Monthly Archives: January 2008

bye beadle

Regular visitors to this picnic will be aware that only this week I mentioned Gary Numan and some TV show in which the 14-year-old incarnation of Piqued was fucking rude to said popstar. Well, also in this show was Jeremy Beadle, undoubtedly the biggest star amidst a plethora of minor-ish celebs. I remember Peter Duncan (who I was also rude to but I consider that one a fucking success, little shit) Mickey Most, Simon Bates and a very camp GMTV weather reporter that Beadle referred to as ‘Rocky’.

Anyway, I did meet Beadle briefly and I thought he was great. He was like a naughty schoolboy, almost feral, yet charismatic, charming and genuinely funny. In later years when he was on the butt end of criticism for dumbing down TV and making tacky television etc., which I always thought was quite absurd when you looked at the plethora of mind bendingly trite ‘gameshows’ that occupied the schedules at the time –not to mention the shit we put up these days with X Factor, Pop Idol, Strictly Come Ice Ballroom etc., shows that perpetuate the cult of the celebrity- I felt he’d been completely wronged. ‘Watch Out Beadles About’ was at times inspired and ‘You’ve Been Framed’, despite the (superb) contemporary spin that Harry Hill has put on the show, still feels like it belongs to Beadle.

It’s sad that he’ll probably be remembered, despite everything, for a disability as a result of Poland Syndrome, ironic to think that those that accused him of ‘dumbing down’ TV are probably still chuckling about the fact he had a small hand.

After work yesterday, one of the busiest I’ve had in months I shot home and jumped on the tube to meet my bro in a boozer in Clapham. We had a few pints and jolly good chuckle over the Engrish on the Thai menu and I got back home in time for Masterchef. Myfwt had had quite a fraught day and wasn’t in the best of moods, still, she rustled up a delicious supper of goats cheese and onion ravioli with a rich tomato sauce which we ate in front of a ludicrous Grand Designs in which a couple had spent over a grand on a fucking tap.

It’s an awful day today; the rain is horizontal and the wind cyclonic. This weather perfectly reflects my mood. It’s busy in here again but I’m happy to present a youtube offing that continues on from yesterday before I get back to fucking work.

Probot was a project devised by Dave Grohl in which he teams up with his ‘heavy metal’ heroes from the 80’s and 90’s. In many ways it’s a case of Grohl realising his dreams and the upshot is a collection of tunes that occasionally hit the spot but more frequently miss their mark. The track ‘Big Sky’ fronted by Tom G Warrior of Celtic Frost is sadly unavailable so the collaboration with Lemmy will adequately suffice. It’s some video I hasten to add. Turn it up.

Cheerio Jeremy.

nearly frosty

Apart from a few Cheese Balls (the absolute king of cheese corn snacks, really, they’re like an evolved Wotsit and more moreish than Kylie’s charlie) I ate nothing last night. But I did tape Masterchef which I watched at midnight drooling like a cracked up Winehouse before retiring to bed, partially sober and very tired, and sleeping like a smacked up Doherty.

Earlier in the evening Myfwt and I met up with Notagay (link right, filed under ‘he’s not gay, okay’) in a rather downmarket hostelry for a drinks in fucking Wimbledon. I knew it was a bit below par because it was over populated by those wiry pale men that drink lager and look like they enjoy porn and assault, the barmaid screaming ‘Dave! Service! I’m busting for a big piss!’ didn’t exactly set the tone for champagne and oysters either. Anyway, Myfwt and I found a table and Notagay joined us shortly after and we settled down.

A pleasant evening ensued, Notagay and I had a few pints of ale and Myfwt enjoyed a few G&T’s which we supped slowly, mainly because we were all gassing at once. So much nattering went on that we found ourselves on the ‘blast’ side of closing time and we were virtually turfed out into the night. All the good intentions of taking a bus were poo poed when a black cab slunk past and Mywft and I bid a fond farewell to Notagay and we disappeared off home.

It’s a lovely day today, fucking cold but beautifully bright and sunny. I’m enjoying not feeling like I’ve spent all night being Abu Hamza’s bitch due to over indulgence and as a result my day at work is easier to deal with. Speaking of which, it’s a short post today because I’m extraordinarily busy but before I go some information on today’s youtube entry.

This band look ridiculous. This may have something to do with their being a Swiss lot but any band who can lay claim to a tune called ‘Phallic Tantrum’ can’t be that bad. Their importance as pioneers of thrash/black metal cannot be understated and even now their influence can be heard in more contemporary acts such as Emperor and Dimmu Borgir. But their reach is wider than that, both Kurt Cobain and Dave Grohl were inspired by them, the latter even used the CF front man Tom Gabriel Fischer to perform on his metal compilation project Probot, more on that tomorrow. Do check out the awesome ‘death grunt’ employed by the lead fellow. It’s lovely.

robert move

Well, everything is ticking along in a ‘nothing to see here way’. Yesterday I got the ball rolling with the house move; on Wednesday week Myfwt and I are booked to see a financial bloke about a new mortgage. If it’s anything like last time it’ll be a breeze. Me clutching a handful of payslips, FB soporifically droning information with me nodding at stuff I really don’t understand, not because I’m stupid I’ll have you know, just mortally disinterested, even if the upshot of my complacency will ultimately cost me dearly. There are regulations to protect the placidity of the bored, so long as you have a fairly reputable outfit, and bear in mind we’re dealing with property business so it’s a question of it being the best of a bad bunch, you’ll probably be okay. That’s my advice, who needs Watchdog eh?

Yesterday at work was a non-entity, in fact, if it wasn’t for a spot of lively chat on yesterdays Piqued I probably would’ve forgotten to breathe. I trudged home and met up with Frank in the local for a pair of Jenning’s finest. We discussed the ways of the world in our usual breezy manner and I was home before 8 in order to glance at Paxman over my shoulder as I prepared supper: stir fry mushrooms, red pepper, spring onion, peas and prawns with steamed smoked salmon. It could’ve been better frankly; I prefer the lightly smoked salmon steaks for a kick off and I prefer them steamed to the point they get partially crispy at the edges. These were neither lightly smoked not were they crispy at the edges. Nonetheless the sauce of butter, garlic, chilli, soy and herbs de Provence lifted the whole thing up -just not high enough for my exceptional fucking palette.

After a baffling Masterchef I pottered about the place doing house things, I must try and see my flat objectively from now on as sooner or later some smarmy cheap-suited oxygen thief is going to arrive with a Nikon Coolpix with a view to marketing my flat. Then I suppose Myfwt and I need to begin the whole hunt for somewhere to live, a task I’m dreading. So keen am I to get the whole revolting process finished and done with as soon as possible I’m inclined to grab the first thing I see, as I virtually did last time. Actually if it wasn’t for the fact the estate agency went bust I would’ve.

