Monthly Archives: February 2008

lovely fags

I’m still in a foul mood.

My disposition wasn’t helped by Masterchef last night either. Out of the three finalists there were two I wouldn’t have minded winning, the wiry 18 year old posho whose talents were without exception (pssst, she should’ve won, she’ll get her chance, she’s a wee lassie) or the jowl heavy ‘single father of two’ (Christ didn’t they wheel that out at any opportunity) Belfast fellow who, for some reason, I kept expecting to say ‘it’s got spunk in it’ when introducing his sauce-heavy comfort food.

I didn’t have anything against the winner, apart from his ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’ haircut but, without any good reason, resented his being able to jack in his ££££ job as a barrister in order to engage in an early evening TV cook-off. Obviously his gamble paid off, Masterchef has enjoyed unprecedented viewing figures this time round and I’m sure bubble locks will fulfil his dream of owning and running a beach side eatery which may well enjoy Michelin star status within 5 years, the cunt.

Myfwt has maintained her new status as a non-smoker, which is of course great (for her). In order to show support for this wilful, I mean, commendable, act of tenacity I’m having to smoke surreptitiously, as if my habit is like some dreadful sexual deviancy that I wish to shield from my loved ones for fear of serious reprisals. Subsequently, last night, I had one tab, one, leaning so far out of my kitchen window it was only my toes preventing me plunging to my death. Furthermore, to ensure the smoke went out of the room and didn’t blow back in I forced the delicious fumes from my face with such ferocity I could’ve powered Cornwall. It was like being 15 again and living with my parents.

Having a close relationship with a person who has just quit requires Ghandi-level diplomacy. This isn’t surprising, even David Bowie said giving up smoking is harder than giving up smack, but that is of small comfort to both parties when one is looking at the other as if they’ve just done a shit in a cot for blinking too quickly. Any misdemeanour -this can include sitting loudly or having hair- on the part of the person brave enough to maintain their loyalty to Messrs. B&H in the face of the newly manumitted fumier must be counted with profuse and fawning regret or punishment, nay death, will be swift. This may require the smoker to act out some sort of penance of their own volition, don’t wait to be asked, calmly push the broken wine glass into your liver smiling gratefully. Anything to save the other testicle.

The weekend beckons culminating in Mothers day on Mothers day. I have minor plans before that, some unresolved but the important thing is that I don’t have to be in this fucking office for a couple of days.

Right, the (edited) Friday list followed by an unapologetic offing from a band I loved years ago before going right off them. The singer couldn’t sing (though lyrically there is some merit) the drummer was useless but somehow they managed to pull this off. It’s 10 minutes long and stunning. There I’ve said it. I expect condemnation for this but please give it a shot (bear in mind the song comprises of two very different halves). The video is effective too, mainly because you can’t see the band themselves. Note ‘The Wall’ footage…

surealism 2
bud dwyer transcript 2
small women with hugh pendulous tits 1
rose de st georges stella artois 1
new rose,la 1
gg allin was gay 1
william bair in car crash in bonneville 1
max cavalera gear 1
sebastian horsley, march 19, 2008 1
battersea loop in darjeeling 1
jeremy begby 1
chick pea gratin 2
hunter suicide girls 2
old browning 9mm british army 1
why did valentino rossi shave his hair 1
family guy nude pics 1
warren ellis,drinkdriving
pennis pics 1
ackowledgement of computer technology 2
chris spedding 2
chickpea and spinach gratin 2
ducati advert with hot girl 2
carol vorderman naked 2
sarah beaney 2
very heavy pendulous tits 2
jordans for cheep 1

straight up

I’d not seen my bro in ages so I was rather looking forward to getting out of the office, hopping on the tube and meeting him in our lately-usual in Clapham. We managed to squeeze 3 weeks of conversation into an hour and half period accompanied by 3 ales before departing to our separate dwellings. As usual the tube train south was packed full of sullen commuters largely stood hanging from ceiling rails and moving as one like wheat in a field, no seats were available so I stood by the doors with half of South London behind me and read my book. At the next stop a quarter of the carriage emptied in an exhausted corporate sigh and I saw my chance for a seat, just the one, located at the very end of the carriage. To get it I was going to have to move fast, it was some distance away, I did the maths, if I could jump behind the exiting commuters I could use them to stave off the fresh wave of travellers but those currently standing also began to see an opportunity- I had to go now, still clutching my book I selfishly lurched to the detriment of a suit –fuck you Tory boy, I thought for no good reason and 2 young Asian men who just should’ve been faster… Yes, I was home and dry

As I sat down I noticed the smartly dressed blonde to my left, whilst facing forward with her head slightly down, she was virtually white-eyed in order to stare across at me. I could feel her eyes burning into what I thought was my face, I glanced over to her and she looked down, but then almost instantly I could see in my peripheral vision that she was again staring across at me… then I noticed what was wrong.

In her hand was the very same book I was reading… if that wasn’t enough, we were on exactly the same fucking page.

I almost wanted to say something but it seemed ridiculous, besides, I was feeling the effects of a tirade of cold clinical surrealism and presumed her reaction was similarly obscure. The passengers facing us had noticed we were reading the same book and were silently observing this peculiar tableau, one lady was smiling, another bore a permanent expression of lukewarm surprise.

A few stops after the blonde in the suit alighted without a word spoken between us, I discreetly watched her put her book in her bag and leave the carriage to become one with the shuffling tide of tired shoe leather and softly perspiring cotton shirts. I turned the page and headed home.

I’m in a bloody foul mood today.

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steve, mark, levi

It’s been a great 7 days for murdering women at the hands of evil bastard men.

Firstly there’s the one that enjoyed slaughtering prostitutes and posing their bodies for jollies, then there’s the young loony tune who casually admitting to banging a stiff (as part of his defence) after stabbing her to death, and most recently a fat squeaky mummy’s boy who hated blonde women with big tits so much he dispatched his with a hammer when he wasn’t using his car to run them over, chances are one of them was Milly Dowler, a child coming home from school.

Obviously these three cunts are over and above the usual pile of knackings, rapings and knifings that are conducted on an hourly basis up and down the country by my dick-swinging brethren, and obviously such behaviour trickles down to effect society in more mundane ways.

Last week, just after the prostitute killer went down (I don’t like these poor woman to be stigmatised by their choice of trade, I only mention it because it pertinent to their death in this case) I was walking back from the pub following a woman who was clearly unnerved by my walking behind her. In such circumstances I’m inclined to speed up and overtake them so they can see me walking ahead and away, but this lady also began to speed up so I crossed the road so we were virtually jogging on opposite sides of the street. She was on the side of my flat, which she began to approach, so I had to cross the road, which I left at the last minute, to get to my flat. Essentially she saw a man dressed in black walking quickly on the opposite side of the street suddenly darting towards her, she suddenly stopped then ran into the property next to mine and began furiously digging in her purse for keys. I walked up to my front door and popped the keys into my lock and turned to face her, smiling gently, and said ‘good evening’. Judging by the expression of sheer gibbering terror on her face I may well have had my cock out, knife in hand quoting Revelations backwards.

