p part 2

It’s just after lunchtime Monday afternoon, I’ve had a bath and eaten, slowly, for the first time in 24hrs, vegetable soup and some dry white toast. My are guts farting and whining like the shadow cabinet but right now I feel a little better, albeit tired.

On Saturday evening Myfwt picked me up and we went over to her sisters for a birthday supper with her bro-in-law, another of her sisters and the formers 2 and a half y/o nephew resplendent with a passing dose of chicken pox (I’ve had that already so am immune) made up the numbers. Myfwt bro-in-Law cooked the sea bream and squid we’d bought at Whitstable and we ate with a splendid vintage Cava and chatted about nonsense, it was a quiet evening and due to Myfwt and I being exhausted with a big day following and the fact the clocks were going forward we were in bed before midnight where neither of us slept particularly well.

I awoke feeling nunky, slightly hungover, but okay. We grabbed some coffee at 8am from Starbucks and drove to my bro and missus abode in Clapham to pick them up in order to travel to Surrey, to church. On the journey there I was aware that not all was well with my guts, oddly my bro was experiencing similar contractions. Obviously I put this down to the fact he and I were due to stand up and lie within the constraints of some religious doctrine. We had decided to do the godparents thing for the sake of the family on the understanding they were aware that whilst we’d ‘be there’ for our niece we weren’t prepared to actively encourage her to get involved in religion. We saw our godparent duties as one of respect, over and above the nonsense of god/Jesus/church et al.

By the time we arrived after 9am (fucking 9 am on a Sunday!) I began the first of many visits to the chod bin to squirt out the hellish consequence of my over enthusiastic indulgence of fresh seafood, maybe. This action was undertaken within the walls of a sacred place, it felt somehow wrong, despite my complete lack of Christian sentiment this place held some significance, it was where my parents and sister were married, where my grandparents were interred and where I and my sister and bro were Christened.

My bro and I had spent most of the run-up to the Christening winding each other up about the task in hand; we ran a real risk of getting a dreadful fit of giggling and as the service began the omens weren’t good, he and I making gestures at one another (rolling back eyes as if possessed, waggling tongues, devils horns etc.,) for the sole purpose of causing the other to crack up.

I’d not been to a church service since I was 14, the place hadn’t changed at all, it seemed smaller but all the same faces were present albeit older. It was rather unsettling. The vicar kicked off proceedings, he wished my dad a happy birthday and we sung Jerusalem (written by William Blake, a chap who didn’t subscribe to traditional Christianity) and then talked an utter load of twaddle about Man being made from sand and having life breathed into it or something, it really was drivel and didn’t exactly do much to assuage a certain degree of guilt I was feeling about having to publicly exclaim my supposed support for all this nonsense.

Then suddenly my bro and I were up, stood facing the congregation, denouncing satan and the devil -the vicar fluffed up the word ‘evil’ at one point and my bro who was sharing the shit sheet from which we reading shuddered in order to control a fit of hysteria, I bit hard into my lip and coughed, I was on the verge of losing control, it was horrific. According to his missus my mouth was concertinaing as I desperately tried to maintain a grip on my dignity, I even considered feigning fainting to give myself some breathing space. After what seemed like an age we followed the cross down to font where my niece, who was herself suffering from a cold, stoically allowed the vicar to pour water on her head and cross her forehead with anointing oil, the latter action we all had to repeat, the horizontal bar on my cross was over her eyebrows. After more hymns and communion which I was expected to take (I felt very uncomfortable about that too) the service finally finished nearly and hour and half after it had begun. On the plus side my parents and sister seemed pleased enough, Myfwt apparently rather enjoyed the experience and my bro and I were delighted we’d come through it without embarrassing ourselves or the family, all of which helped to sate my feelings of hypocrisy.

Following coffee and a few more cigarettes and evacuations it was time for Dad’s birthday lunch which was inextricably linked to my nieces Christening. The venue was the church hall, another place I’d not frequented since I was a teenager. Mum had worked very hard, she’d decorated the place and organised food for over 60 people and my bro-in-law had heroically sorted the booze. Most of the guests were church types and friends that I’d not seen in years, Myfwt, my bro and his missus were seated with my godmother and my sisters godfather, both genuinely nice people, the latter a true eccentric who I like a lot.

We helped with the spread and sat down to eat, by now I knew something was wrong because I didn’t feel at all like drinking and despite the food I wasn’t feeling remotely hungry, I ate purely out of need thinking that this is what I required to help recovery. The afternoon passed slowly, despite enjoying myself on paper I wasn’t feeling at all well. We ran through the speeches (mine went down very well) but from here on in everything starts to become vague. I was still shitting through the eye of a needle every 30 mins but had also noticed that my stomach was bloated and aching much more than good old-fashioned bellywhack, I felt pathetically weak and my entire body had begun to ache.

I helped tidy up which seemed to take an age, it was now obvious that not all wasn’t well in the P camp, I’d become visibly pale and even moving was painful, like my whole body was made from red raw cock meat.

After clearing up the inner family sanctum went back to the folks for a nice cup of tea. I was aware that my usual exuberance was distinctly lacking and I was now actually feeling sick. When actually ill I’m quite good I’m pretending I’m fine right up until I’m not. I decided I wasn’t fine after saying goodbye to mum, dad, sister, bro-in-law and niece, getting in the car with Myfwt, my bro and his missus and just before setting off, opening the passenger door and laying a good 2 pints of my stomach over the fucking road at some volume, then some more, and then another lot.

I was dragged back indoors feeling better in one respect but still weaker than a crack whores fanny, I then began to shake somewhat and within 20 minutes was upstairs laying more ex-grub in my parents loo. I was put to bed in my old bedroom by Myfwt feeling like a zombie, my guts were in turmoil and I was shaking viciously, it was worse than the plague, really. Everything hurt, despite needing to be sick again I really couldn’t be arsed to make it to the loo, Myfwt helped me there a few more times to rub my back whilst I barked at the bog water before I finally passed out in bed emptier than a burst balloon and shaking like a stevens.

As I slept, Myfwt drove my bro and his missus back to Clapham, dropped off at my flat to get me a change of clothes before driving back to my parents. A good 3 hours worth of travelling. By the time she arrived back at 9.30 I was feeling better, by no means recovered, but enough to be able to survive a car journey without disgracing myself. Myfwt stopped off to get me some bum fodder and soup and I got back home at 10.30 feeling like a used colostomy bag.

I managed to watch the MotoGP, which I’d taped and email work to tell them I wouldn’t be making their acquaintance the following morning. Apart from shitting myself in the middle of the night, clearly an ill managed fart, I’ve had no more drama. In addition to writing this the day has been spent sleeping, operating the washing machine and half watching TV. I’m feeling better but have no idea if work will happen tomorrow, put it this way, if I’m still like this it’ll be another day at home resting up.

I’m still trying to work out the cause of this malaise, using Myfwt and my bro as food-poisoning placebos it seems that it was something I ate that they didn’t, no idea what though, or I’ve either contracted some bug or other.

Btw, if this reads like more bollocks than usual please remember that I’m not firing on all cylinders.

p part 1…

I was home by lunch on Friday, I chucked a few items into my rucksack and waited for Myfwt to arrive, which she did, late of course. The journey back from the office was undertaken in vicious pissing rain, by the time Myfwt arrived at the flat the rain was still cheerlessly hammering London, this didn’t bode well for a trip to the seaside but we’d accepted that, the thought of eating oysters under a brolly watching a cold grey sheet of open water chewing at the coastline still held a subdued thrill. We set off.

It took a long time to get out of London, it seems that the entire road network had a turd of a bulldozer sat by an open pit requiring achingly slow traffic lights to allow the traffic to creep past, of course, not a stroke of work was being done, I guessed the labourers were all sat in cafés round mugs of steaming hot tea discussing football and porn I shouldn’t wonder. Disgraceful. It took over an hour to exit the city and settle onto the A2 before we made any progress. Disgraceful. Disgr- oh forget it…

The rain had subsided and the sun made itself known, it was blustery (of course) but the nearer we got to our destination the more clement the weather, this was all turning out to be rather jolly don’t you know.

I’ve no idea why I’ve not visited Whitstable before, not as an adult anyway, my mum assured me we all went in some brown-flared Sunday in the 1970’s but I have no recollection of the place. It’s a small town nestled on the Kent coast near Canterbury and resides happily in the England past of tearooms and butchers and model shops, ‘multiculturalism’ exists in the form of one Chinese restaurant and a miserable place boasting ‘Peking Cuisine’. You could starve to death of a Sunday.