After the huge stress of the exchange, a split seconds worth of compromised relief, it’s time for the physical move, the packing, the transportation, the unpacking then the dreadful OCD soup that is ‘settling’, essentially, ‘putting things in practical / aesthetic places’ which for someone like me swings between fanaticism and screaming dementia… it’s going to be hideous.

Fucking hell.

At least the coffee machine is working again. I’m off for a Robert Plant.

a new man

It’s a testament to the mildness of the weekend that I should be so surprised how cold it is today, I mean, it’s still fucking January after all but this morning it seemed colder than Captain Scott’s gaping maw. Not that I saw much of the weather this weekend, on Sunday I didn’t leave the flat, I didn’t get up until 6pm and that was only because I figured that unless I was vertical for at least a portion of the day, sleep might not happen later.

The black bitch doesn’t like this sort of weather and she squarked reluctantly into life this morning. As I rode in to work I past by the various landmarks of my weekend yearning for what was. It’s the most awful thing to do, dwell on what has recently past in the futile hope that you’ll be somehow whisked back to a particular moment in time all pissed up with two lie-ins ahead…

In lieu of being able to physically move there, let’s us take a journey back in time to Friday, sat in this very same spot as I type, shutting down my computer, getting on my bike clobber and leaving to get back home and change. Shortly after that Gee and I met in the usual and we were joined by Frank and his missus for a 3-pint debrief before heading off on the tube to Brixton. We decided that we had enough time to have a quick pint before Korn came on stage at a pub called The Goose. I’m only mentioning this because I’ve never ever been to a place that stunk as much as this. It wasn’t so much as revolting as extraordinary; the gents toilets were so dense with ammonia it was virtually impossible to actually breathe. Hyperbole aside this one, so bad was it that when I eventually did get home I put my Converse and my jeans straight in the wash… Gee and I sunk our drinks in under 5 mins and we went to the Academy. We had a couple in the bar with some of Gee’s friends and Gee noticed that Gary Numan was wandering about within metres of us. I’m fairly sure I’ve mentioned in a previous Piqued that he and I have a history, I met him once a long long time ago, I’d taken it on myself to sit behind him and perform a sarcastic rendition of ‘Cars’ and he asked if I’d ‘like a fucking medal’ -I was 14 and acting as a runner for a one off bank holiday telly show special called Names and Games. Twenty-five years on I walked up to Numan and mentioned the incident, in addition to remembering doing the show, he remembered a rude little sod taking the piss out of him, I took it upon myself to apologise for my precocious behaviour, he found the whole thing rather funny, in not a little surreal, and we shook hands. I’d been atoned.

Shortly after Korn appeared. The atmosphere was strangely restrained, I’m fairly sure the gig hadn’t sold-out because I was able to move without too much problem and whilst the band we right up to scratch, they were too quiet. I’m now sure of one of two things (bearing in mind I have had my ears cleaned lately) that some sort of health and safety shit has been slipped by requiring the volume to be substantially compromised or that cigarette smoke acted as some kind of molecular sound accelerant. We took the tube back to Tooting, grabbed a kebab each, returned home and rocked out with a tin or two of beer. I think we put in a 3am or so?

Either way I was awake by 11-ish feeling strangely okay, probably because I’d stuck to beer and eaten late. I ate breakfast / lunch (a splendid kipper with loads of toast) and undertook the usual Friday hell to the fucking shops. I took a long sobering bath and prepared myself for the evening, Myfwt bro-in-law 40th Birthday at a Brasserie in Wandsworth. Myfwt came over at about 6 and we got ready for the evening, we took a cab to the venue and were plied with champagne and canapés on arrival, both delicious. I knew quite a lot of Myfwt family but hadn’t seen some in years. I slipped into proceedings like a seasoned pro and did the rounds, ending on a table with a chap who I’d met a few years ago and another fellow from San Francisco who was big in the film industry (but without all the attitude I hasten to add). The former fellow had been a drummer in a punk band and had supported The Subhumans back in the day, which served to lubricate our already enthusiastic chitchat. Despite my initial trepidation of having to meet lots of family members and strangers the evening was a triumph and Myfwt and I wobbled home after many long goodbyes.

Myfwt and I returned home and drunk a bottle of Moet that I’d had lying around from some work do and we went to bed blowing bubbles. This should go some way to explaining why Sunday was somewhat subdued.

Gee has just called me, we were discussing Ministry in the small hours on Saturday morning and wondering when they may be playing, lo and behold dates have just been published. It’s small world isn’t it, but I wouldn’t like to paint it.


Something amused me yesterday, I’ll give you gist of this tale because it came from a tabloid and it was all writted funni. Essentially, a load of tourists travelling by ‘luxury coach’ had reported thefts from their suitcases, perfume (Collagen by Jordan / Git by Piddy) jewellery (Elizabeth Duke I shouldn’t wonder) etc., but what was baffling was that the goods were disappearing in between journeys. The tourists would load all their luggage in the hold of the coach, which was subsequently locked, and by the time they’d arrived at their destination, shit was missing. Transpires that one of the travellers, instead of loading his suitcase with Just For Men and Viagra et al was, instead, packing a dwarf. Once the journey was under way the dwarf would get out the suitcase, rifle through everyone’s luggage, help himself to whatever he wanted, get back in the suitcase and waited to be collected by his accomplice. There is something rather Victorian about all of this I pondered as I nibbled at my pain o chocolate and ordered more fucking Darjeeling.

Yesterday was unremarkable, save one bollock twisting episode of disappointment. I mentioned yesterday that I had a hangover; I didn’t say that the office coffee machine died on the previous day. I’d forgotten about this so when I got into work, and on discovering there was no coffee, I nearly broke down. Extraordinarily, on the point of abject despair a courier arrived with a brand new machine. I don’t have luck like this I moaned softly to myself, brushing tears of joy from my red raw eyes. The machine was gently unpacked from it’s housing and glittering components blinked in the light, we birthed utensils and filters and instructions… a colleague ripped open a fresh foil wrap of coffee and begun in earnest to assemble the unit. I filled the shining glass coffee pot with water and poured it into machine…which then all pissed uselessly out of the bottom of it, all over my trousers and boots. I stood, dazed, watching the water exit from the broken fucked bastard unit. Fighting back my tears I returned to my desk, my brain pounding in my skull.