On the tube last night a variation on this theme occurred on two separate occasions, on the way there and on the way back. In both cases I arrived on the tube platform and after much backing off, acceleration, too-ing a fro-ing through a journey that required 2 changes I wound up on the street heading in the same direction as the person I was trying desperately to avoid because I knew I was frightening the shit out of them. It’s totally unfair I should be tarred with the same brush as these murdering horrors who’ve been mercifully convicted, but ultimately I curse god for not letting me enjoy the experience, with a rope.

Myfwt has given up smoking. This is fantastic news as far as she is concerned and I’m being very supportive of course. However, the selfish side of me can see problems, not smoking in the flat being one, or in the car, or outside next to her, being told to clean my teeth before I am within striking distance, being informed that it’s impossible for me to taste food because my mouth is lined with death, the absolute insistence that I will die in the next 10 mins of cancer, heart disease, plague, ebola, hammers… the usual reformed-smoker disgust at my revolting obscene evil habit…



I caught some of that programme on the Tories last night which I watched as lazily as possible in order to prevent an aneurysm. Obviously I had to switch off when Michael Howard appeared, I actually found it hard to type his name just then and not calmly approach a colleague and furiously urinate in his/her face and if Kenneth Baker (FUCKING CUNT) was depicted in anyway shape or form the part of my brain that deals with shock ushered the image/mention of his Most Disgustingness into a small cerebral room where upon it was shot in the back of the head with a Browning 9mm pistol.

It was a nasty show but a timely reminder of how this current government came to be after Thatcher and how the Tories subsequently (mercifully) lost their way, especially tactically in terms of leadership in the face of the fledgling New Labour government. From William Hague hilariously claiming to drink 14 pints a day (actual quote: “I was the driver’s mate, delivering the bottles and beer around South Yorkshire. We used to have a pint at every stop – well the driver’s mate did, not the driver, thankfully – and we used to have about 10 stops in a day. You worked so hard you didn’t feel you’d drunk 10 pints by four o’clock, you used to sweat so much. But then you had to lift all the empties off the lorry. It’s probably horrifying but we used to do that then go home for tea and then go out in the evening to the pub.” What a fucking lying turd) to whispering buffoon Duncan wotsisface and finally their ridiculous current Fuhrer, David Cameron, the bumbling dough-faced Hooray Henry with aspirations of genocide.

But I have to be fair here and mention (old) Labour in less than glowing circles. Neil Kinnock’s dreadful performance at the 1992 Labour Party Rally in Sheffield lost them the general election (attended by 10,000 people, costing £100,000 to stage, Kinnock was flown in by helicopter where upon he actually bounded up to the podium and said ‘well alright, well aright’ (in an American accent I hasten to add) and then ‘we better get some serious talking done here’ after being paraded from the back of the venue to the front frenetically shaking hands, hugging, and kissing babies and women etc., the ginger Welsh prick, sorry) and, lets be frank here, I’m sure Old Labour Party are single handedly responsible for causing men of a certain class to dress like their sons, there was some footage of the Labour cabinet circa 1975 enjoying a few ales, not one of them looked under 70 for fucks sake yet none of them were a day over 30 -I’ve seen more style growing out of potato.

Still, give me Old Labour any day…

Yesterday was a slog in the office; my email buddy has been away so I’ve been left to my own devices, it’s utterly dull. Last night was very nice though, met up with Frank for a few ales prior to making Nigel Slater’s Chickpea and Spinach Gratin that I lifted out of Sunday’s Food Monthly supplement in The Observer. It was, as one would expect, a taste sensation though Myfwt said I’d over-cheesed the top, I agreed verbally but within I knew I’d done good.

This song appeared in the background in last night’s Tory documentary, not my usual fare but I like it enough to put it on here, right now.


I noticed some footage of Mrs Thatcher on the television on Friday shot during her ‘glory’ days when she sold off all our national assets, destroyed trade unions, fired on retreating ships and completely and utterly fucked up my education by making so many cuts I wound up being taught the wrong syllabus in three separate subjects in a freezing warehouse by actual criminals and perverts. I kid you not, the deputy headmaster of my school went down for burglary and the PE teacher went to prison for, well, fiddling with nippers.

Senile dementia is a funny old thing. Like cancer, the common cold, the shits, it is a random assassin, similarly, the severity and the effect it has on its targets is entirely undirected –some people become benignly childlike and gently confused, others became immensely distressed and scream at cups of tea for hours on end before having a 24 carat fit and attacking anything with a face.

In 2002 Thatcher became patron of the Alzheimer’s Research Trust primarily because she’s riddled with it (self serving old fucker anyone?). What I’d like to know is why aren’t we privy to 24 hour rolling footage of her going about her daily business as we were in her heyday? I feel we’re being denied our rights as subjects to her wilfulness when she was prime minister. It only seems fair that all the individuals, and their families and friends of those that suffered at the hands of this dreadful crone, should be allowed to see her pissing herself in an armchair, for example, or walking about with handfuls of her own excretion (or someone else’s, I’m not fussy) or just crying herself to sleep because she’s forgotten where she left her Golly.

My weekend was quiet, it contained all the right elements of what constitutes ‘a weekend’, drinks with friends, shopping trips for food, lots of cooking and what have you, but made unique because of the killer bike ride I had yesterday. The Black Bitch is like a new machine after its service, this has been mentioned before but I’d not had a chance to properly test it on A roads. Yesterday I did, I even managed to frighten myself testing lean angles on my new stickier-than-Bostik tyres and blasting away from junctions with such ferocity I though my bollocks were going to burst. By the time I arrived at my folks I was physically shaking with my IQ reduced to Peter and Jane, it felt sublime. As I parked up my dad came running from the house, ‘quick!’ he said, ‘the World Superbikes have just started…’ I rolled back my head in ecstasy, he may as well have informed me that Sarah Beaney was lying prone upstairs all a-froth insisting I sate her lascivious libido prior to going down to the pub for a month.

The first race of the season heralds the dawn of spring and, for me, the New Year. Dad and I watched reverently as young men put themselves in abject danger for the sake of victory and for our viewing pleasure, you come off one of these a bit wonky and you’re not going to break your leg a little bit like a footballer might, your head can come off. After a few minor tweaks to my machine, with dad’s help, I rode home feeling alive and victorious, almost as if I’d conquered the winter single handedly.

When I got home, as I was preparing supper, Myfwt popped downstairs to get something from the car when she bumped into Cunt. Apparently he began to apologise profusely for his selfish and unreasonable behaviour with regards to making a fucking racket by gitishlessly twanking his strungs and crakeing like an amplified Scrub Bird. He wasn’t pissed, he wasn’t in the grip of some psychotic episode… Myfwt said it was genuine enough… I’m not buying it for a second.

Is it Metal Monday already?

Classic post-Ozzy Sabbath… turn it up

mean streets

What the hell happened to the BBC News last night? The coverage of that Steve Wright bastard was so sensationalist I was half expecting Kevin Whatley to give a fucking statement in character. It was unforgivably voyeuristic: over the top of a theatrically grim commentary we were treated to disturbing CCTV footage of the last moments these poor women were alive prior to being slain and posed in the shape of a cross, creepy CCTV footage of the killer stalking the streets, more CCTV footage of the shit being interrogated after being caught by the cops, before being privy to a history of his disturbed and pitiful existence, which included footage of him on TV in the 80’s slobbering over some bird. The most interesting aspect of the case, the forensics, without which he’d still be a-killing, was virtually ignored in favour of frankly comic book broadcasting… having said all that I’d have forgiven them everything if they’d dwelt more on the fact that his father was also his half brother, I still can’t get my head round that. One thing is sure though, don’t go to Ipswich.

