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.


coffeeless

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
https://piqued.wordpress.com/category/mon 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


stung

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.


footy

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?