I didn’t drink last night, Myfwt and I drunk cups of tea and watched Masterchef and had an early night in preparation for the weekend. It’s a lovely day today and my mind is ensconced in the evenings entertainment, Gee and I are off to Brixton to see popular beat combo Korn at the Academy. Shortly you will get the opportunity to see some of their efforts, but before that, the (edited for very unpleasent searches) Friday list and a deep need for you all to have bloody lovely weekends.

rolex 2 1
Deaf bike 1
the flumps 1
black pennis 2
amy winehouse wallpaper 2
the idler magazine pete doherty 2
baby jesus sucking mother mary tits cunt 2
what is a musophobe 2
charlie brown autos huddersfield 2
Gairls 2
Tom and Eileen Lonergan : BBC NEWS 2
is johnny dead two pints 2
bud dwyer pennsylvania state treasurer 2
two pints of lager and a packet of crisp 2
surealism 2
“Sebastian Horsley” 2
tottenham court zombie 2
psychopath focus magazine 1


When I was a kid we used to holiday up t’North, which involved the inevitable drive from London, upwards. My parents enjoyed the popular beats of radio 1; being the (late) 70’s chart music wasn’t too bad and regular sing-a-longs would evolve as the city slunk away into the distance. One such day we were singing along to Roxanne by The Police and I asked my dad about the ‘red light’ bit (this anecdote isn’t going anywhere by the way) and he told me about the association of the red light to hookers (I already knew about hookers from the bible, which isn’t right really) and I remember thinking about the song thus:
‘Let me just switch this on…’
‘Roxanne, you don’t HAVE to do that, it’s me, Sting’
‘Ooops, sorry, I forgot –let’s do it, Sting. No charge of course, er, big boy’
‘yes, okay’.

I’m only mentioning all of this because late last night on BBC4 there was a sort of Police documentary compiled from footage shot by the founder member and drummer par excellence Stuart Copeland. What was abundantly clear from the outset was that Copeland and Summers were both quietly talented but Sting was always going to be a berk. I mean there was even footage of him wearing baggy lemon coloured trousers, the tosser, it was 1979 for crying out loud… Anyway, it was as dull as fucking toejam.

Yesterday had gone smoothly at work, despite the bastard coffee machine dying in the morning and I rushed back home, just as I did last Wednesday, in order to catch the tube to town. I met Swineshead (SH) outside a boozer in Holborn, it was our intended hostelry but was packed solid so we were forced elsewhere, not a massive problem in central London. Once established in a place near Covent Garden we drunk in earnest, pausing every 10 minutes to nip outside for a tab. After 5 or so pints and much backslapping we went our separate ways.

In the course of the evenings drinking I’d broken my beer bladder relatively lately, despite taking the last two leaks minutes apart, by the time I got on the tube at Leicester Square I was piss-pregnant. I knew that I was going to have to get off at Waterloo to micturate, Myfwt was waiting at home and I was already about 30 minutes late. At Waterloo I called her to explain my predicament and took a massive tinkle out which was eyeball rollingly excellent. I returned to the tube which for some reason was so packed I was forced to stand and I finally arrived home just after 10, Myfwt having made me pizza, bless her, none of that Prol Pizza *winks* stuff neither and ready with a glass of wine.

The rest of the evening is fairly predictable, the wine got drunk, as did I and I went to bed at about 1am following a session of groping about in the dark trying to locate my fucking shoelaces. Today I am hungover and exhausted.

One last thing, why does Sting sing with that foreign accent? And why is he called Sting… The tit. I need some aspirin.


Last night, following a few glasses, I decided to watch the football (highlights), well, I didn’t actually decide, it begun and I didn’t switch over. I’ve never been a fan of futbalz, I didn’t like playing it as a kid and it never tweaked my nipples as a spectator. My dad is a lazy Liverpool fan and my mum a Gooner, apparently she’s even been to the Gooner place, I remain entirely unfussed. Having embraced a new love for Snooker, and approaching an age where I’ll be spending progressively more hours on a sofa scratching my botty and doing wind, I thought I’d check to see if I found it as boring as I thought… Stultifying dull it was. I made it to the first half part then gave up and read.

I’d met up with Frank previously for a pair of ales and returned home to prepare supper for Myfwt and I. All was well until I began to voice my dislike for my neighbour (who was starting to cunt-up down stairs) this in turn displeased Myfwt, not Cunt cunting about I hasten, my vocal displeasure. I wasn’t surprised, frankly. I knew sooner or later that he’d cause some form of unrest between us, either by Myfwt being driven out by living within the proximity of one who perennially sniffs under the tail of the doltish, or by my losing all perspective on the situation and doing a dirty protest in the bedroom with a giggle and a bonk-on. Obviously my protestations that upset Myfwt were not that extreme, I just went on about it for a bit in a nonchalantly aggressive tone.

My partially subdued rant had resulted in Myfwt going a little bit quiet and offing herself to bed earlier than usual. Naturally I’ve shirked all responsibility for my moan, instead I’ve transferred my all of my negativity into the hate case I keep under the psychic bed.

I read with interest yesterday about that young lady in Liverpool who ripped off her ex-boyfriends testicle. Typical of those that dwell in the region, she’s now moaning her head off about how bad she feels about what she’s done and how sorry she is blah blah etc., ending her statement with ‘I’m not a violent person’. Of course you’re not, having ripped a nut out of a man’s sack, which requires some effort I should imagine, then put it into your fucking mouth as an act of bravado, you’re quid’s on for fucking canonization.

Speaking of the news, which I wasn’t, but was citing from, which justifies ‘speaking of the news’ sort of, I got a little chill down my spine on hearing the news about Heath Ledger, not having given him a second thought in my life (I’ve not even seen Brokeback Mountain) as I randomly mentioned him yesterday in the ‘gay pizza’ post.

I first saw him in ’10 Things I Hate About You’ and it was clear he was going to go far, sadly, his future has been curtailed and I can’t help feeling that his best was to come. Shit.

Back to the footie briefly, it seems that last nights playing was rather an important one and all the Spurs and Arsenal fans are ‘ill’ for one reason or another.

Frenetic anyone?

full moon fever

It’s the full moon; I’ve just worked it out, why didn’t I notice this before? Up to, during, but seldom just after, Cunt is at his worst. Last night was no exception when he opened his ‘set’ at 11.00pm with a soundcheck. He actually said ‘one two one two, thank you’. There was no one there. Just him.

I pounded the heel my foot into the floor and it went quiet for about 15 minutes. Then the front door went and something unemployed and disgusting appeared out of the gloom. This creature reckoned it could play the harmonica, which wasn’t the problem; it was Cunt shouting someone’s lyrics tonelessly, tunelessly in the wrong order. Myfwt slept through the din while I seethed in the dark, I was compromised by my desire to go downstairs and slam hard on his door/face or remain impassive so as not to wake her up. I opted for the latter, I’m exhausted, she slept like a doll.

Up until then last night was rather nice, despite the fact I didn’t drink. I made salmon and stir fry with Piqued’s Pepper sauce *winks* and we watched Grand Designs on More4. Downstairs the hairy extension was screaming the place down, I’ve no idea where its mother was or what the fuck was going on, but at some point it went to afford the occurrences mentioned at the beginning of the post, or it died.