I spent most of last night watching TV. I’d not planned to, Masterchef was one of the best to date, primarily because we witnessed the fascinating dead-eyed world of professional food criticism, and I’m intrigued by the technical proficiency of the remaining contestants, particularly the posh 18 years old (for all the right reason I hasten to add) who last night managed to make egg-yolk ravioli for crying out loud.

If ‘My Street’ on Channel 4 at 9 was anything to go by everyone who lives down your road is completely fucked up (calls to mind the lyrics of Civilisation Street by Culture Shock) though down mine they’re all on the fucking dole, no one seems to work but me. We peeked into the lives of, mainly, lonely sad men, an elderly widower, a middle-aged widower with literary aspirations, a schizophrenic ex drug smuggler and most upsetting of all an articulate 25 year old with chronic Tourette’s Syndrome called Adam.

He allowed the filmmaker to shoot him having an episode. Of course, we all know of TS, I wrote a rather pithy piece on a programme shown on TV last year on WWM (link right) but had no idea TS could get that serious. Adam was shown fitting on his sofa blasting out staccato words, largely directed at his TS, and convulsing so violently I thought he was going to snap, when this dreadful shuddering briefly ceased, he spoke softly and intelligently to camera before it kicked off again. It was harrowing and shocking stuff and I was genuinely saddened when we were informed that Adam was found dead 3 weeks later.

Jonathan Meades went some way to picking up the rest of my evening. I’m a massive fan of him and his new series Magnetic North. Meades demonstrates that he’s arguably the best broadcaster in the bloody world, his eloquence and dark wit is thrilling, his subject matter compelling and I sat there wriggling with delight at his literary commentary. It’s must see stuff, there are only two programmes in the series and it’s on BBC4 which means it’ll be repeated before the next instalment. Did you know, for example, the word ‘gargoyle’ derives from French onomatopoeic word for gargle? Miss it at your cerebral peril.

As there was no Piqued last Friday I’ve decided to reward you all with not just one Friday list but two, the first is the usual (edited for things relating to the title of Vladimir Nabokov’s seminal book, I’m sorry to say) searches over the past week and the second Piqueds all time top searches, worryingly.

Following that a youtube tune dedicated to Adam, who, when last filmed was wearing the same Motorhead hoodie that I own.

Good weekends all.

Search Terms for 7 days

nigella+nude+sex+pics+photos 1
clits and tits pictures 1
danny minogues big tits 1
valentino rossi naked 1
heavy hanging pendulous tits 1
hns magazines rachael ray 1
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“donor kebab” +recipe 1
carol vorderman topless 10
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budd dwyer flip book 2
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revealing pictures of carol vorderman in 2
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nigella naked 2
“budd dwyer” transcript 1
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leah betts video 1
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carol vorderman nip slip 3
nude nigella lawson 3
penny smith nipple slips 2
vorderman naked 2
big tits tube 2
shaven arsehole 1
big naked breast photos 1
casey thompson nude 1

Search Terms for all days ending 2008-02-22

nigella lawson nude 352
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carol vorderman nude 275
casey thompson nude 219
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When I went to bed last night I could hear Cunt snoring. I said to Myfwt, a Cunt like that has no right to sleep so soundly, on account of the fact he’s a fucking cunt –then the thought that I was speaking of him in such invidiousness tones whilst I could hear the little dog-dollop snoring below began to do my head in. Surely that must be the limit, actually hearing the sound of the person you despise more than David Cameron soundly sleeping.

Still, at least he was asleep and more importantly quiet, despite his somnolent honkings. For the past few evening we’ve been treated to the second-hand sounds of him ‘entertaining’ some poor cow, this includes plying her with Piat D’Or and Black Tower (I see the evidence of this in the communal Recycle Bin) playing dance music over which he shouts in a way best described as ‘special’ and of course, whooping like some witless post-pubescent hick whose just discovered how to make his perpetually ossified cock go all floppy.

I’m in one of those dreadful moods this morning; I’m not hungover despite a few ales with Frank and his missus last night, and two glasses of wine when I got in, it’s a lovely day today and my black bitch and I are one again, no one has died, everyone is well actually… I’m just feeling, well disgruntled. This morning I nearly bit my toothbrush in half on hearing that the government are planning to legislates against cut-price booze in Supermarkets…

Oh where to start with his one. Firstly, cut-price booze is freely available in just about every corner shop in the UK, and I can assure you underage kids/winoes don’t go shopping in Waitrose to spend 40p on their 2 litre bottles of White Tinkle. 8 Ace in Viz is funny because it’s true, for example… So we have an agenda, I smell tax revenue of course and it won’t be the jobless wankers that sit about all day in vicious rows necking plastic bottles of liquid cirrhosis that will feel the pinch. No, it will be the middle class middle-income types that foot the bill for this, as bloody per.

But that wasn’t that part of the news that caused me to pinch one of my own pills in horror; it was hearing a Tesco spunkspitter altruistically announcing it was ‘willing to work with the government’.

Well how fucking kind, how benevolent of you Tesco, yes, you’ll ‘reluctantly’ hike up your booze prices to help the British Medical Councils government driven incentive to help themselves to more tax whilst you add to your disgusting portfolio of property acquisition and profits, as, even as I type this, that cunt Dame Shirley Porter, (described by Nicholas Lezard as “…the most corrupt British political figure in living memory, with the possible exception of Robert Maxwell”) the heir to Tesco’s fortunes languishes in opulence after committing the heinous crime of corrupting the democratic system of voting in her home for votes scandal and getting away with it scott free.

Having said that, I’d still have Porter and Cameron over for sex tea rather than live above a creature I wouldn’t trust to sit on a loo the right way round.

pink tee

I like fog. Always have done, I know it’s a bit of a nuisance when it comes to motorways/isolated moorland and wotnot but I get the same feeling in fog as I do when I get into bed, in an oblique way of course as in many respects they’re diametrically opposed, one is freezing water and the other soft, warm and dry… anyway, I was riding in this morning through the fog, which was rather lovely for reason mentioned, when I came upon a small car with one of those dangling signs in the rear window for the purposes of supplying trivial, and in this instance, infuriatingly trite information with an undertow of smugness to any poor sod unlucky enough to cast an eye upon it.

The sign said ‘Little Princess on Board’.

‘Little Princess’ is indicative of this fucking dreadful Jordan/Spice Girl/ Paris Hilton world in which we now exist, itself a monstrous dumbing down of the female that encourages this whole ‘my shit don’t stink’ attitude on the one hand and pro-misogynist, slutty thinking on the other. But what really got my goat was that the slogan was printed on a tiny pink t-shirt, the mother (that decided she was going to announce to the world she was carting about one of those vomiting high-heeled footballer throwabouts-to-be) clearly felt that a basic sign wasn’t good enough for her little bastard, oh no, she thought a tiny pink fucking t-shirt was somehow ‘classier’.

