top ten, (this was possibly a reaction to Jackie, the Album?)

I’d had two pints and two wines and thought it was only fair that in two minutes I spontaneously regurgitated my top ten favourite films. Being a tad tipsy one is a little more honest than one would be if, say, cavorting about the NFT of an afternoon stone cold sober. Besides, when one is a wee bit pissed every minute seems longer (and more bearable). So here it is, unedited and as it came out. I was rather surprised by the lack of zombies.

Withnail and I
Goodfellas
Fargo
Fight Club
Back to the Future 2
10 Rillington Place
The Great Escape
North by Northwest
Kind Hearts and Cornonets
Annie Hall

Now you try, if you’ve any balls you can post them as a comment, but no cheating…

Or u di

(sorry about this)


coming at choo

This cunting cold is still pissing about my barnet. Actually, I think it’s getting worse, my face is now in a perpetual state of leakage, every time I open my mouth a V8 cough charges out from my boiling chest firing coin sized goblets of gelatinous horror in random directions. Yesterday at work I barked out one of these fucking jellified bastards and it was only 2 minutes later I noticed it sitting, vibrating on my forearm. It was the size of a walnut. What I find most astonishing about them is their capacity as a lubricant; due to their inherent ability for arbitrary movement I have to check where I walk in case one of these evil goblets is lying in wait to act as a slippery cushion of hideousness between my foot and the floor.

I’m sick to the back teeth of existing in this sense of unreality as well. Certainly, having my ears cured last week was in a different league when it came to feeling a bit removed, this is more akin to having ones IQ halved. Either way I really have had enough, Christmas is peering over the fucking hill and like every other fucker with friends and family I have to put a certain degree of time and effort to procure the necessary offerings.

Suffering with this during the day is one thing, I’ll admit that an evening wine comes as a blessed relief but the most terrible aspect of the malaise is as one goes to sleep. The leaking nose, the very same proboscis that has gurgled and farted grey syrup out of your skull all day long suddenly decides to chemically alter the muckite in your nostrils to that of mucous cement. Whilst this maybe a positive thing in terms of laundry bills and/or personal dignity I feel that the whole breathing/air thing is a bit necessary. Call me fussy but there you are.

As ones airways are compromised already, ones jaw automatically opens to its maximum capacity to gulp in as much death preventing oxygen as possible. Subsequently when I woke this morning the inside of my mouth was drier than a Bedouin’s flip flop and my fucking tongue rattled within like an emaciated gibbon turd. There was so little moisture in my face that than the skin within had achieved a smooth gloss. It will be just like this when I’m dead I ruminated, extraordinarily unhappy with the human condition for forcing this terror into my system. I grabbed the water by the bedside and tentatively took a sip, I felt the skin in my mouth hiss the instant the water made contact, like sherbert fizzing on the tongue, which, along with my gums and cheeks, absorbed the water like a discarded washing up sponge. The taste was fucking awful. My nostrils melted, its dreadful-cemented content shoved up by my chest relinquished the overnight meconium via a Formula 1 tussis.

Great, time to fucking well get up and go to the bastard office.

Hooray.


bah

Good bye Evel Knieval, good bye, Sir. With your all in one all American flared suit, your hundreds of broken bones, your gorgeous, heavy, Harley, your Sky Rocket, Canyons, busses, wind up toys, your idiotic drawl… may you live on in Piqued?

Well maybe yes, for on Saturday afternoon, driving Frank and his ragged old sofa to the dump, in true Evel fashion I threw caution to the wind and drove my white van under a ‘don’t come under here if your vehicle is taller than blah blah blah’, and ripped off half my fucking roof rack with a shattering crunch. A fan wandered over, I rolled down the window. He gave me one of those looks, you know, a ‘you’re a cunt’ looks and suggested I should’ve have entered in the entrance without the low slung metal cross beam. I turned the van round and exited the same way as I’d entered removing the rest of the roof rack with a horrendous clanging crash.

Frank and I re-entered the dump, dumped the sofa, which we’d collected from his flat some 2 hours earlier and left. After rounding the corner from my fan, I sheepishly removed the remnants of the roof rack and left them in a lay-by about 20 yards from the entrance to the dump. Fuck it; I didn’t fancy getting mobbed again.

The weekend had started quite well, a few pints with Frank in the pub, fish and chips for dinner, which may well have been made out of hot carpet, I couldn’t taste a fucking thing still, but later an awful serious of anxiety attacks corrupted my Friday feeling into that of fear and loathing. I tried going to bed before 1am but I couldn’t sleep, in retrospect I’m quite sure this was the cold making itself known to me in sobriety, I’d barely had 3 pints, but it was an experience I am happy to forget.

On Saturday evening after visiting my pfolks to collect a sofa from theirs and dropping it at Franks, I arrived home exhausted, my cold still raging with concerns that I’d fucked my back up again. Myfwt came over and we caught the tube to Clapham Common to meet with some friends. By now I feeling like a compromised colostomy bag and was in no mood for social too-ing a fro-ing, in under 2 hours we had to go, Myfwt was starting to feel the first pangs of my cold and I knew that unless I rested up the working week was going to be as dreadful as the one past. Even now the bastard is glued to the inside of my tubing like a kebab shop plughole.

Sunday began mid morning after Myfwt went off to visit her bro. Due to the most ridiculous rainstorm I am ashamed to say I drove to the local shops in order to procure bread and newspapers which I devoured in front of Scrapheap Challenges with a kipper thrown in for good measure. I did some writing then jumped back into the bloody van (I didn’t fancy riding in horizontal cross winds) mid afternoon to visit my sister, bro-in-law and niece, who I’d not seen in weeks. She’s grown so much, her face has altered from the little blank canvas of puzzlement and worry into one of perpetual surprise and she’s a lot more able to interact with the world about her, this was evident by lots of fat chuckles and other sorts of shit, essentially, my beard which she found strangely intriguing.

I left late pm and got back home within the hour, the wind howling all the while. Shortly after James arrived to pop round for a cup of tea and chat. He’s recently become a dad so popping over for tea and a chat is as good as it’s going to get for a while… though we did manage a few spliffs. Bad daddy.

Myfwt arrived later and we had supper and watched the last appalling instalment of the Long Way Down, in which my WWM prophecies came true regarding Ewan’s bloody wife, prior to retiring to the sack.

I’m in the most fucking awful mood this morning, look down there instead.