We watched Curb Your Enthusiasm in bed, Myfwt reluctant at first, apparently Larry David reminds her of me and this is apparently ‘irritating’, but it was such a beautifully crafted episode she couldn’t resist. The Mr. Jew line nearly killed me; really, you should’ve been there. Actually I’m glad you weren’t or I would’ve been forced to call the authorities.

It’s gorgeous day so far, winter sunlight is always the most sublime because it has that air of serendipity about it, and following my night off I have two days of mild socialising. I’ll probably take Thursday off too in order to prepare my liver for Friday, Gee and I are going to Brixton to see Korn which will probably involve our having to be social and shit.

Despite still being in the month of January I can see the end of it, February isn’t much better but at least it’s a moth closer to the start of the motor sport season, which, for me, means Spring and is imbued with misty, happy recollections of my childhood; TV after Sunday lunch with Murray Walker screaming his head off and my dad complaining at his inability to coherently express factual information about drivers and their cars…

Right, I need to get on, it’s busy here.

This is lovely, great video too…

gay pizza

It’s fucking Monday, how completely dreadful, and to make matters worse, I have a hangover. The weekend seemed to have happened upside down, whilst I had a few pints with my bro and Al on Friday I was home by 10, already my weekend was ending. I attempted to recreate a donor kebab using a lamb chop, which was carefully sliced and seasoned and added to a pitta with fresh chilli, garlic and mixed leaves with a blob of mayo. Bastard didn’t quite work so I resigned myself to a bottle of wine which was enjoyed in front of a progressively pixilated game of snooker. I rounded my Friday off with a miniature rock-out session. By 3am I was asleep.

Saturday was written off, I poked some kipper into my face in front of an old Top Gear on Dave and staggered off to the superstore for the usual Saturday bout of consumerism. Saturday night was meant to be dinner with Myfwt, her sister and bro-in-law, the latter is turning 40 next week, poor sod, but his Friday meal at St. John’s had caused him malaise and Myfwt took it on herself to perform auntie duties for their nipper. Her intention was to return home later but she had drunk too many wines to drive…oh well. Fortuitously Frank was about and we were able to slot in a couple of impromptu ales at the local. This was most agreeable and I arrived back home in fine cheer fully perpetuated by the lack of a stinking great Cunt below my perfumed feet poisoning silence with his babooness.

And it was on this Saturday night that I invented ‘Proletariat Pizza’.

I’d been thinking about this for a while, how to make a fairly convincing pizza quickly and without much effort. This night I cracked it, and I’m going to pass the recipe on. Dead simple, mix tomato puree, olive oil, garlic, Tabasco with herb de Provence (bear with me) season and spread like butter on one side of lightly toasted pitta bread. Here it would be pretty much up to you to decide topping, but you can fuck off, it’s my recipe so do as follows. Cover the tomato base with ham, not thick cheap lumps of dead reformed pig, off the bone thinly sliced stuff as it crisps up in a most congenial manner, then sprinkle over this finely chopped spring onion and cover the whole shooting match in grated cheddar AND Parmesan (Parmigiano Reggiano specifically, anything else tastes like sick after drugs) and grill the fuck out of it.

The result is a pizza with a crispy base, doughy middle and a topping that will have you punching air as you chew and hum your approval… so good was it that I made it last night for Myfwt, it takes 10 minutes from start to finish. Bon appetite.

I got up lunchtime Sunday and made breakfast, Myfwt joined me and we set off at 2pm for the National Gallery. We met Andrea outside and went in to see the Art of Light: German Renaissance stained glass exhibition. Small but perfectly formed it was a fascinating, albeit, tiny, peek at stained glass’ heyday. Of particular interest to me were the drawings by Hans Baldung Grien and the wood engravings (incorrectly cited by the gallery as woodcuts) by Albrecht Durer, that had subsequently been used as models for glass panels. After a good beak we three departed and by 5pm we were in a small bar off Berwick Street supping wines and eating a board of olives, hummus, feta, prosciutto and chorizo. We were joined later by Sal and after a few bottles we four wandered through the murky neon blown back streets of Soho to arrive at an electric blue gay bar where we crept into a booth and ordered more drinks. This place was wonderful; Barbie and Ken dolls are tastefully attached to the ceiling, pretty gay men softly talking and caressing one another in soft blue black light. The toilets, ambiguous to gender, were so ridiculously clean and tastefully decorated they might as well have been in a lifestyle magazine. My three friends were the only females in the whole bar and I should imagine that I was the only straight fellow, however, the atmosphere was so congenial that complete strangers chatted to us, a couple of very well to do lads on leaving to bar hugged Myfwt and I as we smoked outside.

Needless to say by this time we were rather drunk and by 10 or so on our way home after avoiding temptation to do on elsewhere by Sal who was ready for a big fat night on the tiles. By 11 Myfwt was in bed the worse for wear, despite this, I made her Prol Pizza and we watched Jamie Oliver, he was doing stuff, fuck knows what, I could barely see.

Oh, I’ve the shits by the way… more shiss actually. Shizzy

This is fun, a nice piss-take.


I can’t believe that generations of humans have been getting it so wrong… it’s a wonder we’ve made it this far. Last night, I was shown the way.

Forget about all you’ve known about raising children. Consign it to history, for it is has no bearing on our future. Only now is the future of mankind safe.

And who would’ve thought that Cunt would show me the way! Yes, the cunt that has, on occasion, been on the receiving end of criticism… I cannot wait any longer, I must pass on the good news… He has shown me, us the way.

*Don’t do it alone! This nonsense about raising a child with two people, until now we thought that one emaciated mother and occasional visits by a psychotic, father whose idea of responsibility is sign-on every fortnight (without fail) then spend the rest of his time doing fuck all -save waste oxygen- was the way forward, no…

Get your criminal entourage to come over after the pub and inspire the baby with loud noises so that it interacts by screaming its fucking head off. Many grubby hands make light work, surely.

*Stop paying attention to it! Honestly, these days we mollycoddle our young way too much. The damage this has on society is immeasurable; our streets will be filled with bookish, sensitive types who care about the world around them and their fellow citizens. We don’t win wars like that! Please, let them scream, let them learn about the ways of coping without cuddles and care, then we can realise our utopia of a world full of drunken cunts fucking each other without taking precautions, through this violence will be developed without nurture, it will be innate, inside us from the very start.

*Sober? Don’t touch it! Until recently holding a baby in your arms and softly speaking to it/singing lullabies was seen as the way forward. This is fucking shit. Get really pissed up and ensuring you’re blowing plumes of fresh blue fucking tobacco smoke into it’s tiny pink fucking lungs, merely go WEOO WOO WOO Fucking WOO for a good five minutes into its every increasingly screaming face, then get annoyed with it and leave it alone in the dark to maintain a desperate piercing shriek descending finally into pitiful little sobs, whilst you carry on drinking next fucking cunting door.