At the next set of traffic lights I looked through the car to examine the atrocious arsehole driving. A girl who couldn’t have been a day over 17 was swishing her hair furiously in the drivers seat and glaring at her visage in the mirror pausing only to adjust her features with various cosmetic devices. The lights went from red, to orange to green and still she was pissing about with her head. I tooted my horn to alert of this rather important light-change fact and she ceased preening, stared in the mirror at me before realising the lights were telling her to go, other motorists started honking she waved an apology. I gave her the finger.

Pleasant evening last night, met up with Frank for a pair of ales (well, it was Tuesday…) and made supper on my return, a simple meal of baked potato with tuna melt, coleslaw and corn with Myfwt. We watched About Schmidt, which we both rather enjoyed, the end upset Myfwt somewhat, her dad is in hospital at the mo and it triggered a few relative emotions.

Yesterday afternoon I procured a new set of clippers for my bearded face and undercarriage, which, if left un-pruned, begin to resemble Brian Blessed. This morning I undertook the delicate act of pollarding my clockweights and I’m pleased to report the clippers were a good buy and the results more than clement. Following this I washed my hair, I’m only mentioning this because I never wash it in the morning as it (used to) take(s) too long to dry. But the recent haircut allowed me to wash and partially dry my hair before shoving my barnet into my crash helmet. By the time I arrived at work my hair was dry and looking all messy and cool and shit.

I’m sat here feeling all vainglorious with clean hair and a shaven bag and subsequently feel perfectly preened.

I make no apologies for today’s offing. It’s folk folks (check out the gunt on the chick…)

soho boho

I had a rather odd dream last night in which someone caught me writing this at work. Obviously there are occasions when people do creep to this corner of the office without me noticing and stand behind me as I blatantly spurn my working day, but being a dream the colleague in question was a brooding bald 9-foot-tall woman with what appeared to be an erection. I turned in my chair to glare furiously at this monstrosity, itself not the paradigm of sanguinity, which then mouthed silent abuse at me. I was just on the brink of throwing a wobbly when the creature leant forward and deftly switched off my machine with the tumescent bulge in its dress.

Then I woke up with a thumping headache.

I have a hangover, it’s not too bad but I wish it wasn’t here. I’ve not had one in the office for a while and it’s a stark reminder of my continuing need to abstain –still it was worth it. After a frankly revolting day in the office I arrived back home where upon I dropped my trusty beard trimmer, breaking the fucker in twain, before getting on the tube and allowing myself to be absorbed in my book, which is so absorbing I was paying scant attention to where I was going and missed my fucking stop, which took and additional 20 minutes to undo. By the time I arrived at the boozer in Soho Bill, Harry, Jack and Red where already there, joining them were Bill’s agent, Thalia, his assistant, Verity and her friend Penny. All in all a jolly good bunch.

Drinks began to appear out of nowhere and conversations spontaneously erupted with my neighbours, somehow I wound up enthusiastically ranting about Princess Diana, that dreadful harridan who was about to get married to an arms dealer, but mercifully my new friends remained in situation. The evening passed most congenially, every time I prepared to leave another beer appeared under my nose, I finally left with everyone else and we wandered as a merry throng through a picture perfect London to Charring Cross where we said our farewells.

The tube journey back passed very quickly, I was piss pregnant for the entire journey (oh, ‘Piss Pregnant’ got published in Viz’s Profanisaurus yesterday, as first used here. I’ve been credited of course) and wound up having to tinkle on the street by the tube like some sort of football hooligan before arriving back home and indulging in a large glass of red excellence with my unputdownable book until 1.30am, foolishly.

I think another night off the pop is in order.

This is bloody acers…

bb bill

I got my black bitch back, Christ she looks wonderful, freshly shod and overhauled she feels brand new. The bill for the service (and extras that I wasn’t expecting) was astronomical, so much so that I could justify 60 quid on the new gloves I bought –my credit card is now in rehab.

After a day in the office I shot home with my loved one tucked under my bag and got ready for the evenings romantic engagement. Myfwt, looking beautiful, and I, looking like one of the Corleones, took a cab to Knightsbridge to arrive at the pre-booked venue bang on 8.30. The mood and décor of the place reflected my garb, though the atmosphere was a lot friendlier. We were served champagne before being invited to eat. This was gourmet stuff, small portions of former sea-dwelling creatures, none of your run of the mill swimmers either -caviar, scallops, lobster…et al, skilfully combined with vegetables that had been excellently fucked about with and in most cases reduced to a mere dribble on the plate. Each course came with an explanation, in one ear and out the other after a while, as Myfwt and I drank ourselves potty. The subsequent over indulgence in the Fleurie and the small portions of food resulted in the evening ending on a bum note, but I have no regrets, save the fucking bill.

Friday began with hushed apologies and I got up and set to work on the flat whilst Myfwt nursed the end of her hangover with BBC1’s unemployed-offings. When I was last signing-on it was all ‘programmes for schools’ in the morning, archaic black and white costume dramas and threadbare homemade soaps in the afternoon, perpetually punctuated by lifetimes of dour business news. These days it’s all gormless chat, wacky antique features, goofy home improvements, zany property shows with a myriad of time wasting catch-ups in the vast arsehole of digital TV.

I popped on Radio 4 and got on with a good clean, I needed to make the flat as instantly ‘this is nice’ as possible. This was achieved by dusting, scrubbing, bleaching and re-organising/disposing of various items, Myfwt saved the day by hoovering, a task I despise more than the thought of Hitler and Danny Dwyer enjoying a friendly pint, and virtually impossible as my fucking back had gone all shit. By now it was early evening, it had taken me nearly 7 hours to achieve my aim, I took myself off for a quick pint with Frank and his missus whilst Myfwt opted for a leisurely swim at the gym and we re-convened for a simple supper of Piqued’s Prol Pizza.

On Saturday lunchtime an estate agent came round to value my flat, I got what I expected and Myfwt and I went off to see the mortgage bloke who I really must say is a little camp treasure. The rest of the afternoon was spent reading and watching TV, pottering with a smile, essentially, and at 5pm we set off to tread the dubious streets of Woking.

The journey was dreadful. We missed the bloody train and had to wait nearly half an hour on a freezing platform surrounded by swarms of less than pretty Chelsea fans, themselves a world away from the well-heeled streets that surround Sloane Square. The train took an age to arrive at our destination but I’m pleased to say Myfwt friend Penny greeted us with fresh garlic bread, salmon and dill ravioli and wine, of course. It was a lovely evening but I’m less than impressed by Woking, it seems that the younger residents have been hairdressed by a lunatic and their clothing was all a bit too Hollyoaks for my taste. We briefly nipped out to a pub, which was staffed by morons and whose clientele epitomised fake tan, highlights and furious onanism.

Mercifully we went back to Penny’s and finished off the evening, and the wine, in comfort before Myfwt and I took a surprisingly soporific and well-timed journey back to London and home to bed.

