Monthly Archives: April 2008

bloody rude

It’s not really in my character to be overtly rude to someone, obviously if there is justification, a motorist trying to run me off the road, an angry gentleman mucking about in the street, then I may take appropriate action. But last night on the tube, whilst stealing the northern line map that runs across the top of the car, some bloke was staring at me all funny like.

As I rolled the map up and popped it in my bag I turned to this chap and said, ‘what you fucking staring at’ much to my surprise, as, indeed, was the recipient of this loutish behaviour. ‘Nothing’ he said meekly. I felt like a right cunt all the way home I can tell you. (the map, by the way, was hastily mounted after midnight on the wall by the stairs, I saw it this morning, it looks fucking shit)

I’ve no idea what inspired this hooliganism. It may well as a result of being thrown out of The Intrepid Fox by a furious member of the bar staff during drink up time. I’d like to point out that both myself and Urbanwoo (link right) merely needed to micturate before we went home and the staff had called last orders and immediately hit the bog lights. I insisted that they turned them back on, which they did, but as we left a group of punters were rowing with the staff and we were ordered to leave before being subject to a tirade of abuse.

Previously Louche (link right) Uw and I had met up in a boozer on Dean Street to discuss a project of sorts, all was going swimmingly until the place became full of footballs and people that like it and things, so we left to pound the streets until arriving at The Crowbar, a heavy metal bar of some note, though long past it’s heyday, and swigged Speckled Hen from bottles. Here we laughed at the world, we three are involved in a similar activity which requires support from those I the know, something impossible to grasp if you’re not. In time this obscurity will have its veil lifted allowing you all to pique…

It was a splendid evening and certainly made up for a bland disappointing day in the office. Business is slow and I have to say, it’s making me a bit nervous. Notwithstanding, my week continues to be choc full o’ engagements, I’m fully booked until next week one way and another which isn’t good for finances or internals organs but, well, as Uw said last night, one is a long time dead.




I noticed that Gei Halliwell has ‘written’ a children’s book (if you are of a nervous disposition you may wish to do something else, I noticed the news item yesterday and to avoid biting the side of my desk and smashing the phone over the back of my head until my teeth were off, I hit a zone of zen like calm that has now permitted me to deal with this matter on an adult and mature basis).

So. Ms Halliwell’s book, the one she’s written, is a children’s bok, I mean ‘book’ and it’s called (deep breath, ready? Fucking hell..)

Ugenia Lavender

Hang on

Right, sorry, just had to pop to the loo

Phew, right. In addition to this the 34 year old vacuous cunt ex Spice Girls has signed a SIX BOOK DEAL……………………

In other news for fucks sake, I’m not hungover, my sideboards are completely ridiculous, but I’m keeping them, and last night was… A SIX BOOK DEAL, SIX, SIX SIX… Lavendar Bluebell Peaches Trixibell Apple (Apple??? APPLE!!!!!!!!!!)… Jordan and her husband, former pop star Peter Andre, have named their baby daughter Princess Tiaamii. Tiaamii – pronounced tee-ah-me – is taken from the names of Andre’s mother Thea and Jordan’s mother Amy. Jordan explained to OK! magazine: “Her name is Princess Tiaamii. Princess because she is our princess and Tiaamii was Pete’s idea because it’s taken from our mums’ names. “We love it because it’s unique, plus it means something special to us. I’m going to get a tattoo on the back of my neck with a crown and ‘Princess’ underneath.”