We checked in at the hotel that faced the broad Spartan beach, itself locked in a Hammer Horror timewarp which I found oddly enticing, the room was clean, antiquated and cosy, we dumped our luggage and immediately headed for the bar, it was 6pm after all. It was still bright outside; the sound of the sea hissed in the background and the occasional seagull skidded overhead in the baby blue sky under a random gathering of plump white cloud, it was fucking well nice. Myfwt sipped a G&T and I inhaled a couple of pints of Early Bird, Shepherds Neam is the local brewery and I have to congratulate them on a beer that is nearly as good as one of the Young’s fellows back in the smoke.

The bar was a dingy affair, brown with brass fixtures (the latter aspect included the female staff), overseen by a clearly under active landlord with a pin head and thick grey locks. The atmosphere was one of latent depression and broken dreams but, like the hotel room, congenial with a peculiar comfort to it. The bar began to fill with people dressed conscientiously in dinner jackets and dickies, their clucking wife’s hauled themselves beside them all permatan and slap stinking of brandless perfume and looking vaguely repugnant. It was time to go.

Myfwt and I left to walk the half-mile up the coast to an Oyster restaurant, we were in excellent cheer and arrived in a large room set with round tables under low sedate lighting. After ordering a disappointing Pinot Gris (bit too sweet but very drinkable) Myfwt and I took Oysters, frankly the reason we chose Whitstable as our destination as it’s renown for it’s seafood, in particular it’s Oysters and she had 6 raw and I had 3 large chaps cooked with spinach and cheese, I’d never eaten cooked oysters before but by thunder I shall again, they were fucking amazing. For main Myfwt had smoked eel on toast, it’s like bacon and is quite sublime, with scallops and a side of salad. I opted for half a lobster and potato salad. Whilst excellent the starter had set a high benchmark and I sort of wished I ordered the crab, this was just a question of being spoilt for choice of course as I think it was finest seafood I’ve eaten.

We tottered back the hotel making idiotic use of our ridiculous camera phones and returned to our seats in the bar and drunk possibly one of the most dreadful bottles of wine I’ve ever tasted, Myfwt gave up and opted for a Rose, I persevered like the trooper I am, the evening faded off into giggles and drunken sincerity and we took the spooky climb to bed yonder. I awoke at 5.30am in blazing sunshine all over my bloated face and again at 7.00 in much the same condition, Myfwt and I struggled until10.15 before finally dressing and checking out.

It was Myfwt b’day, a beautiful sunny day, reasonably warm and bathed in glorious light, the ochre sandbanks were visible under the now calm cornflower blue sea and we stepped onto the brightly shorn pebble beach and rifled among the chrome and sunshine coloured stones like children. We drove up the marine drive to eat oysters and winkles in the fish market, took tea in a little café on the high street and wandered into quaint little shops amidst the subdued bustle of the townsfolk. It had a friendly atmosphere if a little parochial but maintains a sort of innocence to the consumerism of the 21st century. Save two small department stores Whitstable is populated by local shops run by and for local people, one doesn’t feel quite like an outsider but the residents seem to have an agenda that differed from ours, one suspects (patronisingly) they may not fully appreciate their environment as we, as tourists, did on that bright spring morning.

Before leaving we bought chips (cooked in dripping as they should, they were unbelievably good) that we ate in the cool sea air finally buying some fresh fish to take back to London. It was rather strange that 20 minutes into the journey home the heavens opened and we were plunged into a sublimated grey fug and forced to take precaution in the driving rain, our hangovers drained from us we travelled home and by the time we arrived the whole seaside experience felt rather ethereal and intangible, almost as if we’d not left our dwellings but had awoken from a wonderful interactive dream. My Myfwt dropped me off to prepare for the evening and I was once alone feeling mildly confused, annoyed almost to be back and feeling the early twinges of hindsight.

NB. The above was written late saturday pm. On sunday I got fucking ill, p part 2 with all the gory details to follow. I’m still not 100% so bear with…

khrist

There may well not be a piqued tomorrow, I am absurdly busy, not so much with work I hasten to add, the taps on that particular entity seemed to have been switched off, or best are leaking with that weird high pitched hiss, no, I have a weekend approaching with big plastic tits on it.

Tomorrow lunchtime Myfwt and I are due to go to the Kent coast for the soul purpose of clearing the sea of its Oysters, this will prequel her birthday which happens on the Saturday. So far so good. We intend to return to London with a car boot full of fresh fruits de la mer packed in ice so her talented amateur-chef brother- in- law can make some shit out of it. This is all well and good but this isn’t the whole story.

Sunday, bear in mind we’ll have lost an hour due the clocks being fiddled about with by the Lord, I have to be at church, yes, you read that correctly, church, at fucking 9am to perform Godfather duties with my brother at my nieces Christening. I explained to my sister that I kiss under the tail of the serpent, as does my brother, but she insisted we were to be the kid’s Godfathers. This is somewhat of a moral dilemma, I don’t believe that religion should be forced on children and this ceremony involves me swearing allegiance to a figment of someone’s imagination that I will be instrumental in raising the child in a manner that is dictated by some God inspired doctrine… Then I realised, God doesn’t exist in the first place, which reduces the entire process to some family standing about with a bloke dressed like a bat occasionally talking drivel and giving a baby a crap hair wash, job done.

And even this isn’t the while story, for it’s also my dad’s 70th birthday, after the Christening the post Christening stuff will merge into a birthday party with ever increasing amounts of guests, loads and loads of people in my face for an entire day, no doubt I’ll be hungover from the night before, doubtless exhausted from clock and travel shenanigans and quite probably in the dog house for having upset my mum during the Christening service.

Obviously I’ve been busily collating gifts and wotnot for the various celebrations ahead, Myfwt is sorted, we did that part last weekend, Dad is an unknown quantity at this stage, this is of mild concern as we don’t have much time and I dealt with my nieces present yesterday lunchtime. Due to all this wandering about in town for inspiration I was forced into many different shops and stores and required to pass by and through zones of no relevance to the task in hand, such as men’s shoes, and it was here that I had a collision with fate

Long suffering readers may recall my buying of a pair of expensive shoes last year that were a shit tan colour that I wound up dying a dark brown and fucking them up… Well, I sort of bought the tan ones because I liked the cut of the boot, really I wanted a black pair but such things were unavailable. Not only did I spy a pair of black fellows in passing they were also in the sale for £30 (original price 85) and my exact size, the last pair in the store. I was both delighted with my purchase and livid that I’d shat 85 green queens on the pair I didn’t like… OCD, it really is tiresome.

I took my new pair of shoes (more of a boot actually) into town last night to meet Den, Harry and Liam in a boozer in Covent Garden. We had a splendid evening of banter and childish piss taking, it was weeing with rain but this somehow made the evening even more splendid as we sat in the snug of a warm pub supping London’s finest ales, I even ended up buying an umbrella after 5 pints for a fiver just before Harry and I caught the last tube back to Tooting. That’s how bloody rock and roll it was.

I may have posted this tune before but not this version, the vocals are terrific; actually it’s all fucking marvellous. Stick with it…

junk shit

As mentioned lately, Cunt has been a lot less noisy than in days of yore. The upshot of this has resulted in my decision to, maybe, stay put for the while –the market is unstable and it costs fucking loads to sell and buy …and who knows, after moving I may even find myself in a similar or less fortunate position. Better the cunt you know I say, at the very least this one is a known quantity.

Don’t be fooled into thinking that all is fucking peachy however. I’d cheerfully piss on his face as he keeled over in his own effluent as I despise him with heart endangering hatred so there will be times, on occasion, where I do wonder if, despite what I’ve just said, that staying put really is the most stupid thing to do, ever.

Take last night for instance when Myfwt and I were awoken at 4.06am by what sounded like the fucking Red Arrows flying within inches of our skulls. At first I thought it was my sound system having some sort of fit, but no, for some ungodly reason his TV had decided to switch itself on at decibel-level ‘ear shatter’. I was so fucking angry I actually roared out ‘I’m so fucking angry’ which was met by instantaneous silence…

I couldn’t sleep afterwards due to my fuming and vicious plotting which drifted into hopeless regret at my decision to stay.

The other element which has caused me some distress is a sudden explosion of junk at the front of the house, namely, furniture packaging. Seems like daddy has been on a spending spree for his grunting offspring (I’ve mentioned, of course, that in the 5 or so years I’ve been suspended over this moron he’s never worked a single fucking day). There are various factors with regard to this tip that have almost caused me to polish my ball pean hammer on his face.

Firstly, he thinks I’m moving, the last thing a potential buyer wishes to see is the aftermath of the contents of his fucking hovel. Either he knows this and is being deliberately provocative or such things haven’t occurred to his primordial thinking system.