Sunday was perfectly dozy, just as it should be; we lazed in bed for a good long while with breakfast, tea and telly before being ejected from our pits by sheer restlessness. Myfwt went off for a swim and I did a spot of writing and I hopped on the black bitch for a spin. I popped into Louche’s house for cup of coffee and slice of fruitcake on the way home and rode back framed by a shimmering lobster coloured sunset that was distracting to the point of danger. Melancholy has never looked so beautiful, I thought before realising it was Sunday and that my brain was sitting in a cold bath staring at the dripping tap…

When she arrived back Myfwt took on the cooking duties, she made a hearty warm tuna salad and introduced me to Jerusalem artichoke, which I approached with scepticism and, after deciding they were delicious, consumed with alacrity. The evening was spent lazily reading and watching cooking shows on More4, it was a pleasant unremarkable night, as good as it gets when staring into the teeth of a working week.

It’s metal Monday…

la more

My humiliation of riding the thing I was leant by Triumph forced me to take a longer route into work. I simply didn’t want to go the way I normally do because of my reputation, the one I’ve manufactured in my head, the fast but smooth dude on the Triple who rides alone. He’ll give way once, a second time, you die.

Yesterday afternoon I set off to the Festival Hall to meet a client for a meeting. As in the previous few days the weather was stunning, I even found reading on the train distracting because my head kept turning to see the golden-lit world pass in a seamless streak of colour. I drank the atmosphere at Waterloo as I passed through to the South Bank and arrived at the base of the London Eye in blazing sunshine. I turned east and wandered down the path by the river where all the living statues, magicians and stunt performers draw small crowds of families and tourists. Shortly I arrived at the café, bought a bottle of Ginger Beer in lieu of the real thing, and sat down. The meeting was swift, pleasant and very productive and by 4.30 pm I was home.

Last night I saw a place, a two bedroom flat that I’d like to buy. As is the case there are problems, the lease it too short and somebody else has already put in an offer. I’ll leave it to fate; I’m not going to allow this crap to stress me out. Instead of taking that bike-thing I decided to drive to the property, leaving myself plenty of time in order to park. On the way whilst waiting in a queue on Tooting High St something hit the back of my van and scraped up the side. I looked down to see a bloke in a Japanese car all bedecked in gold chains and wotnot looking up at me, I indicated that he and I must park up and discuss this matter, he U-turned, as did I and we arrived side by side in a convenient car park.

As soon as we got out of our respective vehicles I was greeted with a ‘What? What?’ as if it was I that had scraped down the side of his poxy little fuck-bucket and he began to re-attach his dangling nearside mirror. I then informed him that he’d scratched my van (he had but I’m driving a battered white transit which isn’t exactly dent/scratch free) and I tried it on. ‘Give me some money’ I said coolly. The little shit went nuts and squared up to me, yelling his head off and posturing all gangsta-like. I told him not to raise his voice to me, which incensed him further. Not being remotely bothered about the virtually invisible scratch he’d caused, nor concerned that I was in any sort of physical danger I hasten to add, I decided to wind him up. Firstly I took his vehicle number, dead casual like, which didn’t go down well at all, I demanded money again then scolded him for his dreadful language. After more yelling I then told him that I was going to call The Police ‘because he was being all cross and acting like a big baby’, at which point he leapt in his car, still yelling, but now looking frankly terrified, and flew off. Satisfied that I’d ruined his evening I got back in the van and carried on my journey.

It’s Valentine’s Day, I’m off out for dinner tonight with Myfwt. Despite being overpriced the restaurant in question has an excellent reputation and I’m very much looking forward to it. But there is someone else I’m seeing first, someone very special. At lunchtime today after buying her new tyres, brake pads and a full service I will ride my Black Bitch hard and whisper words of love as we hurtle back to office, together again, and long may it last.

Oh, to the regulars, they may well not be a post until Monday as tomorrow I’m taking the day off to sort the flat out for its valuation on Saturday. Down come the erotic Bellmer drawings, the cartoon Christs, the heavy metal ephemera. I doubt they’ll go back up again, not until we’ve moved at least.

Swineshead provided the spark for todays youtube feature, he keeps pestering me for intercourse but I’ve told him time and time again that until he wipes his bottom properly I’m not interested.

Happy Valentines Day.


Piat D’or is the modern equivalent of Bulls Blood, Blue Nun or Black Tower, you remember the ad ‘Le French adore Le Piat D’or?’ A screaming great fat lie of such magnanimous proportions it’s miracle that Tyburn wasn’t reinstated just to behead the marketing director.

It would seem Cunt has a new ‘girl’friend, obviously, like he’s clearly done, I’m forced to ignore the fact he’s a father to a small child -or I’ll be forced to rip out the tendons in my neck and defecate upon them- and this is what he’s serving these days. No more Carling for Cunt, oh no, he now requires ‘sumfing clarssy’ to have with his Fray Bentos and Super Noodles. I saw the empty bottles in the recycle bin this morning; I did one of those ‘HA!’ noises at enormous volume and restrained myself from kicking his door in and making him eat broken Piat D’or glass from my cheerfully bloody fingers.

Lovely night last night, Myfwt came back home and unlike the previous evening I succeeded in making supper, which we ate with a friend, who was on Masterchef. I can’t really go on about this too much without breaking cover but I will say the person in question handled themselves in the face of the two presenters in a manner that can only be described as exemplary, said friend maintained their nonchalance and wit and refused to subscribe to the hysteria of television. Jolly good show I say.

Following that a conversation began that was intense enough for us both to imbibe without impunity, indeed, it was helping the flow of conversation. Feeling relatively guilt free from recent bouts of abstinence I rather enjoyed myself. Off the pop tonight, back on tomorrow.

Yesterday day was fairly dreadful, I was feeling all cross about the previous evening and if that wasn’t enough I was forced to ride to the bike hospital in Sunbury. It was a stunning afternoon, this almost worked against me as for some of the journey I was taking the exact same route as I did on Sunday which I found a tad depressing, and there were fucking police everywhere. Still I managed to pull a few stops out… I began to re-evaluate my recent decision to flog the Black Bitch and get a new one, there’s nothing wrong with her, at least nothing that can’t be cured by a new service and she’s unique in so far I’ve spent money on a few bolt on goodies to make her look right pretty.

I arrived at the hospice for the mechanically weak and was informed that in addition to the service I’d need new brake pads, which I was expecting, and new tyres, which I fucking wasn’t. I knew the back was on its last legs but had completely failed to notice a bald centimetre line in the front… Blast. Bike tyres aren’t like the ‘firty pand a cornar’ shit you get on cars. They’re mixed compound, sticky on the outside and slightly harder in the middle, and made to a much higher standard; they’re also fucking expensive. A set of tyres and I won’t get much change from £250. To add insult to injury they leant me a bike. Last time they let me loose on a brand new Speed Triple, no such luck this time. I plodded back to work on a brand new Triumph Bonneville, for those of you that know anything at all about bikes ‘brand new’ and ‘Triumph Bonneville’ is an oxymoron.

I have an original Bonnie (as us bikers call them, it’s the later T140v, US spec, lovely stuff if not particularly reliable) it rests these days at my folks where it’s adored by my dad. The new Bonnie was million miles away from that. For a start it’s much slower, it’s quieter than a Tinker’s whisper and handles like a Parkinson’s patient going down a cobbled road in a shopping trolley. I. Fucking. hate. It.

I’m so embarrassed to be seen on it I took the bus into work today. Christ I miss my Black Bitch, when I see her tomorrow, on Valentines day appropriately, she’ll be all gorgeous and new-like… I can’t sell her. I love her way too much.