So there you have it, please pass this message on to everyone you know so the in turn can pass it on, together we can change the world etc etc

Today’s Friday list, what’s left of it after I’ve taken out (some) of the filth is followed by a popular music song.

Please do all have lovely weekends.

Chris Langham Pamela Connely 2
alice cooper penis 1
shaven arseholes free pictures 1
melly taking bath big brother 8 1
diana tomb 3
valentino rossi s girlfriend 2
Senator Bud Dwyer 2
red tube nipple
john hurt and drink* 2
What does a black flag hanging out of th 2
olde fannies 2
my wife has a hairy arsehole 2
“painted bottles” by rene magritte 2
tattoo pictures of a rooster 2
Tara Palmer Tompkinson dumps small penis 2
Last chicken in sainsbury’s – scrotum 1
family guy nudity pics 1


After a thoroughly pressurised day at work I left a few minutes early and climbed on my black bitch. Within seconds of getting on my bike some cunt in a black BMW tried to drive into me. After he honked his horn at me for no reason what so ever I screamed ‘fuck you!’ at a enough volume for him to express his frustration, which prompted me, entirely out of character to say ‘come on then’ (I heard it come out all cross as if someone else said it). Mercifully he got frightened and drove off… but something of this scene seemed to have penetrated the cosmos, for on my journey home, I was forced to let off two further ‘fuck you’ (s) and one ‘indicate cunt’ as the drivers of sarf London took it on themselves to pull out in front of me, perform surprise u-turns and generally conspire to have your old mucca screaming in the back of an ambulance.

After arriving home (physically shaking I hasten to add –a combination of rage and fear) I changed my DM’s to my trusty Converse and rushed out to grab the tube to Leicester Square in order to meet my bro and an old mate, Arnie in a local hostelry. After a few pints Arnie and I went back to his magnificent apartment in Charing Cross and we smoked this quite amazing grass with his wife and nattered away as I held a whiteout at arms length. As the evening passed I became mildly concerned about getting home. Oddly, smoking dope and tubes don’t mix for me, I get panicky when I’m stoned underground, but this shit had the reverse effect on my barnet. For the entire journey back I was stifling idiotic giggles and the urge to spontaneously talk to passengers, which I didn’t. The misanthrope in me wins every time, see.

I got back in time to watch that showman doctor Gunther Von Hagen cut up some 25 stone bloke who had died of being, well, a 25 stone bloke. Jamie Oliver (who virtually undid all of his good work in recent years in a second) urged us to watch the inside guts of a fellow who spent his life eating delicious deep fried pies. Trouble is the Plastination process developed by that Penny Dreadful removes all the squirty liquid horror of human insides; when the stiff was finally opened up following a virtual drum roll, we’re presented with something that resembles waxy lasagne, which is surely ironic? Anyway, the dramatic lighting, the faces of horrified audience members completely undermines any sort of educational factor. I was actually expecting a hysterically played organ and a rolling laugh, at least that would’ve been honest because what we got instead was cheap vaudeville that should act as a shame fart for all involved.

I was saved by the Snooker and a late arriving Myfwt who breezed in and went directly to bed, it was late, with me joining her shortly after. Incidentally, this snooker thing, you really ought to give it a shot, it’s wonderful. Oh, before I leave you with some tunes there is a comment on yesterdays post worth checking with reference to something I said about Masterchef…. Go there after this choon, then see how we’re getting on with that popular music video I ‘reviewed’ a few days ago. Do these things to please me.


Fucking Masterchef, since it’s been on I’ve been more obsessed with food and cooking than ever. I’d never really got into it before, despite one of my friends being on it last year (I think she got in the quarter finals too, perhaps she’ll read this and post a comment?) I’d always found the two presenters, a chirpy cockney barrow boy type and a doe eyed misery guts from down under (I think), a bit too much for my palate. Even the shape of the formers head annoyed me.

This time round I’m addicted, the presenters command a genuine respect from the contestants, which adds an element of menace to proceedings. Indeed, the pressure of this alone can force some talented cooks to utterly balls up dishes they’ve been making for years –one poor lady ended up making a veritable biscuit instead of a soufflé. It was her speciality dish.

The effect all this has had on me is to experiment. Last night for instance I ended up making a watercress sauce. Even saying ‘watercress sauce’ deserves a punch in the mouth, but no, there I was sautéing onions, wilting the watercress before blending the two together with seasoning, lemon and crème fraîche and plopping over fishcakes if you please, it was a sensation.

Yesterday was fairly uneventful save a close call with death on my way into work, a few pints with Frank in the evening and of course, supper. Myfwt went to bed quite early leaving me to watch Chris Langham getting a good grilling from Dr. Pam. It was tough going, I’m not sure if he’s sorry for what he did, or just sorry for himself. What was clear from the off was that he’d spent a great deal of time thinking about what he was going to say when certain, inevitable questions were asked. The tears were genuine enough, and I’m fairly sure he’s not a threat to children, but there was something about his evangelising ‘I know who I am through all this’ which struck me as a bit, well, US talk show -if not entirely insincere, to me it characterises the mind of a desperate, tortured man.

Following this I soothed myself by watching the snooker, this was my undoing. Along with Masterchef my interest has gone for virtually nothing to mild addiction. I’m bloody hooked. It’s cathartic and intensely gripping in one motion, it’s the tampering of universal physics by humans which exalts the players into gods warring with one another. Unfortunately last nights coverage went onto 2.10 am, I didn’t know this when I began watching it sometime after 11pm and, being unable to resist its charms I watched the whole fucking programme sipping wine and gently smoking the odd joint. Of course, today I’m feeling a tad ragged, but able to deal with my day.

Please do check my latest post on Watch With Mothers (link right, it’s the ‘Emily I by Scrabbel’ one). It seems that a person can’t be tongue in cheek anymore without a bunch of brainless arseholes taking psychotic offence; naturally, I’ve responded my usual calm and measured manner. Feel free to join it, it’s free, and hey, it’s fun.

You may have to use this youtube link to recover.

water sharks

I should never have mentioned the emaciated one and the hairy extension yesterday, Jesus, I wouldn’t mind but I even avoided tempting fate by saying that for the past couple of times Cunt has been away to visit the symptom of his lack of responsibility, it’s been for at least a month.