Secondly the quality of the furniture itself is so down market it gives the impression that the occupant is actually retarded, of course this isn’t too far off reality but advertising the fact is outrageous.

Finally, one of the boxes contained a cinema screen sized high def flat screen TV of the utmost quality; I assume the same TV that woke me and Myfwt in the middle of the fucking night… Now this really is beyond the pale. What sort of justice is there in the world if a person, barely capable of walking without slipping over on his own dribble, who is so bone-idle his spine has un-evolved, with more in common with sea monkeys than primates entitled to such riches? The answer is clearly ‘none’ ‘zip’ ‘nada’ ‘squat’.

If I was his dad it wouldn’t be TV’s I’d be giving my son, it would be a fucking good hiding.

What a bunch of cunts.

(not King Crimson, however)

‘ank holiday

I think my freckle needs realigning. Something along the lines of what I can achieve by adjusting the rotor pitch on my mini-helicopter. My default seating position when I’ve the donkey’s tongue is right on the money, I’m dead central. I’m Simon Hughes of the Lib Dems slap bang on the fence, yet when I’ve achieved evacuation I notice that I’ve transformed from Simon into that complete shit (pun intended) Nick Griffin resulting in one side of the chod bin compromised by having bits of cack all up it.

Just like last week I had a viewing on Saturday, this time I was notified and ensured I wasn’t in when the agent came to call, and just like last week the only lasting memory my potential purchasers had after viewing the flat would’ve been last nights tea pebble dashed over white porcelain. It was only when I got in following a trip to B&Q to get a new showerhead and a picture frame that the ‘don’t forget to clean the fucking bog before you leave’ mantra I’d been chanting most of the afternoon was recalled. Blast.

Work on Thursday was as awful as expected and I left feeling mildly ravaged. Luckily a few pints in the pub with Frank straightened me out followed by a fantastic film with Sean Penn (bloody underrated if you ask me, finest actor in Hollywood? Maybe) Called ‘The Assassination of Richard Nixon’ which I recommend without hesitation, and I awoke on Good Friday a little under the weather. I had to get out the flat as soon as I awoke to meet up with my mortgage broker to sign some paperwork which means I’m now foolishly mortgaged up to the hilt. He wasn’t very impressed when, after really badgering me to sign up for critical illness cover (for which he’d have received commission) I finally informed him that ‘I didn’t fucking want it’ and went he all stroppy for a couple of minutes like a scolded child while I sat there mentally punching the air, and his face for good measure.

Shortly after Myfwt picked me up and we went to Putney to look for some suitable accessory and what have you for her birthday next week. I’ve learned that unless advised I’m bloody useless at buying gifts for the opposite sex, besides, I rather enjoy shopping with her believe it or not. After a travelling most of West London I was dropped off home in time for a pint with Frank, the weather was turning for the worst, Myfwt and I had already experienced hale and now temperatures plummeted like we lived up t’North or somewhere where men walk about in subzero temperatures with shaved heads and no shirts to speak of.

Frank and I drank a few in our local toasting the passing of Jebus, the place was half dead but from our pint of view, ideal, as we could get to the bar without any obstruction or hindrance from competing punters. By the time I got home I was little tipsy, I watched a very disappointing French film (called 36, it misses the mark and has an air of misogyny about it that only the French can pass off as ‘romance’) whose subtitles I wound up watching by squinting through one inebriated eye before going to bed late.

Subsequently Saturday was somewhat painful, this malaise caused me to spend most of the day sat in front of my PC trying in vain to download fucking Flash Player (which has mysteriously vanished from my PC) in order to view some Strutter on Youtube, over and above this I was also trying to make some Slayer happen on my fucking MP3/mobile thing via said PC.

Fucking technology, it’s all well and dandy when it works but when things don’t happen as they should it’s enough to result in innocent shoppers in Bluewater being randomly picked off by lone-gunmen after they’ve failed to post a Youtube soliloquy as to why they wouldn’t trot through Bluewater picking off innocent shoppers listening to South of Heaven by Slayer on their LG Viewty which, supposedly has an MP3 feature…

If this wasn’t bad enough, following the B&Q shopping trip (which was a waste of time incidentally, the showerhead is shit and the frame too small) I picked up Saturdays Guardian which features a fucking interview with that cunt Jordan. For fucks sake, what the FUCK is going on here? This harridan, this prostitute for post Orwellian society, this role-model of laziness and self-harm has maintained a presence thanks to gutter journalism and the not entirely commendable ability to remain in the public eye by exploiting herself, her disabled child and the arseholes that chose to suffer her tonesless ill-informed drone in order to drop their stinking extensions into her over active fundament. We’re supposed to think she’s some sort of business woman as she’s accrued zillions of squids by not letting a single day of our lives pass without some sort ‘news’ grabbing drivel about her tits being reduced/enlarged, her husband being great/a twat, her children being disables/not disabled, her joys/fears, her knickers/her lack-of, her, books, her perfume, her business, her bloody FUCKING FACE 24 FUCKING SEVEN AND NOW, MY BROADSHEET FEATURES HER LIPLESS FIZZOG IN ALL HER PROLETARIAT GLORY BY DAVID FUCKING BAILEY IF YOU PLEASE…GAH, IF I COULD DOWN LOAD FUCKING FLASH I WOULDN’T BE TYPING LIKE THIS, FOR THE LOVE OF THE CHILDREN OF THE WORLD SOMEONE HELP ME.

So, Saturday. Rubbish frankly… (though saved somewhat by a stunning roast in the evening in which I succeeded how to make drop-dead fresh gravy AND ensure the potatoes were crisper than Robinson Crusoe’s sock, actually, after that I watched Das Boot, a wonderful, Lord it was good and went to bed feeling, well, okay)

Sunday conversely was wonderful. I’d taped the Grand Prix which I watched after 9am, very disappointing, dull and not the result I’d hoped for, whilst eating Hot Cross buns at speed. I left to pick up my bro and his missus, freshly back from Kerala and all tanned up, and we travelled to my folks whilst I was regaled with hilarious diarrhoea-based tales located on boats made of coconut or something. The afternoon was wasted beautifully on lunch and niece-watching and much laughter did emanate from family Piqued, then farting. My niece can now crawl and stand which is splendid for her… though I somewhat took the joyous edge of the equation as this new found movement has resulted in archaic forms of entertainment being made redundant, for example, the ‘swinging robot’ (a quite violent combination of airborn staccato movements requiring sound and not insubstantial arm control) which used to illicit squeals of delight now causes unbound fear.

I met Myfwt at the flat later on and she essentially said ‘hello, I’m tired’ and fell asleep as I watched read, this resulted in her being awake far sooner that I on Bank Holiday Monday and I was forced to suffer second hand TV noises whilst I groaned in my pit. After breakfast we took ourselves off to rectify the shopping situation caused by Good Friday’s wilful consumerism which resulted in more money being spent much to my chagrin. Can’t complain though, it was all rather jolly and we ate sushi wrap in the car and everything.

The weekend ended quietly with Risotto and Cava, on a final note I don’t remember seeing snow at Easter before, what the bloody hell is going on with the weather? Global warming my botty.

Shoegazing anyone?

Here…

bad thursday

Recently one of my mates informed his granny, on asking, the welfare of his wife. She’d just given birth to their first child and there had been some complications, essentially, the wee bairns heed and ripped her mimsy as it exited from her internals. Needless to say she was in some degree of discomfort. Granny, in her infinite wisdom, decided to offer words of sympathy by reminding my mate to compare his wifes agony to the pain ‘our Lord suffered on the cross’…

I mentally recall this story when someone mentions ‘Good Friday’, it’s superseded the ‘why ‘good’ Friday?’ of my past. I remember asking my mum at church when I was six and being baffled by the answer; apparently it was ‘good’ because Jesus died for my sins… I still remember mum looking a bit uncomfortable telling me this. Frankly I can’t help feeling that she was rather keen to keep her six-year-old son away from images of a bloke nailed up on some wood with blood pissing out his side wearing a painful hat (of course, for me, this was the best part) but the ‘sins’ bit I found utterly confusing, I wasn’t sure what a sin was and I was fairly sure I’d not committed any, being six and everything. Pleased to say I’ve rectified that now.

Despite my complete bafflement at this whole religion business I’m quite happy to take their holidays (and as mentioned in previous posts, I do like churches very much) so for me this excuses all the atrocities committed in the name of Jesus the saviour. My conscience is clear. With this in mind, this is the last P for a few days, I may be able to rustle up a quick post in the interim but don’t hold your breath.

