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
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gg allin was gay 1
william bair in car crash in bonneville 1
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chick pea gratin 2
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old browning 9mm british army 1
why did valentino rossi shave his hair 1
family guy nude pics 1
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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

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Search Terms for all days ending 2008-02-22

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