Perhaps I’ll buy her a fucking bottle of Piat D’or.

More from Stiff, this is fucking acersz


Trying to think of anything that was good about yesterday. No, it was all bad, pretty much from the moment I woke up to the time I finally went off to sleep.

Work was its usual mundane self, saved momentarily by doing P in the morning, the afternoon rattled past punctuated with abundant quantities of coffee and cigarettes. The only thing I was looking forward to doing in the evening was seeing Myfwt, making some supper and watching Masterchef. Oddly, being resigned to the fact that I wasn’t drinking, indeed, it wasn’t even an option, even the usual watered down gloom that arrives with abstinence was sitting grumpily outside of the cortex.

There was one other thing I had to do. I had to write a piece before Wednesday and it was something I wasn’t able to do at work. I’m amazed I can write P at work frankly because I’m used to silence when I write, P is done on a needs/must basis so I’ve no option, anything else outside of the occasional piece for friends is easier done at home. I began my task in earnest when I arrived back, later than usual. Coincidentally Myfwt wasn’t feeling too good and had decided to come straight back instead of popping by the gym. So engrossed in the whole article I failed to take full heed of ‘not feeling well’. When will I ever learn?

Before she arrived I’d been pondering the article. Pondering is done either with a cigarette or by wandering to the kitchen and wandering back (a ‘wander-ponder’ if you will) with a cup of tea or, in this case, Teriyaki peanuts, which are more more-ish than they have any right to be. I ate over half a packet completely by accident.

About 15 mins before the article was complete Myfwt arrived home looking a little fragile. My mind still scribbling away I ushered her in, she had a couple of peanuts and I finished off the bag and the article at almost the same moment. Right, time to cook… Christ. I then realised that I was feeling utterly sick. I’d gorged myself on so many peanuts I forgotten myself. I announced my self induced malaise to Myfwt who was looking all wane and pail and lovely and refused to cook her the dinner I’d offered to make, indeed, been banging on about all day. This didn’t go down well. Evening ruined.

For the last few weeks I’ve been trying to find out how much I owe the fucking cunts that are the Halifax. I took a loan out a few years back and I’ve been paying it back monthly. Yesterday morning I called them with my account details, what have you. After being asked a series of baffling questions I was informed I’d ‘failed security’ and they fucking hung up on me. Of course, I called them back, the same procedure started, I failed security again (the questions went from, ‘what day do you pay us back a month’ and ‘how much do us pay us back annually’ to ‘what was the colour of the APR on the 3rd March 2003 and how many Howard’s does it take to change a (energy efficient) light bulb’). The last time I called them back (the time after they’d hung up on me again for swearing) they told me just to go into a branch with my passport and they’d tell me directly. Fucking cunts the lot of them.

Oh, Curb Your Enthusiasm was actually shit last night, the worse one I’ve seen, and I couldn’t sleep after.

Masterchef was shit too.


double dutch

I think this is a world record. Yes, pretty sure that the weekend has gone the fastest ever, it seems like only a few hours ago I was sat in front of Jools utterly captivated, all misty eyed, enraptured.

Frank and I had had a couple of pints in the boozer we have to default to in times of Rugby and Football nonsense, in this instance his missus was out on a jolly with her girlfriends and he felt it best to stay clear, wisely. Frank was a bit stressed out when he arrived due to an exhausting week but by the time we parted we were both in good cheer. I nipped home and prepared supper at about the same time Myfwt strolled in. Glasses were raised over a sensational seafood wrap that I made from scratch and than, quite bizarrely, Myfwt went out of the room to make a phone call to her pal Patty, and arrived back 4 fucking hours later after much guffawing from the kitchen.

No matter, I quietly imbibed with my headphones. British Sea Power were due on Jools, an act I’m pleased to say made their debut on Piqued a couple of weeks ago. They were sensational, even Jools looked a bit unsteady on his pins after due to the sheer exhilaration of loaded euphoric sound. Not even , who I must say hasn’t really done it for me in the past, couldn’t quite trump them. I have to say he made a sterling effort though… I really enjoyed his International Playboy wotnot…actually, one thing I’d like to say at this point. I noticed that Morrissey’s act had balls because he was singing over a wadge of distorted guitars, pounding drums and thundering bass, not tinny, whiny breezes of corrugated air (appropo The Smiths) but fucking hard, heavy rock -they all come round in the end.

Saturday began late, after a breakfast of bacon sandwiches I dashed round Sainsbury like I was ablaze (quick mention of my commiserations to Camden, glad no known was hurt. Crying shame though). Myfwt met me at home and we drove to Marylebone as I’d an appointment with a hairdresser. Fed up with me having my entire face obscured by a gargantuan stack of keratin she’d arranged and agreed to pay for the appointment. The hairdresser was actually quite good, I’m vaguely pleased with the result but have no more to say on the matter. We arrived home after 8 and I popped up the road to meet James for a couple of sherberts, it’s been a while since I’d seen him so it was jolly good to catch up, he, like me, is in the process of moving. An awful business with potentially splendid rewards. I got home and made prol pizza and squandered the rest of the evening burping and drinking beer in front of an excellent programme about Stiff records, look out for some samples this week (but not today).

I got up at lunchtime and ate kippers with toast, Myfwt was already half way to Berkshire to visit her niece and nephew and I was preparing myself to do the same. It was the first proper bike-friendly day of the year, mild, sunny and wholly wrong for mid February. I fucked off out of London like a man possessed, I was actually yelling under my helmet due to sheer exhilaration; let this act as a symptom of my irresponsibility. I arrived at my folks in record time gurgling like an idiot.

After a few cups of tea and a chat, I headed out into darkest Surrey to visit my sister, bro in law and niece, who I’ve not seen in over a month. She now has fucking teeth and has got all interested in spoons and cups, she’s all chuckles and wind, and has got a thing for leather… she wouldn’t leave my leather trousers alone, after clawing at my knee pad she started to gently bite it, pat it before vomiting all over it following a protracted grunt.
After a jolly few hours I headed home. The traffic wasn’t too bad, it would seem that most of London hadn’t taken advantage of the unseasonably clement weather, much to my delight.

The weekend ended as it had begun, Frank and I hooked up the boozer for a pair of ales. I was home before Myfwt got back from seeing her family, when she arrived it was late so we poured a couple of g&t’s and watched TV in bed. We accidentally began watching Graham Swifts Last Orders with the intention of turning in before midnight. No such luck, we couldn’t stop, it’s flawed but with a cast like that, only a twat would’ve switched off.

My Black Bitch is going to have to go to bike hospital tomorrow. I’m worried sick.

…but for now, it’s metal Monday (metal no booze Monday, bah)

booze n’ pooze

Masterchef last night was one of the best ever. Usually it’s possible to get a jolly good idea who is going to win, but on occasion it’s too close to call.

Last night was one of those editions, it wasn’t so much about food, it’s presentation, use of flavours and wotnot, it boiled down to raw emotion that had one of the fucking judges crying like a baby over a trifle. The winner was based on food being something of enormous enjoyment, not just the way it looks, but the way it makes you feel when you eat it. The dead cert to win, an excellent chef who pretty much didn’t put a foot wrong was pipped at the post, to my astonishment and sheer delight, by a woman who made food that evoked passion on the basis it that it come screaming from the heart.