Yesterday was yet another soul destroying day of none ness in the office, I was glad to leave at 3.30 for that bloody meeting which involved a winding district line journey into town. I read the end of my book which caused me some alarm, and watched the spring scenery pass by from the rather disconcerting view of a tube seat. I’ve never quite got into that, I feel as if a tube belongs under the ground, when you see them or travel in them over the land it feels somehow wrong, like an earthworm creeping over asphalt. By the time we crossed the Thames everything returned to some sort of normality and I eventually alighted at my destination, met the person in question in some massive corporate offices off Piccadilly and wandered happily through Soho among the runners, hookers, poofters, directors, drunks, junkies, artists, students and writers. I’m very fond of Soho, there is nowhere else like it in the world, it manages to combine sleaze and bohemianism with a self-knowing wink that contains both humour and hopeless misery.

I had a pint in a pub on New Oxford Street with my new book and met up with Swineshead for a few more jars up the road. We stood outside as dusk formed into dark and drunk beer and smoked cigarettes and chatted about cool shit, I left them all to it at 7.30 as I was meeting Myfwt at the flat, this was realised after a packed and piss pregnant tube journey back South and on arrival she and I had a splendid rest of evening eating and sipping G&T’s.

Just before I went to sleep I watched an interview with Ray Galton and Alan Simpson -creators of Steptoe and Son after writing Hancock’s Half Hour. It was fascinating, hearing how they worked, their relationship with each other and the actors they wrote for but what I found more incredible than anything was the way they met.

Before being writers both were ordinary joe’s with everyday jobs leading completely different lives in opposite ends of London, until, one day, each contracted TB, a dreadful terrifying disease that normally kicks off by the patient coughing up pints of blood, which is what happened to Ray one morning on his bus to work. In those days you were carted off and ordered to bed in a sanatorium, you had less than a 25% chance of survival and if you did remain alive you could be incarcerated for years on end, and it was in this dubious environment they met, as TB patients on the brink of death. Suddenly Steptoe and Son will never be quite the same.

Have a nice break, remember, it is for your sins He died, I done nuffin’

Turn it right up, Happy Easter

arthur’s stars

Spring starts to today I declare, right here. Now. Today. I walked under a canopy of fucking pink blossoms in the cool morning sunshine this morning; I was using my legs to get me to the place where one catches a bus. What of the black bitch I hear you cry?! She is just fine, resting under canvas while her master manipulates the means of municipal machinery to make money, or not as the case may be. Work has died.

Such is my desperation for some sort of remuneration for my supposed employment I’m forced to meet a person in town late this afternoon in order to secure some sort of funding for a project. It’s a loathsome task meeting up with unknown people for the purposes for work, I’m a misanthrope at the best of times so being invited to have contact with a human when deliberate drinking isn’t on the cards doesn’t inspire, it annoys.

Yesterday was hellish; my new phone arrived (no idea why I upgraded, it’s more expensive, it’s the size of a bar of fruit and nut and has lots of stuff on it which is of much use to me as a forty foot wide vagina, and you need a fucking PhD to operate it). It doesn’t work properly I swear but I don’t understand exactly how to explain this. A vast swathe of my day passed with me virtually in tears trying to figure out how to backspace when texting and how to get rid of the ‘droplet of piss in the puddle’ sound every time I so much as thought about picking the cunt up. I combined this futile waste of time with trying to sort out the re-mortgaging of my godforsaken property which, and I mean this most sincerely, I find terrifying. Vomit inducing figures are bounded about and my dyscalculiac brain fizzes and pops with percentages, rates, interest, disinterest, equities, negatives, all with lots of ££££’s attached.

I needed my drink with Harry last night. The pub was empty save he and I and a couple of piss pots, and we conversed about the fundamental aspects of existence leaking sweet beer into our flat stomachs before toddling back to our respective dwellings. The evening ended with me swearing at my phone and unsuccessfully trying to inject some fucking music into the bastard, god knows what it wants from me.

Speaking of god, a fond farewell to Arthur C ‘My god it’s full of stars’ Clarke. I remember watching 2001 when I was quite young and, despite myself, actually enjoying it. It certainly had an effect on the young P I can tell you.

Now I’ve told you please enjoy this, it’s not music today but it’ll fuck your head. I reckon Arthur would’ve liked it, as he said ‘any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic’.

Ooh Arthur.

fynanshall

This financial shit in the States isn’t at all good, I’m speaking from purely selfish reasons, I pay as much attention to the economy as the politicians pay to the kids, yeah (right kids? Right on, yeah) usually, but in the last fortnight things have become quite serious and (my) business is being effected.

Of course, I’m in the process of trying to flog my gaff as well, great timing by the way, and looking to buy -conversely this is good timing, maybe- which will cost me a large sum of money I feel would be better off spent in my pocket. I’ve done some maths. If it wasn’t for some loans that I foolishly ignored when I last re-mortgaged and squandered the wonga on, well, I don’t quite know where it went frankly, I’d be in a good position to sit this one out. But I’m not, I feel that it’s time to draw in my horns so, looks like I’m stuck in fucking Tooting for at least 2 more years. Two more years of Cunt. I’m sure that’s a film. Two. Christ.

Despite myself I’m under playing this somewhat. I’m fucking furious that I didn’t get out when I had the chance and, of course, the prospect of living over my arse-tampon of a neighbour for another second is a lifetime too much, but I have to remain positive. Hearing James’s story last week about his neighbour did help put things into perspective (to a certain degree) and in addition to clearing my debts which amount to a fucking lot of outgoings per month, I’ll have enough money left over, I hope, to do some work on this place.

Ironically perhaps, on my way into work yesterday I noticed that my neighbourhood has become populated by people with mental handicaps. The local superstore on a Saturday has more raspberries in it than the fruit and veg isle but lately they’ve been wandering about on my way to and from work. There’s the chap with the ponytail that sees great amusement in the pavement which he then goes onto discuss with himself, the fat lady with the shopping trolley and Davy Crokett hat who seems very cross about something and the tall fellow who strides all lopsided to the bench outside the tube for the sole purpose of drinking cans of cider, each one a million miles away from an apple, and yelling at the traffic before being violently sick –actually, maybe he’s not mental, just plain pissed.

Yesterday evening on my way home I nearly hit one. This chap dresses like a 1970’s spiv, brown trilby hat and suit, brown brogues and never without a brolly. He’s quite dishevelled but there is something about him that find admirable. Anyway I was turning a corner at a junction and all of a sudden there was a muttering face inches from my nose, it gave me quite a start I can tell you and, unfortunately, has just resulted in a gargantuan nightmare from which I couldn’t recover. This morning I arose at 6.50am dear reader, that’s so early I thought such a time of day was a myth. I can’t recall the nightmare but I awoke when the spiv, shouting at me, was about to insert his brolly in my eye as someone sang ‘Why So Sad’ by the Manic Street Preachers slightly off camera. Pick the bones out of that Freud. Oh, he’s dead.

formula bum

I’ve had a shaving accident. On Friday night at around the time most people get up I accidentally whipped off my moustache. Fiddling with ones beard in the wee hours isn’t unknown in chez piqued –indeed, I like to have my beard all trimmed and wotnot so it means I don’t have to fuck about with it in the morning- but bitter experience advises that when I’ve enjoyed a pale ale or a spot of wine to leave well alone. Bearing this in mind I merely did an all over trim with the clippers but subsequently noticed that my moustache wasn’t sufficiently shaved to my liking, so, using a razor I carefully adjusted the annoying bit between my the bottom of my nares and uppermost region of the philtrum, then, by using all my skillz, I gingerly allowed the Gillette to fucking slip on my face and lost half of one side of my precious muzzy.

I was now faced with a dilemma, do I lost the entire beard and start from scratch, or I do I spend a couple days looking like Texan pig farmer familiar with boar, banjo and bumming.

Howdee, you sure got a pretty mouth.

Not looking like a pillock Friday morning I alighted a crowded tube just after 9am and made my way to The British Library to meet up with Den. We greeted each other amidst a line of suitably terse writer types and got on with discussing a project we’re working on. The atmosphere for such activity is remarkably congenial, surrounded by strangers with a common objective lends itself very well to the task in hand, after 3 hours we’d pretty much made a good stab at a point of launch and headed off for lunch. Another friend, Liam –who in passing informed me that he’d published me in his latest book- joined us and we sat outside a little café by a market where dirt poor Londoners meet with garish plastic colanders, nylon throws and 3 for a pound pillow cases while we ate Panini.

After saying farewell to Liam who still had some work to do, Den and I, satisfied that we’d reached a point where introspective conjecture was the immediate future for our experiment, took ourselves off to the Tate Modern via Thomas Mallory’s place of internment, past St.Paul’s and over the compromised ‘blade of light’. It was a cheery day, bright with a nip to the air and we nattered about such-what as we passed through the genteel London throngs until finally arriving at the vast entrance of the Turbine Hall still sporting it’s impressive crack.