No such fucking luck, when I got home last night there he was, with ‘family’. I suppose the only silver lining in all this is that he’ll be forced into a regime of having to go to bed and get up like the rest of normal society -don’t get me wrong here I’ve no objection to people sleeping all day and getting fucked up all night (all be it on Carling, the fucking fairy) so long as they rock stars of a certain calibre and/or lotharios with at least one good book under their belts and more in the grey matter- and I’ll not be disturbed all night by his twatterings

Last night, then, it was surprisingly quiet save the occasional sound of an infant berk. Myfwt arrived home from work and took a bath while I prepared dinner, a from-scratch stir-fry with toasted tofu which was a lot more delicious than it sounds. Myfwt popped off to bed early as she was knacked but I stayed up to watch Open Water.

I’d seen it before but for some reason second time round was much more poignant. Apparently the film is based upon an Australian couple, Tom and Eileen Lonergan, who in 1998 were left stranded in the fucking sea following a scuba diving trip. As the film unravels we’re privy to the couples relationship, they’re a likeable pair and easy on the eye (she’s got a cracking pair of tits, incidentally) but even during the pre water scenes there are metaphors of the fate that awaits them, some more subtle than others; the swatting of a fly in the hotel room, a scene where one waits for other to spit toothpaste before doing the same thing. It’s gorgeously constructed.

By the time we’re introduced to two bobbing heads in the ocean I was so sympathetic to the awfulness of their plight I moaned ‘oh no’ loud enough to disturb the sleeping person next door. The feeling of isolation and the most unbelievable vastness of, well, open water, is only offset by the swarming predators in the depths below, occasionally the camera allows us to peak under the rolling blue waves, it’s physically shuddering awfulness. Obviously all that is imposed upon the couple is pure conjecture, no one knows the fate of Tom and Eileen save the fact that neither were found, though some equipment was eventually retrieved, but the script is a triumph on its own conveying the chop logic and psychology of two people who at some point are very sure they’re not going to make it. At one point the director cruelly shows us footage of people enjoying their holiday before cutting back to the silent ocean, towards the end we’re even shown the beginnings of a rescue attempt but the director mercilessly places us right back in the blue water. The film closes with one of the pair discreetly bleeding to death before she unclips her diving equipment slips under the waves, primarily to avoid being eaten alive by the now grinning sharks.

The reason I’m mentioning this here (and not on WWM, link right) is that the bastard film really got to me and caused me to have bloody nightmares about sea creatures. I went to sleep imagining being stranded in the ocean and got close to actually how I’d feel if I were in that position. It was dreadful, I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it and subsequently I’m exhausted today.

Dirty little secret, I like this…

annie versary

It was Piqued’s anniversary yesterday; we had a lovely night together. Piqued is well dirty, hung like a mule so he is.

The downside to such an event is my being harangued by various service providers and wotnot to upgrade my domain and shit. I’ve no idea what they’re harping on about; so far I’ve spent about £15 on ‘stuff’ yet I’m still being warned that unless I renew something or other then Piqued will disappear in the cyber ether. I’d rather this didn’t happen, in addition to my stats improving incrementally these dreadful little pages keep my mind focussed away from the mundane reality of employment and stand as a reminder as to what I should truly be doing. That’s right, not working.

The weekend was vastly improved by the increasing confidence that Cunt is indeed away, most likely abroad seeing the emaciated mother of his hairy ‘quiet’ son/daughter. During his absence I’ve noticed that he’s been receiving prospectuses from some of London’s top art colleges. Without requiring me to expand on this, I know rather a lot about this sort of thing, there is more chance of him getting into Central St. Martins than me starring in Two Girls and One Piqued. What it does perfectly display is his mendacious state of being, a two-legged fib unable to grasp the tousled shreds of reality, a living breathing fucking lie incapable of containing his misery so it spews out of his cunting head in a geyser of attention seeking supplication. Anyway, he’s away, so I’m rather chuffed.

Friday began after work in hospital; Myfwt was seeing a doc about her surgery so I went to meet her. All is well in that department incidentally -I was mildly concerned she was developing an infection. Following that she popped off to babysit her nephew and I went off down the pub for swift half with Frank and his missus before returning home in time for a scheduled appointment with Jamie’s Fowl Dinners which was shocking but following a week with Hugh, tolerable. I noticed at Sainsbury on Saturday that virtually all (if not all) the cheap chickens were lined up on the shelves like a battalion of nude Chelsea Pensioners. All of the Organic birds, bar one whose packaging was damaged, were gone. Actually, it was a wonder I noticed anything at Sainsbury on Saturday on account of the post TV rock out on Friday which took me to 5am. I was merely road testing my new headphones and got lost in the melee.

Saturday night was quiet in so far as Myfwt and I stayed in to watch movies and eat. This wonderfully calm quiet evening was aided and abetted by wines and after a while we had an intense conversation that remained civil and upbeat despite the perpetual risk of one or both of us slipping off the precipice into drunken negative conflagration. Sunday was spent very hungover in bed watching Scrapheap Challenge and Death on the Nile, which was a delight, as was the peace and quiet, which I ironically relished with loud acknowledgment. Later in the afternoon Myfwt and I drove (I insisted on the Tube but the former wasn’t feeling able to cope with it, she’s going through a similar phase to the latter who due to panic attacks was unable to take one for years) to Selfridges to get her some jeans in the sale. The trip was a success and walking back down Oxford Street I noticed some observations made by Russell Brand in his Booky Wook (blokes on BMX bikes, people in doorways, strange looking types in Phone Boxes…). After arriving home I finished the weekend more or less as I had started it, in the pub with Frank supping a pair of fine ales. I arrived home and made some supper, Myfwt and I fancied fish fingers, chips and baked beans, childish back to school Sunday feeling fodder. I don’t know if Captain Birds Eye has added a special ingredient to his fish fingers but last night I had the craziest dreams culminating in me meeting a 6.5 foot nonagenarian Ted Baker who actually began yelling at me because I was wearing Doctor Martens. I wouldn’t have minded but he was completely naked.

Oh, happy birthday Piqued, you lovely old sod.

(wait til he’s finished yakking, if you don’t get goosebumps when the distorted guitar kicks off you need help)


Due to passing comments made by Myfwt I spontaneously decided to have my haircut at lunchtime yesterday. Myfwt said I merely needed a trim so with this advice in mind I entered the salon. The place was stuffed full of South African girls, there must have been 10 of them, all sitting about talking in Afrikaan. Ten heads swivelled to face me and I watched 20 eyes drop to my crotch … Jesus, no. My flies… With no ‘cool’ options available, my instinct to just run off was compromised by a dignity play-off between excepting my fate and sheer cowardice, I merely coughed out an *oops* and reached down to retrieve my zip slider. I wasn’t expecting to discover that my flies were done up and I was merely stood in front of 10 female strangers playing with my penis. My erotic display was curtailed by someone in a strong South African accent sharply calling my name, ‘yes’, I said as if being called into court.

