Monthly Archives: December 2007

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
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.



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.