The exhibition we’d come to see was and impressive combination of works by Duchamp, Man Ray and Picabia, it was fucking £11 to get in. The three men knew each other and between them were instrumental in, essentially, inventing ‘modern art’, in particular the former who could put in a good claim for ‘Artist of the 20th Century’. There were some jolly works (most I’d seen before) but I thought the information was a bit ropey, simply speaking, barriers weren’t clearly defined… allow me briefly? Thank you. All the artists had moved from Dada, a very much an anti-art anti-ism movement, to Surrealism, the exact opposite in this respect, and objects and works appeared to have had foreign purposes imposed on them by their puzzling arranging –still, obviously I knew what was right… I think I bored Den to tears.

Late afternoon feeling all charging with intellectual energy we said our farewells at Borough Market and I jumped on the tube home. I did some work, prepared supper and met up with Frank and his missus for a right nice cosy chat at the local and, of course, to sup a few ales. I was home by 9.30, I ate pizza and listened to some Robert Calvert, by god it’s good, get hold of Live at The Queen Elizabeth Hall after you’ve read this… This will also explain why I went to bed so late.

Saturday began with some of the leftover pizza I prepared the night before with the F1 Qualifying session, jolly good show Lewis. I was just about to go out for the bloody weekly consumer nasties when there was a knock at my door. A fucking Estate Agent was there with a client, after bollocking him for not notifying me of the appointment, he insisted he had (he hadn’t) I let him and his client in. Not expecting a viewing the flat wasn’t at all ship shape, blinds were drawn, the lounge stunk of stale dope, the culprit was still sat there festering in the ashtray slap bang in the middle of the coffee table and, to my stultifying horror, the chod bin, which needs flushing a few times after one has passed a stool on account of water regulations which apply to properties such as mine, had all shit up it. I watched as the pair discreetly pretended not to notice the rancid clods of effulgent in the can prior to indiscreetly giving me the once over when they spotted the finger-sized joint on the table… and my beard made me look like a mental. I don’t think the client will be putting in an offer somehow.

After the shopping trip I wrote some of this, and went off to meet Frank and his missus for a return match in the boozer. I’d forgotten completely it was St.Patrick’s Day weekend, the pub was rammed full of very drunk Irish people who were drinking as fast as they possibly could amid a sea of green balloons, green shirts, green hats and green faces, it was absurdly noisy so we went outside to sit under the enormous brolly just as the loudest ever fireworks deployed for some 15 fucking minutes and Irish people came out all pissed and sung songs at them as they went off at gut shattering levels of explicit volume. Then it rained, hard. On my way home in the space of 5 mins I was soaked right through.

After I’d settled I watched Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train, which I’d earlier been berated about in the pub by Frank and his missus. It’d been on TV on Saturday afternoon but because of the F1 I’d taped it, I’d recommended it in the pub on Friday so they’d watched it, and didn’t like it. I personally don’t think they were paying full attention to it because it’s wonderful and in places thoroughly nasty. I think they may have been fiddling with one another, there, I’ve said it.

Sunday was always going to be about the F1, the weather was still diabolical so any chance of getting on the black bitch was out of the window. I arose late and enjoyed a kipper with lots of toast and lashings of tea, did some work and watched the race.

The race was superb, stuffed full of incident, even the hardiest anti-car person would’ve been moved. From a technical point of view the turning off of traction control has had a huge impact on the drivers, it mow means that pure skill is required to drive the cars as opposed to having a very competent bit of software which is able to take liabilities with physics, the current world champion had a very thin time of it without his au fait computer system, much to my delight. Hamilton won with ease just going to show what a genuinely superb driver he is.

After getting hold of The Observer I spent the rest of the afternoon/evening lolling about. It was actually quite lovely, I even managed to spurn the booze and smoke favouring tea and too much fodder. Oddly, I feel ravaged this morning, like I’ve spent the weekend on a drugs binge, you know, a sort of filtered hangover, no headache or discomfort, just a feeling of invigorated vagueness.

Still, so long as it’s metal Monday…

psycho tubey

I’d been watching this cunt for a while sat opposite us on the tube, his strawberry chupa chup pin-head lolled in his collar, a single slash of a mouth cut diagonally across his face which occasionally opened when he flinched, and when to speak. Earlier on in the journey when the carriage had been packed he imposed himself on a Christian looking couple. He seemed harmless, desperately lonely and he wasn’t ashamed top convey this, he enquired how long the couple had been dating with a sad smile, an even sadder smile sliced over his beetroot face when he discovered they were engaged, he moved closer to the girl and nudged her with his thin elbows, ‘he’s a handsome fellow,’ he said to her with more than a hint of lascivious bound in pathos… Still not sure on which side to cast my net in terms of an opinion he passed a comment as they alighted from the tube that wasn’t right, ‘have safe sex,’ he called out weakly behind them. This wasn’t right, I decided.

I’d met Myfwt and Lou in a trendyfied version of my old local in Clapham North, when I’d been a regular some 10 years previously it’d been a contentious watering hole that reluctantly sat old soaks by shifty looking chancers, now in full media flight, it was calmly populated by young white people framed by a glittering mass of multicoloured liqueurs as they sucked back over priced foreign beers and nibbled on chilli dusted calamari and roasted tomato salsas, a long way from the warm ales and greasy packs of crispless chips of the past.

We had a few and headed up to Camden on the tube and arrived at the Worlds End, a vast town-like pub populated by rockers, punks and pretension, we had one more and met up with Andrea before arriving at the Roundhouse. I’d never been to this place before but it’s the stuff of legends, this is where Hawkwind recorded the finest live album of all time, Space Ritual.

It’s a great space, formerly housing a giant turntable for steam locomotives in the 19th century it’d gone from dereliction to concert hall and after a further period of disrepair was once again a magnificent venue. We secured beers and found a great spot to the right of the stage and within a few feet from the front. The Jesus and Mary Chain, laconic as usual (but, sadly, lacking the backcombed piles of hair that occupied half their sullen faces) arrived and began, the sound wasn’t right up there to begin, nor were the heady swathes of feedback of their heyday, but it was instantly engaging, beautiful, even. Starting with some classics off Psycho Candy they moved through Automatic before returning to full balls out form with Just Like a Honey, by now Jim Reid was a bit pissed and enjoying the effects of a not entirely subtle intake of sniff, this had a most delicious effect up the sound. Finally the volume was beginning to punch hard, enclosed in dry ice the band let their amps loose, ecstasy at last, I enjoyed the final 20 minutes as much as just about anything I’ve seen live since.

The tube had emptied by Balham, Lou and Myfwt were engaged in a serious conversation about their work and the strange character opposite was leaning in to study them. He knew I was on to him so he avoided making eye contact with me but by now was leaning so far over and staring at Lou with such intensity I had to subtly convey to Myfwt and Lou that something wasn’t right, she got it, Lou didn’t.

At his stop Myfwt and I said goodbye to Lou and he got off, suddenly the bloke opposite leapt to his feet and followed Lou out of the carriage. Jangling behind him his dumb expression of sorrow and disassociation suddenly shifted to one of psychotic rage and he whacked Lou in the back ‘why are you so fucking serious? WHY ARE YOU SO FU…! ’ He said.

Myfwt and I jumped off the tube before the doors shut, I headed straight for the fuck, he turned on his heels to face me and the expression on the looney’s face switched again, this time he looked as if he’d just lost fifty quid, he gasped in exasperation and hastily beat a retreat to the escalator where he vanished into the night. Just goes to show you that you trusting your instincts is always a good place to start when forming an opinion.

There may not be a piqued until Monday as I may be having the day off to do other work with a mate. If by some happy chance I’m not in tomorrow, have fun for heaven’s sakes.

I’ll leave you with this, of course.

jesus vera

Anyone seen Vera Drake? Really you must, honestly, the funniest fucking film I think I’ve ever seen? Yes, it wins; I laughed and laughed and laughed until I was almost sick…

What is the matter with British Filmakers? Ken Loach, David Lean, Terence Davies (Mike Leigh of course, who also made the gigglefest masterpiece that is Naked) all have this aptitude to craft pure unadulterated misery.

Of course I enjoy British Films immensely, when we want we make (certainly have made) the greatest films in the world, putting aside the Hitch and Chaplin-directors that went oversees, and had much more fun with their genre -Michael Powell probably ranks as the most accomplished filmmaker ever. Yet we still have this kinky penchant to make these deeply introspect dialogues that examine the minutiae of (usually) parochial British existence.