Still mulling over what had occurred a rather round, cheery lass led me down to the sink to wash my hair. Not forgetting that minutes earlier she’d been watching a red faced man grappling with his manhood, this is the part that concerns me the most, the awkward conversation (‘soew, whet ded yow doo fer neeu yez ev??’) coupled with the actions of a stranger touching my head in a pseudo sensual, albeit necessary, manner makes for a confusing, difficult, though not entirely unpleasant episode. When at last she finally got round to cutting my hair, and after a period of more staccato chit chat, I have to say she performed as instructed and my hair was looking pretty much as it did but trimmed and shaped in a manner that I approve of. The acid test was that when I got back into the office, no one noticed.

Last night was rather jolly; Cunt is defiantly absent, for how long I don’t know though naturally I’m rooting for ‘permanent’ on account of death, so Myfwt were able to enjoy a night of peace. The sword of Cunt still hangs but as the evening wore on I was more confident that I wouldn’t suddenly be disturbed by an impromptu performance of Stomp by the Variety Club.

The Friday list in the past has attracted rather a lot of oddballs to Piqued, so, from now on, the list will be edited to searches that only amuse or encourage visitors from reputable sources. You may notice it’s somewhat shorter. Following this is a (modern!) tune to delight.

Have splendid weekends, the first full week of January is history.

“Sebastian Horsley” 4
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“Is James Toseland gay” 2
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One of the worst things about living over a creature that should’ve been aborted with hammers is that even when he is being quiet one is subconsciously waiting for him to make a fucking noise. It’s very stressful and perfectly indicates the intolerable conditions to which I have been accustomed. Last night for example, I think he went out, so I’m waiting for him to return with the dregs of humanity (as previously cited, he’s no friends so in order for some sort of human companionship he settles for the lonely looking jobless blokes you see hanging around bus stops looking at schoolgirls bottoms) and be all loud and cunty. But he didn’t return, I sincerely hope he’s been hospitalised on account of a natural response by a semi professional boxer with learning difficulties to his quite awful manner, and won’t pull through.

Despite the Sword of Cunts hanging over my head, I had a lovely evening. I cooked some top whack dinger, pasta filled with porcini mushrooms and Ricotta procured by Myfwt from some deli or other, and a home made sauce, indeed, a new Piqued sauce that I am going to tell you how to make. Now. Cut a large red pepper in half, deseed and shove on a baking tray with some peeled and halved shallots, roast them in the oven while you add some tomato puree, garlic, half a red chilli pepper, glug of wine, a couple of tablespoons of Crème fraîche and seasoning (plus your selection of herbs, I used rosemary, thyme and parsley) which you then blend with the diced roasted veg. It’ll knock you socks off. I can’t wait to try it with fucking lamb but I’m pretty sure it’ll go with anything.

We ate in front of the TV like they probably do in Eastenders or something to see the last of Hugh FW Chicken Run (review up on WWM tomoz, link right) before switching over to watch the beloved Russell Brand on E4+1 doing Big Brother.

The only downside to last night was that the surgery Myfwt undertook recently has developed a slight infection due to a sliver of nylon internal stitching having migrated to the outside world. It’s by no means serious and she’s not in agony, but it’s of mild concern which means that as I type this she’s had to go to the Hospital drop-in centre to have it checked out. Hopefully the sight of seeing a smashed-up Cunt with a priest over him will take her mind off the situation.

Strange offing from me today, this chap has a lovely voice (especially in the chorus) maybe due to lots of larynx soothing jitler, and I know a certain mate in Huddersfield will be rather chuffed.

screw jeans

Cunt was up to his fucking usual selfishness last night. After allowing him some time to indulge in his moronic beats with his urchin ‘mates’ (who incidentally are very quiet, it’s only he I hear lauding it over them like the underachieving egomaniac psychopath that he fucking well is) my foot finally slammed against the floor during a entirely out of tune and shouted rendition of Bowie’s Rock ‘n Roll Suicide. I’m not having that. Myfwt was very supportive as I shook with rage during and after the incident, bless her.

The battery terminal screw saga has had an unlikely ending, in addition to finding the screw I bought to replace the one I lost, I walked outside to fit the new screw and trod directly upon the one I’d ‘lost’. Feeling oddly chuffed I rode into the ninth circle of hell that is Wimbledon and strutted off down the street in order to procure a pair of socks. For some reason the ladies were paying more than a bit of attention to yours truly, indeed, some smiled as I passed, actually, whole groups simpered as I ambled by, dead casual like.

Even if I do say so myself, I’m no pig but this sort of heedfulness to my person wasn’t usually so pedantic, I pondered my physical self, slim bloke with a biker jacket carrying a crash helmet, mmm, nothing unusual there, must be my new jeans I concluded, they do fit fucking well and… my fly was open -I’m used to button flies you see, psychologically when I do up the top button that’s me done, belt up and off I go- I indiscreetly zipped myself up much to the audible amusement of a slaggle of prols by the bus stop.

For the past few evening I’ve been reading Russell Brands biography ‘My Booky Wook’. I’m not going to bang on about it because it’s simply excellent and you must all read it at once. Sadly last night following the incident with the wrongcock below I finished it at 1am following a skinful of Gin and Tonics. It’s rather peculiar, as I feel strangely lost having completed it; I now have this dreadful urge to seek Russell out in order to absorb him some more. I usually read bios of dead people but being only 33 or I feel strangely unsatisfied with the ending of his fine tome as it’s completely current. I’m all confused.

I leave you today, before another top of the pops tune, with this link it’s actually rendered me speechless, not because I’ve nothing to say in return but because I feel doing so would actually undermine the idiocy of the postee. Read the comments and please feel free to join in…


I’ve just eaten a Hobnob, which, according to the manufacturers contain ‘60% oat and wholemeal goodness’. Fair enough, but they fail to mention that the other 40% is a life threatening combination of sugar, salt and fat. Surely that’s a bit like extolling the fucking army because, ignoring the very real possibility of being killed and having your dead anus dry humped by a bunch of bored nomads before they eat your balls with camel cheese, it offers you the chance to look pretty in a nice uniform, which is free and look dead hard running through woods with a bug gun shouting purposefully … actually that metaphor doesn’t work as they pretty much do that anyway. Isn’t advertising an atrocity.

So, January has finally kicked off, the cunt. This is the month in which things go wrong, not so much emotional things (they’re already wrong because of the post Christmas gloom) but mechanical things. Take the black bitch for example, yesterday she started happily in the morning following her little rest over the Christmas period -which was largely due to the impracticalities of ferrying a recovering Myfwt around on the back of a heavy metal rocking rolling speed machine and having to favour the how’s your father awight darlin’ white van instead- but by lunch, on account of her battery being flatter than Tara Palmer-Tomkinson’s vest, she wouldn’t even turn over.