Next week one of my friends is appearing it in, I’ll advise accordingly, you lucky, lucky, erm, folk.

Right, two days off the pop. Last time I did two days without booze I was in hospital with a kidney stone scraping it’s way to freedom via my inner guts. Drinking wasn’t an option, besides I was tanked to the amygdalae on sweet Morphine and to be honest, the last thing on my mind. Mentally I feel less soporific and docile but more alert, aggressive, even. Physically, I’m still finding sleeping hard, though it’s not as bad as it was and my back isn’t aching as much either. Oh, I done a plop last night which was a hymn to symmetry, usually they’re like pig slurry, and would’ve been the jewel in the crown of the Bristol stool scale if it was wasn’t now magnanimously heading torpedo-like to the North Sea, goodbye my darling, goodbye.

The weekend is gentle; few well deserved drinks with Frank, dinner with Myfwt and a Saturday of bloody shopping. Late afternoon I’m getting my hair cut which Myfwt is paying for as it’s she who is objecting to my wild locks (she has a point I suppose) and the evening is beautifully vague. Sunday, biking off to see my niece who’ve I’ve not seen since Christmas. Christ, them Monday happens again.

The Friday list (getting more and more edited on account of nasty entries) followed by a tune Swineshead reminded me of yesterday, it’s acer.

Nice weekends all.

essentially emily
stella artois fight club
masterchef roxanne
leah betts
me and my sexy aunt pictures fucked my m
nude baer gallery
photo big t i t woman farance
suckig tits
nude married bears
sargeant clegg
jerry springer striped and screaming
red tube hairy girls
hairy aunt
gg allin was gay
napoleon women with hairy cunts
budd dwyer aftermath
doog fuck wif


Seems everyone is jumping on my insomnia bandwagon, first Heath Ledger overdoses on sleeping pills and then Charlie Brooker starts claiming to have it –it’s not on frankly. Last night after yet another evening of barefaced abstinence, insomnia happened. The ironic thing about insomnia is that you’re not how long it takes you to fall asleep until you wake up. So last night I woke up at 5am after falling asleep at 1am, I ascertained it had taken me an hour to get to sleep but was now fucking wide awake. After waking up this morning at 8am I concluded I’d been awake for 2 fucking hours. This means I have had a total of 5 hours broken sleep. Great.

Yesterday I had a hangover; the day crawled past like an octogenarian tortoise, work was attempted but never really gelled. Today I’m just exhausted but I’ll reluctantly admit my head is clearer; I’m preparing myself for another night off. That’ll be two voluntary nights in a row. I honestly cannot remember the last time I deliberately punished myself by not having a few glasses of wine of an evening but I’m 99.9% I was still living with my folks.

After ‘work’ I trundled home, redressed and caught the tube for a few stops. I’d arranged to meet Myfwt at the estate agent for a mortgage assessment. The mortgage bloke was rather portly and as gay as window but trustworthy, succinct and decent. Just so you know I’m not displaying naivety about these sorts of fellows, myself and many of my friends (on my recommendation) used his predecessor to our immense satisfaction. We went through some stuff and I fought to remain conscious (it was much worse having to go through all this shit a second time). Myfwt was much more on the ball and we reached a happy conclusion with regard to how much we can afford without being stretched to the point of farting out blood for the next decade.

Sadly the reality of the expense of moving means that virtually every penny I’ve made on my current place will be lost in deposit/costs of the next place… I’m still secretly hoping they’ll be a few quid left over to acquire a younger Black Bitch but I’m not holding my breath.

Cunt is being a fucking cunt again, after a series of ‘testing, testing, one two, thank you’ (there is NO ONE FUCKING THERE) he’s taken to playing acoustically whilst bellowing out of tune/time into an amped up microphone, the deranged oxygen thieving cunt. I cannot describe to you the noise he makes.

On the one hand it’s toe-curlingly embarrassing because he so tone deaf and woefully devoid of any talent, yet so deluded he doesn’t even have the little bit of brain to stop him impose this honking desert of feeblemindedness on others. Why would anyone in their right mind do that? Why would you go out of you way to inform the world that you’re a fucking arsehole of the loftiest proportions? WHY?

The sooner I leave that place the better, and don’t go thinking I’ll forget all about it when I’m gone. He’ll pay for what he’s done, by the power of Greyskull he’ll fucking pay.


I’m in a foul mood this morning; everything was going swimmingly until I switched on my fucking PC. First off I couldn’t access my emails, accessing ones emails at work is more important than breathing, then after con+alt+del 3 times my cunting mouse stopped working. This device was crushed underfoot like its namesake. When I finally did get things going (a full 30 minutes after I’d arrived) I noticed I was all hungover and anxious. Two days off the pop here I come. Two days sleeplessness to follow…

Needless to say my insomnia problems didn’t get a look in last night, I went to bed just after 1am following a gorgeous night with Myfwt. It began with a pair of ales with Frank before I went off in search of eggs/milk./flour etc.. You would’ve thought that those heathen cockmeisters Tesco would’ve pre-empted a rush on these ingredients, it being pancake day and them being the greediest grubbiest toilet chain of comestibles in the history of food stores, but no, the useless fuckwits had sold out of everything. Costcutter on the other hand *shudder* was resplendent with all the items so after much faffing I returned home to prepare supper.

During Masterchef (which I wrote about on Watch With Mothers yesterday, link right) I made fucking pancakes that caused Myfwt to utter ‘genuis’ after she’d eaten. My intention was to cook savoury pancakes and then have the ol’ lemon and sugar fellows after, but the savoury ones were so action packed we couldn’t eat another morsel. Get your pencils out, here comes a recipe… Obviously cook the pancake, I made quite dense ones but don’t over do it, and then fill with the following: rocket salad (half a packet, obviously it’s better to make it from scratch but I wanted to watch Horizon wot waz all about drugs –more on that later) with sliced cherry tomato, fresh prawns, griddled salmon steaks (which I cooked until crispy and then flaked into the salad) and then tossed the lot with aioli and seasoning. What’s particularly wonderful about this dish is that you can wrap the filling in torn off bits of pancake and shovel it into your maw like a fucking pig.

Horizon let itself down in three key ways. It did a bloody good job facing up to all the hysteria surrounding drugs perpetuated by the media, which must stand as the epitome of hypocrisy if you’ve ever been around people that do, but then just let it wander in and trample all over the fucking good it was doing. Firstly, the phrase ‘binge drinking’ its utter bollocks, a red-top buzz word, shouldn’t have been used. Period.

Secondly Leah Betts wasn’t mentioned, she should’ve been as soon as ‘E’ was heralded as a safe (let’s not beat about the bush here, the stuff is virtually harmless) drug with 0 known deaths you can guarantee all the fat middle-aged ignoramuses up and down the country would be having aneurysms about it. ‘What about Leah, WHAT ABOUT LEAH?!’ (Explode) Christ, I can hear them screaming from here…

Ironically Betts died at the hands of the media (she died because her brain swelled up after drinking too much water following sensationalised misinformation about E and de-hydration which was perpetuated by press and TV) and the same bunch of tools gave her father a soapbox from which to spout endless streams of pathetically ignorant guff.