But Vera Drake must take the biscuit for being the most ceaselessly bleak and unremittingly depressing film ever made, it makes All is Quiet on The Western Front seem like Airplane. There isn’t any one aspect of this film that is cheery, by the time it’d finished I felt like drinking a bottle of gin and taking a hot bath clutching a knitting needle. Christ help us.

Regular readers may have noticed that I’ve not mentioned Cunt in while. It would seem, now the flat is on the market, that his 5-year noise campaign has achieved its objective. He can now relax. Mission accomplished. I sincerely hope my successors are a large physically disabled family, partially deaf, hugely obese and with a psychotic devotion to Country and Western. Having said that I spoke to James over the weekend and my situation with Cunt was put somewhat into perspective.

James has a 3 month old son, he and his wife have put their house on the market, it’s not a big house and it’s in a dubious area of sarf London so… time to go. James’s neighbour is a single ‘mother’ with a son in his early teens, from the outset James and his missus have been privy to this poor sod being verbally abused by his sponsor and a succession of Bill Sykes type ‘boy’friends. Apparently it’s very upsetting, especially as the kid never says a word back.

Last week James came home to find a hole in his fence, it could’ve only been the neighbour that did it (only person that had access to the fence) and James suspected it was ‘revenge’ because his son is a baby and has this habit of crying… James went to ask her about the fence and before he’d a chance to say a word was subject to a tirade of verbal abuse and threats of violence. If this wasn’t bad enough from then-on every time his son cries this fucking bitch (take note dear reader, ‘bitch’ is a word I never use to describe a woman unless I really mean it) whacks her stereo up at ear splitting volume…

Speaking of volume, I’m seeing the Jesus and Mary Chain this evening. Let’s hope they play longer than 7 minutes when I last saw them back in the 80’s when I was, er, 7.

yellow fever

Walking upstairs to the toilet in the Chinese restaurant was daunting, the stark lighting was straight out of one of those trendy European torture/horror affairs, the décor a suitably shabby off-white and the broken lino that dressed the concrete steps could so easily have played recent host to sticky gobbets of gore and congealing crimson blood, it was almost a bit of a shame when the only genuine shock about the whole sorry experience was the cloying smell of piss –dreadful it was, like the inside of kidney patients catheter tube. Right put me off my tea it did.

We were in this Chinese restaurant in Soho celebrating a gloriously won pub quiz, the spoils of which had allowed us to purchase a fine selection of faces and insides. In addition to the author there was Louche, Urban Woo and Sean (all have links to the right) along with Andy and Rick. The conversations were eclectic and amusing and by now we were all at that wonderfully loose stage of the evening where we could dip in an out of each other’s flabbergastings. Indeed, it was only because it was Monday that we didn’t wind up in another bar, instead after fond farewells I found myself quite alone on a carriage.

The tube ride into town followed another sickeningly dull day at work; the south was being battered by storms -this was perhaps the single most interesting aspect to the day, especially the ride home on my black bitch, which was like being in a tumble drier, ON ACID (it wasn’t remotely)- and frankly it was a relief to get on with my book in peace. I was blown through Soho where I arrived at a jolly little hostelry on Dean Street and the evening commenced in a most congenial fashion from there on in.

I have to say, I was fairly fucking useless during the actual quiz but did come up with the team name ‘Satan is Lord’ because I simply wanted the MC to say it out loud, it amused me. See how I play with people etc., We went from 4th to joint 3rd before having a final round face off with a group behind us, who I’m pretty sure had been privy to some of our answers, and come out bathed in glory.

The tube journey back was most peculiar. After sitting in the carriage on my jack jones for three stops engrossed in my book I noticed out the corner of my eye that something wasn’t quite right. Having passed through some of the busiest stops in central London I realised that not a single sole had embarked or alighted from the train. Indeed, all the platforms were completely empty of people. From thereon in I didn’t see a single person until I reached the top of the escalator at Tooting and stepped onto the virtually empty street.

I stood up and looked through the train, from the back right the way to the front I watched the tube snake its way under the city dragging its only passenger onwards and inwards. Jacob’s Ladder sprung to mind, then the Omega Man, I toyed with being the last person alive alternating it with being taken down to Hades, my final Dante- esque journey, before being engulfed in the fiery lakes of hell, perhaps calling the quiz team ‘Satan is Lord’ hadn’t been such a good idea after all I mused dryly. It was a very peculiar state of affairs and a little unnerving initially, gradually becoming very unsettling as I progressed. I was fucking dead chuffed to get off the cunt I can tell you.

Despite my dislike of Danny Dwyer, as noted on these pages before, I saw Severance over the weekend, it’s not bad (even DD isn’t too bad in it, there I’ve said it) but the best thing about is Tim McInnerny. It called to mind today’s offing, which is about as cheery as vomiting drawing pins.

moto mungday

Yesterday lunchtime my doorbell went, this usually spells some sort of aggravation either by a misguided religious twit who wants me to join their troubled organisation, a rubbish salesperson who clearly hasn’t taken food in a week or one of Cunt’s acquaintances, the latter being a very rare occurrence on account of his character and its similarity to that of underachieving plankton.

I was confronted by a short middle aged cockney gentleman bearing a flat cap and staring at me with piercing blue eyes, each with more than a hint of mischief/violence and I instantly amused myself with thought of him tucking his thumbs into his waistcoats and whistling My Old Man prior to collapsing on the pavement gasping to death with Consumption… He cheerily enquired of the (my) bike concealed under the tarp and would I like to sell it…

Alarm bells tinkled, how did this fellow know that was my bike? I don’t park it outside my flat, and how did he know to ring on my bell? Having never seen this bloke before, or anything like him since I saw Mary Poppins when I was 9, my mind went through a gamete of options, questions and responses. Something wasn’t at all right. I was then told it ‘nevah turned a wheel’ before him asking me if it was a Harley, at which point I slammed the door in his chirpy fucking face. It was such a puzzling encounter I’m half convinced I made it up; even so, I spent the remainder of the afternoon checking on my bike every 30 minutes.

The weekend begun after a loathsome day at work at the pub with Frank, we had a very congenial chat and a couple of guest ales before I returned to my gaff to get it ship shape for Saturday. The flat is on the market and I’d already been informed that humans were coming to look at it at 2pm on Saturday… So on Saturday morning I got up earlier than the norm to get some keys cut for the agent, I met her, gave her my house keys and took a lift with another agent with whom I’d some viewings. I was taken to four different properties in south London, two in Streatham despite my categorically saying ‘I don’t want to live in Streatham’ and being told that, ‘actually, I did really. I just hadn’t seen the right place’.

The first property was hideous, as was the pebbledashed street. The agent nearly had her car rammed by a Gilray-esque female, who was wearing so much rolled gold it’s a wonder her head hadn’t rolled off, who embarked on a string of expletives after the agent parped her horn to warn this inbred monster she was about to reverse into her. Frankly, following this incident the house, a few doors down from where this gold-strewn pig lurked, could’ve been free and I still would’ve shunned it like screaming Ebola.

The second place was expensive and clearly inhabited by vermin, I then directed the agent that, in no uncertain terms, did I wish to live in fucking Streatham and to take me somewhere else, at once. The third was ex ‘local authority’ sort of in the Wandsworth area (what ever happened to ‘council house’, the cunts) and not too bad except the décor within would have taken me 7 lifetimes to undo let alone decorate to some sort of standard of decency and the fourth property, despite being alright, was a burglars wet dream. That was my Saturday afternoon, a complete waste of time.

I plodded off to Sainsbury and returned home feeling disheartened. My flat no longer felt like mine as I clumped upstairs with armfuls of shopping, even if I didn’t know for sure that they had, it felt like strangers had been inside my space peering at my stuff and making assumptions as to the state of my being. It was 5pm, plans for the evening hadn’t really materialised -partially by my own design- and I planned on gorging myself with roast beef and all the necessary accoutrements. By 9 pm feeling much better after downing half a bottle of Minervois I had a fucking enormous plate of food under my nose. I ate this watching Gosford Park which seemed awfully apt, it was enormously gorgeous and I roundly patted myself on the back and celebrated by getting thoroughly pissed and rocking out until the small hours. Marvellous.

Sunday was always going to be geared around the Moto GP. I got up after lunchtime and nursed my hangover with a kipper the size of a pike and lots of toast and tea, after watching the Moto GP preview in the afternoon I did some writing, including some of this, and undertook household chores (I’ve another viewing this very afternoon) and took a bath.

