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.

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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.