Aanisah: Macy Gray (also mother to Tahmel). Astrella Celeste: Donovan and Linda Lawrence (also parents to Oriole Nebula). Atherton Grace: Don Johnson and Kelley Phleger. Audio Science: Shannyn Sossamon. Aurelius Cy: Elle Macpherson and Arpad Busson. Blue Angel: U2’s The Edge and Aislinn O’Sullivan. Calico: Alice and Sheryl Cooper (also parents to Sonora Rose). Camera: Arthur Ashe and Jeanne Moutoussamy. Diezel Ky: Toni Braxton and Keri Lewis (also parents to Denim Cole). Fuchsia: Sting and Frances Tomelty. Gaia: Emma Thompson and Greg Wise. Gulliver: Gary Oldman and Donya Fiorentino. Heaven: Lil’ Mo (also mother to God’Iss Love Stone). Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily: Paula Yates and Michael Hutchence. Hopper: Sean Penn and Robin Wright. Ireland: Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger. Jaz: Steffi Graf and Andre Agassi. Jermajesty: Jermaine Jackson and Alejandra Genevieve Oaziaza (previously married to Jermaine’s brother Randy). Kal-El Coppola: Nicholas Cage (Kal-El is Superman’s original birth name). Kyd: David Duchovny and Tea Leoni. Lark Song: Mia Farrow and André Previn. Lennon: Liam Gallagher and Patsy Kensit. Liberty: Ryan Giggs. London Emilio: Slash. Luna Coco Patricia: Frank Lampard and Elen Rive. Marquise: 50 Cent. Memphis Eve: Bono. Moxie CrimeFighter: Penn Jillette (also father to Zolten). Ocean: Forest Whitaker (also father to Sonnet and True). Pilot Inspektor: Jason Lee and Beth Riesgraf. Rocket: Robert Rodriguez (also father to Racer, Rebel and Rogue). Rufus Tiger: Roger Taylor also father to Tiger Lily and Lola Daisy. Saffron Sahara: Simon and Yasmin Le Bon (also parents to Amber Rose and Tallulah Pine). Sage Moonblood: Sylvester Stallone and Sasha Czack (also parents to Seargeoh). Satchel: Spike Lee and Tonya Lewis Lee. Seven Sirius: Andre Benjamin and Erykah Badu. Shiloh Nouvel: Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Suri: Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. Tallulah: Bruce Willis and Demi Moore (also parents to Scout and Rumer). Willow Camille Reign: Will Smith and Jada Pinkett-Smith. Zola Ivy: Eddie Murphy and Nicole Mitchell

east of orange

On Friday, that’s Friday, the day of inebriation by anyone’s standards, I didn’t drink. Not a drop, nada. Zip. Instead I watched The Darjeeling Limited which, oddly, I’ve enjoyed more in hindsight than I did at the time, before reading voraciously and going to bed, all sober and straight. And shit.

Saturday I awoke, completely free of any malaise and set off in the warm sunshine in my white van for perhaps the last time to see Myfwt and load a bunch of her furniture into the gaping maw of the white and dropped her off at her sisters gaff where it was unloaded. This task was rewarded by a pub lunch with my brother, sat by the river we had a couple of pints and a burger and nattered about stuff as nature buzzed lazily about us and bits of tree landed in our beer and hair –it was lovely. We walked back in tee shirts and got thoroughly stoned on our return, a bit too stoned for comfort. After he wandered off looking all the worse for the charis I installed my new Orange Livebox which promised to delivery super speed broadband, it’s marginally faster than my old modem, the Orange cunts have sold me a fucking monkey.

I met up with Frank early evening and we trundled into town to meet an old mate who is due to be married shortly, having a pass out he was rather keen to fulfil drinking duties but Frank and I weren’t really in the mood, initially. After a few in a West End boozer, quite a few, we were there until last orders, Frank left us so Rob and I wandered into some dreadful nightclub populated by teenage cunts listening to the most disgusting music imaginable. By now a bit pissed Rob and I spent a good hour being thoroughly unpleasant about all and sundry sipping buckets of gin and tonic, I believe on one occasion we sarcastically danced, it’s all rather vague.