The GP wasn’t due to begin until 8pm, it’s the first round and … (watches people leave) okay, I’ll keep it dead brief, The English rider (double World Superbike champ, but because he doesn’t cluster fuck, punch celebrity weathergirls or cheat on vacuous popstarlets, no one has heard of him –yet he’s a world champion, twice crowned…) did incredibly well, 2nd on pole, 6th to finish –for a debut that amazing. Also, it was the first time Moto GP has takenplace at night, dead exciting it was…

Myfwt came back just before it finished and I made supper, we watched Oscar winning Crash, won lots of Oscars apparently, utter fucking tosh.

Metal Monday…

love tube

Apologies for my lateness with today’s instalment of crap.

Feel free to read this first, something I wrote on Banksy http://watchwithmothers.wordpress.com/2008/03/06/banksy/#comment-7870

I awoke this morning unable to move so I lowered myself out of my pit, yelling a bit, and transferred myself to the floor where I remained until my fucking back had re-aligned to it’s default position. I did a few rudimentary exercises and am now mobile to a certain extent, enough to come into the office anyway. Don’t expect any cartwheels.

Last night wasn’t dissimilar to the previous, I headed up to town on the tube, a journey I actually enjoy these days because it gives me time to absorb myself in my book, and met up with Harry in the pub on Monmouth Street. He and I then took ourselves to the Charlotte street Hotel to meet Bob who was over from Paris on a shoot. I chuckled when a group of tourists asked me to take their photo with Bob stood next to me, obviously I offered him the gig, he politely refused, he’d been at it all day photographing lingerie models the poor sod, one of which was Bruce Willis latest squeeze –he’s having dinner with him and her tonight.

Harry, Bob his entourage of stylists, make-up artists and assistants and yours truly went off to Busaba on Store Street for dinner. After a short queue we were in, we ordered and ate. The food here is exceptional, though not in gut tearing quantities and we picked around each other’s plates chatting away. Bob kindly took care of bill and after a bunch of farewells I was sitting on a packed tube heading south.

There must have been something in the water last night. In addition to being packed solid at 11.20pm on a Thursday night it was rammed full of less than attractive couples eager to get home and fuck each other. To my right a bubble-faced twat was flirting with her estate agent looking twit of a boyfriend seated opposite, she was kicking her chubby legs up and writhing and giggling and pouting all erotic like, he reciprocated by waggling his tongue at her and winking like he’d a fucking tick, I glared at him with violent intensity for acting in a manner not befitting an English gentleman and he deceased his prick-led idiocy at once. To my left some dreadful harridan was stood with her gunt inches from my head chewing the face off some teenage Johnny, every so often she’d pause to hiss bedroom words into his shell-like ear, I could practically hear her fallopian tubes flapping.

Right, the very edited Friday list -its getting worse I swear- and a popular tune, Oh, before I go the Moto GP starts this weekend, I’m pathetically exited about it so I hope, like me, you’ll all be tuning in on Sunday afternoon to cheer James Toseland to victory on his debut…

Hello?

Hello?

Bugger, they’ve all gone.

cormack mccarthy 2
“bombardier bb3” 2
nun paris brand 2
vorderman’s boobs 2
big pennis sex 2
kings road in the 80’s 2
youtube ducati 1098 in monaco 2
eskimo 2
nigella lawson is a twat 3
chickpea spinach gratin 2
grey’s .redheads .butchers .hatch 2

hole hazel

I happened across ‘Nuts TV’ last night. I didn’t know ‘Nuts TV’ existed, for those of you not in the loop, ‘Nuts’ is a ‘lads mag’, one of those fucking awful rags that feature scantily clad ‘babes’ (i.e., young girls from Liverpool/Essex with skin like cheese graters and so much plastic stuffed into their birdcage chests they legally require ‘made in Hong Kong’ branded onto their arses) editorial on the one inch punch, features on Danny Dwyer, interviews with Mad Frankie Fraser and thousands of adverts for the hard core porn the trembling 13 year old really wanted but didn’t have the balls (or height?) to whisk from the top shelf in Patels 24 hour food ‘n booze emporium.

Anyway, I arrived upon this confusing pseudo muck last night when running through the channels of my newly installed Freeview box (Until last night the TV in the kitchen was running on analogue and due to the Myfwt smoking situation I thought I’d fork out twenty quid in order to watch Top Gear all the time whilst smoking myself to casualty in peace) and was instantly baffled / infuriated.

I was confronted with a ‘babe’ (that is, a 4-foot high teenager, 6.5 in heels, with white hair down to her sanctimonious arse, vacuous grin backed up by thin air and tits like space hoppers) walking into some beauty spa, not fully undressing and getting a massage whilst she bleated on about getting a massage. That was it.

I was just about to explode with rage about paying my TV licence fee before realising that this had nothing whatsoever to do with my TV licence fee and calmly switched over.

Last night was rather jolly, on leaving work I went up to town to meet Den, Harry and Liam for a few pints. First to arrive I managed to get a table, which is fortuitous in a Covent Garden boozer at 6pm, and greeted my pals as they arrived. I’d not seen Den in an age so we caught up over a few ales periodically darting outside for a tab. The pub began filling with obnoxious film students all full of piss and wind about their ‘edits’ and their feted glorious careers ahead, which will never happen. Ironically Harry is a successful director and remained nonplussed by these nitwits as I gently fumed in my seat, I’m not sure if it was their dreadful conversation and pretentious ‘indie’ clothes that pissed me off or the stark realisation that I was now an entire generation ahead of them. This little nugget of horror hadn’t occurred to me before.

Actually, last night was rather jolly up until that point.

And my back still hurts for fucks sake.

bob a job

I have a hangover; I intended to have one, that’s right, it’s deliberate. Last night, just before I was due to go to bed I was stumbling about my premises talking to myself quietly as Myfwt was sparko out in the sack where upon I acknowledged that I was pissed on a ‘school night’. I pondered this ‘on a school night’ phrase that has slipped without introduction into day-to-day parlance, up until that point in time it had never occurred to me to use it, and there is was bathing in my lexical choice as if of my own invention.

I can just about remember school nights, satchel slung over the bed awaiting attention whilst its owner lolled in front of the just-new colour TV, mum cooking in the kitchen, dad in the bath, siblings reading between bouts of kicks and yells… they were days uncluttered by worry, of discovery via sharpened sticks, humiliation, teachers, breathless laughter, girly awakenings… They were happy days on the whole.

These days life doesn’t stretch ahead as it did then, once it was so far into the distance it was impossible to see the next 5 minutes let alone the next day. All that coiled up experience along the way, that was used up years and years ago, dreams, aspirations, been and gone, luck run dry, corner turned, lid locked down…no, it wasn’t a school night by any means, it was yet another fucking working week night approaching 40 and stumbling about my miserable gaff all pissed up with my back twisted up like Somme barbed wire. Which reminds me…

Yesterday I helped a female colleague at work change a car tyre, hypocrisy I know following yesterdays rant, but there you go. Regular readers will know that I slipped my disc a few years back, something I’m keen not to go through again because in addition to the hundreds of pounds it cost to have the cunt fixed, it smarts somewhat. I assumed a certain position when loosening the rather tight wheel nuts to keep the contentious area of my back free from too much stress. Unbeknownst to me at the time, but fucking knownst about 3 hours later when all of a sudden I couldn’t sit without yelping, stand without honking or walk without moaning I’d inadvertently knacked the ball of muscle to the right of my coccyx, torn, no doubt when heaving up the bracket to unlock the wheel fastenings.

The result of all this is bloody pain. I can barely ride my black bitch and sitting down takes a good 2 minutes to get into the right position to allow the area of stress to sufficiently relax and allow some sort of flexibility. It hurts to shit, cough, laugh and even fart. So last night I aided myself with a few G&T’s, 4 glasses of Beaujolais and a few mucky cigarettes and remained stood up for most of the evening chatting to Myfwt in the kitchen before she tottered off to the land of nod.

It’s no better today either, I may be forced to dig out my stick and commence unabridged hobbling again. The lesson in all this is to never help anyone, ever.

Yesterday I was chatting online to a client. He and I share a passion for a much ignored and talented musician by the name of Robert Calvert; he spent some time in Hawkwind but also produced a lot of solo work. Blighted by drink, drugs and depression (if not mental health issues) Calvert ejected in his early 40’s a few weeks after I met him when I was in my 20’s. A lot of his stuff is being re-realised which must be some sort of indication that he’s being rediscovered? I’m going to see if I can’t get him some of the recognition he deserves right here right now. Snag is there isn’t much on youtube so you’ll have to make do with this.

on any tuesday

You’re rather lucky to have a Piqued today, if that’s your want.

