Monthly Archives: March 2008

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.

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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.