Used to such inconveniences I keep a charger at work (alarms drain batteries when the protected machine is not in use, when the machine is being used constantly the battery charge is kept topped up by the alternator, but critical point when the latter achieves its aims remains shrouded in perplexity) in the case the cunt goes flat on me. I whipped the battery out and put it on charge for a couple of hours and before it went dark popped it back in the bike. I screwed the first terminal in tightly and went to screw in the second, but being the butterfingered arse I am, dropped the bastard which happily clattered its self down into the bowels of my engine block/suspension/mother earth, never to be seen again. ‘Blast’, I said quietly.

Before going home last night I had to visit the bike shop, having bound the screwless terminal in place with some copper wire, ironically liberated from my battery charger, to buy a piddly little screw, which I’ve subsequently fucking well gone and lost.

Last night was very clement, I met up with Frank for a couple of frankly life saving pints prior to returning home to find Myfwt waiting for me preparing dinner, which is all very old school traditional role stuff, that we ate in front of the TV like what the working classes do. I’ve decided to discuss one show I saw on Watch With Mothers (link right) but I won’t talk about the excellent remake of Dawn of Dead which was on after. Still at least I’m in work feeling all annoyed. And it’s raining.

2008 it is

Where the fuck did Christmas go?

After my last posting it’s been non-stop running around, eating, drinking, seeing friends and family… it’s been wonderful, so of course the powers that control time and space decide to speed it all up so ones hindsight consists of a blur punctuated by lots of laughing and lost hours in sitting rooms, bars and restaurants amid twinkling soft lights and the ubiquitous honk of pine and candles… then, all of a sudden, it’s gone. Back to work, back to darkness. Bugger.

It’s always worse, afterwards, when one has had a long time away from the ‘do for a living’ and has seriously indulged in lots of fun. Actually, I’ll go one step further, I fucking hate the post Christmas anti-climax, despite not being back to work until today I can feel my mind so adverse to facing the beginning of 2008 that I’m getting perversely obsessed with looking back at the previous fortnight and wishing more than world peace that I was right back there.

Christmas day was spent in harmony with my family, mum dad, brother, sister and the new addition who was better than the post lunch telly. Joining us were my bro-in-law and my bros missus who fell into proceedings like a seasoned pro, the day was perfectly balanced, despite the lack of Myfwt who was with her family in Berkshire. In the evening we left mum, dad and my niece and went off to my sisters to indulge in more serious festivities. Already by Christmas evening the hindsight begins to creep in, a bit like being on borrowed time as I don’t want it to stop, this is made even more pertinent by my birthday which begins at midnight. Like everyone else (or most people depending on how you view Christmas) I’m no fan of Boxing Day. Sods Law then that that is the day I was fucking born.

Of course, after years of being born the day after Christmas I’m used to the inconvenience of it. Mum and dad have always made a special effort to ensure the day suits my requirements, almost as if there is some sort of guilt that it’s their fault, which it is, of course -naturally I don’t hold it against them, that defies logic. I remember on my 30th that they took me down the pub, my mum doesn’t drink (and whilst my dad does, he knows when he’s had enough) but they got me so plastered I vomited the moment I arrived home.

In the last couple of years things have been better. Because most of my friends are holed up with relatives the Boxing Day turn out has usually been disappointing (hence my drinking with my parents on my 30th) but this year there was Myfwt, my bro and his missus, Frank with his and Rick and James, who joined me in the pub after a splendid lunch with the family. Best birthday turn out ever I think… After a pile of ales my bro his missus, Myfwt and James came back to mine to further the evening with wines, James and I put in a 6am special and he left on the 27th utterly fucked out of his tree, hurrah. After a sleep the rest of the day was spent in bed with Myfwt glazed in front of the TV. Lovely. Holiday.

Friday, Myfwt and I drove to Berkshire to visit her family; well some of them, there are lots in her family, she has at least 20 nieces and nephews, and we arrived just in time for lunch. After a freezing cold but wholly exhilarating walk we headed back for London as I had an invitation to meet up with Justin at Daphne’s for dinner. Following an opulent meal in which I ate precisely the same food I’d eaten when I went last time (though I certainly didn’t drink the same champagnes and wines which were the best I’ve tasted in my life, and the most expensive) we headed off to this bar owned by the bloke that yells ‘Maow! Maow!’ at the Russian Roulette scene at the end of The Deer Hunter, and drunk cocktails.

On the Saturday, after another day in town shopping (I’d like to point out here that I rather enjoy going clothes shopping with Myfwt, it’s sort of solace for the soul, if not the wallet) we met up with drinks with Agnes in the Radisson Edwardian Hotel bar and drunk £100 of cocktails by accident. By now the depression of the passing of Christmas had begun to transmute into the awfulness of the New Year ordeal, the single most dreadful day in the calendar in which everyone looks back with cynical disdain / tear inducing hindsight and to the future in wrist-slicing dread / bodged optimism. Sunday was spent in bed recovering from the previous day but Monday was supremely busy as Myfwt and I had been charged with shopping for the evening festivities. We got salmon and oysters and pate and breads, booze, biscuits, sweets and treats, the bloody lot. I made some sauce for the oysters (shallots white wine vinegar and Tabasco) and off we went to the pub to see my bro and his missus in Clapham. After a few ales and much giggling we picked up our stuff and headed over to Den and Rebecca’s for a New Years Eve knees up. It felt terribly grown up us all sitting about nattering, Agnus had joined us to ‘welcome’ in the new year too so there we were, us 5 with a little person fast asleep next door playing Trivial Pursuit and stuffing our faces with booze and goodies. It was a gorgeous night that seemed to pass by at great speed, the next thing I know Myfwt and I were waking up on the sofa bed with Den’s son running about in his pants. We hung abut for a while playing with William, a charming young man who like me is cursed by a too near to Christmas birthday, before eating some breakfast and departing still feeling the effects of the booze. The journey home seemed to take hours, on arrival we both went to bed, but like the trooper I am I got up at 5 in order to sup with Frank at the local, it was New Years Day after all.

The past week has been incredibly busy. Myfwt and I have spent more time shopping -largely this has been to my advantage and I’ve managed to restock some clothing supplies in addition to satisfying my aesthetic-ego- and drinking in various bars with various friends/family in the evening. But the passing week has also been a bit tough on the grey matter. I’ve had such a good Christmas and such a long time away from work the thought of my going back there is enough to induce sobbing. It’s not as if my job is that bad either, I just don’t want to be doing anything but this, that is, not being at work and blowing wads of cash of clothes and drinkies with Myfwt.

Just to stick the knife in it seems that I am finishing the Christmas holiday in the same way I started it, with the shits. And for some incredible reason last night my body decided to be an insomniac, I went to bed at midnight and the last time I looked at my fizzing fucking clock it was 5am. Great.

Happy New Year by the way. Fuck.