Whilst I’m an enormous fan of motorcycles I am aware that there is a certain danger aspect involved in their usage, this isn’t usually down to the motorcyclist per se I hasten to add. Even after years of prangs and near misses I still get a little upset when it comes to motorists trying to kill me but today’s incident(s) even next to the yardstick of my experience, beggars belief. In the space of 20 seconds I was nearly knocked off 3 times by 3 different four-wheeled fucks.

I was approaching a crossroads on the outside of a queue of vehicles as the lights changed, one of those homosexual pick up things with a name like MACHOGRRR suddenly performed a U turn and I performed an emergency stop, not a simple operation at the best of times but as I was now in the centre of the road this procedure was conducted on shale, so the bike slid in a most uncongenial fashion and I missed the bastard by centimetres. I leant on my horn, revved the shit out of the engine and used expletives, the fairy driving looked suitable shaken and weakly apologised so I moved off over the junction.

Due to my noise and display of accident avoiding skills the traffic had stopped to gawp so I crossed the junction ahead of all the wankers in cars where I narrowly missed a white van who’d jumped the lights to my left and to my fucking horror another one coming in the other direction who’d taken it on himself to turn right across my path, for the third time I had to brake hard as the van whisked in front of me leaving a hairs width gap. This time I went apeshit, holding up the queue behind, slap bang in the centre of the junction and I issued a complicated statement of gestures and dark language to all the fucking cars in the world before setting off with my rear wheel spinning, still shouting. By the time I arrived here I felt physically sick and needed a quiet sit down to process my remarkable escape from being spread over south London like angry Marmite.

I had a totally unremarkable Monday; Myfwt still in the throes of smoking abstinence has decided being around me isn’t assisting her cause so she stayed at her gaff whilst I yawned myself to death in mine. I was saved by two glasses of wine and another viewing of ‘On Any Sunday’ a delicious 1970’s documentary on motorcycle racing in the USA. Apart from being beautifully shot it features, in passing, Steve McQueen who had more than passing talent on a bike (btw he didn’t perform the jump in The Great Escape as the studio wouldn’t allow it, that was a chap called Bud Ekins, though McQueen was more than capable though on the strength of watching his talents in the film) and the whole thing is a homage to how jolly wonderful it is to ride. I’m not sure how non-bike fans would enjoy it and frankly I don’t give a shit.

Today’s youtube offing was recorded in one take. Apparently they were introduced to each other and after barely speaking a word the cameras rolled, they became lovers after they wrapped then split acrimoniously some months later and both featured the other on their next albums.

gothic

I read in Saturday’s Guardian that a Lord Mancroft, a grizzled reprehensible Tory Peer, had branded nurses as ‘grubby, drunken and promiscuous’ during a Lord’s debate following a spell in Royal United Hospital in Bath for gout or something. Being a fucking Tory he couldn’t leave it at that and among the choice insults called them ‘slipshod’ and ‘lazy with dirty fingernails and hair’ and generally crowed on about what a terrible time he had and how lucky he was to be alive blah blah.

Firstly what sort of self-respecting Tory doesn’t have private healthcare? Really, what is this man doing with his gargantuan salary and inherited fortunes? He’s either blown it all on sniff and harpies, is tighter than a wasps arsehole or is a moonlighting Communist. Secondly, and more importantly, how dare he criticise nurses, the backbone of any medical institution (whether it be private or public) without whom hospitals simply couldn’t exist. They are under worked, overpaid and perpetually stressed, especially having to nurse cunts like him. I’m sure some do enjoy a casual drink/shag, so what? Coming from a Tory that’s the pot calling the kettle black if nothing else. It shows such an enormous degree of callowness that ‘Mancroft’ should slip into the English Dictionary as ‘an oafish ignoramus so far removed from any sense of reality due to their being weaned on truffles, caviar and gold, that they still think their plops are made of chocolate and they wee wee lemonade’. I hope his knob rots off.

The weekend was good from the off, even the bike back from work on Friday was the stuff of trophies. I met Swineshead and Frank in the local for a few ales; I love that time of the week, the embryonic stage of the weekend having a laugh and joke with ones pals, the working week behind and freedom ahead -diametrically opposed as I type this, bugger- and I arrived back at flat feeling right nice and that.

I made supper and Myfwt joined me for a few glasses of champagne (I’d been given a bottle at work –I’m not some sort of fucking hooray Henry like that berk mentioned at the beginning of this post) and we ate fresh pasta and salmon, which was delicious but overly plentiful. We then had one of those dead heavy conversations which wasn’t as bad as it sounds before Myfwt, recently having given up smoking, cracked and smoked a tab before being sick everywhere. Bless her.

Saturday morning didn’t happen for either of us, at midday we stirred and following a light breakfast she went off shopping and I nipped off to meet Frank to take some of his old shit to the dump. Fortuitously Frank lives near Sainsbury so I was able to get the weekly shop done before getting back home to get ready for the evening.

I’d not been to Jamie’s place in years; he lives in the middle of nowhere in deepest darkest Surrey and despite him giving me an email containing location instructions I pored over a not very satisfactory map for a good 15 minutes to familiarise myself with a route. It was dusk by the time I set off, I lazily battled with the early evening traffic heading South on the A217 towards all fields and trees and shit. I found my turning onto the B road without problem but then I was suddenly plunged into Hammer Horror lanes and confusing little wooden signs, so archaic that the functioning end depicted little carved pointing hands… I parked up in the middle of a terrifyingly silent black copse and called Jamie. I was still miles away but after some instruction I gladly set off again.

The thing about all just fields is they don’t have street lighting and not being familiar with where I was going the ride became a little unnerving, especially when the road would just drop away and sharply bend without warning. After a good 10 minutes of pitch black scratching I turned down a lane and approached a house with a man hold a torch and waving a giant stick at me. I’d arrived.

Jamie and his missus have just had their second son; she’d taken them off to her mum’s for mother’s day so Jamie and I had the gaff to ourselves. The house, a 15-century cottage, is plonked into a vast landscape of woods, rivers and fields as far as the eye can see, a stark contrast to the spittle-drenched pavements of Tooting. There are a few other houses in the hamlet, a huge gothic church (famed for being featured in Four Weddings and a Funeral) a single lane bridge over a small river and a 16th Century Coach house which is where were we drunk Young’s Special in front of an open fire and chatted the evening away. After a good few we wandered out into the darkness, still clutching our pints and walked into the dark woodland by the river and happened upon a Second World War pillbox that we investigated by the light of my Zippo. The wind whooshed through the tall trees and little creatures scuttled and darted in and out the leaves and boughs, Jamie and I wandered by the still river lit by the moon and we took time and care to pick up vast rotten branches and hurl them into the water. It was like being a child again, the booze had stripped away the oppressive cynicism of adulthood and the huge closely knitted trees released a long forgotten sense of trepidation and barely suppressed joy at just being able to innocently explore.

We arrived back at the cottage all muddy and breathless. Jamie got his old heavy metal singles out and we spent the rest of the night popping back bottles of beer and alternating between his lounge and makeshift studio in the shed in the garden. Jamie is a superlative musician; he’s a knack for achingly gorgeous tunes but with not a jot of ego in his body is happy to confine his gigs to himself and, if I’m lucky, me. I’ve no idea what time we went to bed, I just remember waking up to the sound of church bells and a million different birds singing their tiny hearts out. Even the skin wrinkling hangover couldn’t stop me taking time to relish the idyll, despite a long held atheism, I love the sound of church bells, me.

The bike back home was terrific, it was sunny and bright and the roads clear and fast, I roared out of the country and wound my way back into the city. I had a late lunch and changed into my leathers in order to make a dash for my parents. Most of the journey is on the A3, three lanes of very quick biking, it’s easy to cruise at 120+ so long as the traffic allows it. If I’m not physically shaking by the time I arrive at my destination I’ve not worked hard enough.

My mum was gifted up with flowers and what have you and my siblings arrived with their respective other halves. My niece made an appearance too, she’s teething, on the brink of crawling and being all fractious and giggly at any given moment. When she’s in the room, the whole family just sit and watch her going about her baby business. After a few hours of merriment I had to go. I’d made an appointment to suck back a farewell weekend pint with Frank and shot back with my engagement driving me ever onwards. I parked up and walked into my flat. To my disgust Cunt was stood in the hallway looking past me, he won’t look me in the eye these days so I deliberately stare intently at his mug with as much volume as possible. Some words fell out of his vacuous gob, I sneered back, all the while wishing his tiny black heart would pop so I could watch his face gurn in abject agony and observe in silence as he crumpled yelping to the carpet… No such luck of course.

The weekend closed as it had started, pub, then home to Myfwt and supper, sensational seafood and spinach bake with puff pastry, and a little glass of wine, naturally.

It’s metal Monday… they do and so do I