Finally, the fucking music. A sitar and swirly distorted guitars do nothing to put me off taking drugs, quite the opposite actually. During the show, as I was being told how harmful doing shit was, I smoked two joints and drunk 2 thirds of a bottle of wine, I noticed Myfwt wasn’t holding back either. I went on to smoke another 3 joints, drink the rest of the bottle and start another.

Thank Horizon for the hangover.

sleep talking

I remembered at school aged 10 the teacher wanted us to describe strange words through the power of art. My best mate Jim had ‘somnambulist’ and I had ‘grotesque’. After learning the about the definitions of the words the class set to work on their pieces. For some reason known only to myself, I decided to portray a fat middle-aged bald man in a dirty vest, sat on a toilet in a cubicle littered with syringes and old beer cans. Being rather deft with a brush the resulting piece was rather effective, I found out later (much later, about ten years ago) that my parents had been called into the school and interrogated about my frame of mind by a social worker. According to my mum one of the teachers was very upset about the piece concluding that the artist was ‘deeply disturbed’ which was utter twaddle, of course…

I was thinking about this last night in bed during another bout of self-imposed insomnia, ‘self imposed’ because I abstained last night. The word ‘somnambulist’, or rather the act of somnambulism is something that has always terrified the shit out of me. As a small child one of my key fears was to meet my parents whilst they were sleep walking, of course this phenomenon is the fundamental chill factor in zombie movies (in addition to being a key catalyst of surrealism –something familiar devoid of its expected characteristics) so as fears go, it’s far from unique, I’d even argue it’s innate in everyone.

So, I pondered this, I began thinking how I’d feel if I found Myfwt sleep walking, no, I most certainly wouldn’t like that… idiotically I found myself downloading my childhood fears into the present, with the barrier of booze removed my mind was able to cheerfully bat these ideas about while I quietly panicked in the dark. Myfwt slept like a top, I went to sleep at 3 after having gone to bed at 10.30 to watch (a not up to par) Curb Your Enthusiasm prior to turning off the light.

Waking up without a hangover is certainly preferable to waking up with one; it’s helping me to stick to my 2 days off a week and contributing to a bit of control when I’m having days on. I’m meeting Frank for a couple tonight but after that I may see if I can hold out until Friday… we’ll see.

Another key factor in all this is the whole food/wine thing. If I eat a roast or a pie or employ anything with a cheese and tomato sauce I find denying myself wine almost impossible. But stick to stir-fries with chilli, salmon, prawns etc., and you’ve a meal that doesn’t lend itself well to red wine (though very arguably with white and beer, both surmountable as I don’t crave them like I do the sweet, sweet red) either in eating or preparation.

That’s got to be a top tip right there, surely.


Andrea made us a sensational lunch. That’s right. Sounds fucking poncy doesn’t it. It’s been some time since I’ve actually sat down and eaten Sunday lunch and it was a stark reminder of what I’d been missing. We started with two types of pate (they were exceptional) with date and walnut toast and Swiss Chard on the side, but the main course was beyond expectation. Pork belly with creamed mash and pickled red cabbage and kale, the pig was cooked to perfection and it was devoured in virtual silence save the moans of delight and the crackle of perfectly cooked skin from our host, Myfwt, JM and his missus and yours truly.

After a few glasses of wine, literally, we set off early evening to make our way home. When we arrived back Myfwt (who’d driven there and back) asked for a glass of wine and I resigned myself to the hangover I have now -it wasn’t aided by a string of Alan Partridges on Dave and The Bourne Supremacy on much later. Actually, the ‘overs not that bad but I’m putting in a booze free tonight and contemplating a two day abstinence drive on Wednesday and Thursday so I’m clearly guilty about my having indulged (and partially getting away with it).

To be frank I wasn’t expecting the weekend to be as congenial as it was. I left work on Friday in a fairly poor frame of mind without any plans for the evening. I didn’t mind this incidentally, it just meant Friday would be a non-event of sorts, but I usually find a way of injecting some sort exuberant ‘other’ into proceedings. Then I had a result, Frank and his missus were about and Myfwt was coming back later as well. Unfortunately the latter development ended in a moody silence on account of my being a bit of a tit, nothing specific, just a general twatishness on my part.

The cold shoulder remained in place until mid morning when it instantly vanished. She had an appointment at the hairdressers and the chap whose being cutting her barnet for the last few years was obviously batting for team Piqued. She called up and said some nice stuff and came back home after lunch looking all lovely.

We had an appointment with an estate agent in Clapham to view a 3 bedroomed ex council place. It was a non starter from the off, I didn’t like the little cunts kicking a football in the car park with no regard to the vehicles parked therein –I had visions of them booting the ball into my Black Bitch and being carted off by the police whilst one of them lay screaming on the ground with a broken arm- and the actual flat was bizarrely minute despite having 3 decent sized bedrooms. The agent was a decent enough fellow, Myfwt felt sorry for him because he was flamboyantly driving a Porsche Boxster that wasn’t his, the number plate bore the initials of the estate agency, apparently this because the best agent gets to drive the bosses car. After flatly turning down the property we went back to the agents office in order to see the details for some other places, all rather dull, save one that caused Myfwt and I so much excitement we insisted we viewed the place right there and then.

The property was in a converted gothic Church in its own grounds next to a large common near Wandsworth. We drove up to it via a long private road; it was like something out of Brideshead Revisited but not as gay and parked on the gravel by a huge Howard Oak which was home to a multitude of songbirds. It was like being in the countryside yet we were in the middle of Sarf Landan. We entered the property via huge wooden door, the sort of door undead creatures use to access corseted young ladies with heaving busts, and walked up a stone staircase to gain entry to the flat.

The place was magnificent, In the middle of the behemoth space downstairs was an open fire and on one side a large living area and the other a vast kitchen, it was two stories high inside with a huge mezzanine deck halfway up accessed by a tall spiral staircase. Everything was finished to the highest spec, and despite being just outside our budget we were both awestruck, indeed, I don’t think either of us had been that seduced by a place before. We interrogated the estate agent for information, residents had access to all the grounds which included it’s own bar and restaurant, 2 courtyards with playing fountains… it was all good too to be true, it was indeed. The killer blow came at the end. 75 years left on the lease which was up for renewal on the instruction of the freeholders solicitor, there was 20k right there. Maintenance was 2k a year and the tenant was liable for any building works undertaken… Hairy fuck arses we thought driving away from our destiny.

Though it’s not as simple as that, we’ve told the estate agent that if the vendor sorts the lease (he bought it with a short lease, I don’t see why we should be held responsible his decision to purchase a place under such circumstances) and is prepared to negotiate further on the price… well you never know. We spent a lot of Saturday night discussing it over posh fish and chips procured from a shop patronised by Ainsley Harriet of all people. Indeed, he was stood right next to us in the queue to pay.

I can confirm that Ainsley has a fucking enormous tongue; the man could lick his own nipples if he wished. You heard it first on Piqued.

I’d like to welcome to the world Jamie’s second ‘beast’ as he called it, little fella by the name of, well, lets just call him Red.

It’s Monday, Monday means thrash metal whilst driving in a car