I managed to catch the last tube home and somehow returned home with some shopping I’ve utterly no recollection of purchasing, the evening ended at some point because I woke in up bed on Sunday morning dying of a bastard in my head. I ate some kippers with tea and toast and watched the start of the Grand Prix and following a horrific incident with Kovalainen hitting a tyre wall head on at 150mph and being briefly convinced I’d witnessed a fatal (he’s got concussion, that’s it) I headed of to the Eastend to visit a friend at a gallery near Brick Lane.

When I alighted at Whitechapel I was greeted with a very peculiar scene close to The Blind Beggar where George Cornell got his comeuppance. Rolling around in the gutter were a bundle of limbs and yelling heads, most notably a single arm was repeatedly pile driving a fist into the centre of this screaming creature. Convinced I was watching a stabbing I stood stock-still and watched, it’s not the sort of thing one sees on a daily basis, I surmised. I was intrigued by the outcome.

What I wasn’t expecting were that there were two protagonists; both female and the other bodies involved in the disruption were men preventing any further violence. This was easier said than done. The women were very cross with each other, and the language dear reader, well I shall spare you but it was jolly course, ‘come here you such and such, I’m going to kick you in the wotnot, you’re a prostitute (or words implying such amoral business) you is going down, you is’ They were both spitting and snarling and as soon as the incident seemed to calm, off they went again, pulling hair, biting and properly punching the fuck out of each other. I stood there with a fucking huge stonk-on, watching, just watching…

The gallery was shut (the website said it would be open) so unfortunately we wound up in an Eastend boozer for the remainder of the afternoon. The Eastend is very different to sarf London, whilst I am familiar with the latter, despite fighting crack whores, the Eastend does have a very pleasant edge to it, it seems much more inspired, the place is populated by some genuinely odd characters but the young hip types give it a most congenial edge.

Finally, I couldn’t finish today’s Piqued without a quick mention of Humphrey Littleton. On Friday a national treasure shuffled off this mortal coil and the world will be a poorer place without him. In addition to being a superlative jazz trumpeter he was possibly one of the funniest men to have breathed. I will miss him.

cormack addiction

Cormack McCarthy has completely revolutionised my travelling on the tube. A few years ago tube travel was beyond me, my claustrophobia and tendency to throw random screaming panic attacks prevented me from even contemplating putting myself in such an environment. Due to sheer necessity and some helpful guidance from Frank I slowly learned to deal with it, even overcoming being stuck in a tunnel for 5 desperate minutes where I was convinced I was going to completely lose control of my faculties, this included having to prevent myself from fucking the bloke next to me just to take my mind off my own mortality. And I don’t even do cock.

These days I bound down the escalator and stand mustard-keen on the platform and wait, book in hand, for my carriage to rattle out of the smoky dark and arrive at the very spot -first car, last seat on the left- that allows me to walk on in one step and seat myself in a second. In a flash the book is on and I’m right there, no longer on the tube but way yonder watching a foreign sky, alien plains waiting for death in every shadow. I know I have a solid chunk of 25 minutes to remain in this state, I don’t notice the stations, the travellers, noise or smell, I’m locked far away. Twice in the last month I’ve missed my stop due to being completely absorbed.

Once I had alighted from the tube at Leicester Square, the book drifting out of my being as I ascended into the warm sunshine, I met up with Frank in the pub off Seven Dials and began drinking in earnest, Harry joined us, then Den, who’d managed to get to the bar without noticing us and was waiting outside for us to show up, and finally Liam. The conversation in hand revolved largely about the thing that I’m unable to discuss on here for the present, without wishing to go into detail I’m fortunate to have such sympathetic friends and I drank with a refreshed combination of inspiration and raw fear.

Harry who’d just returned from Berlin needed to grab a cab back to South London as he’d a pile of luggage, I joined him for the ride. By now I was a little fucked and can’t remember too much, I was home and in bed before 1am, of that I’m sure, having failed to eat.

The weekend is shaping up well; swathes have been delegated for social exchange and areas left blank in order to write. My movements tonight are uncertain, I may even stick at home for once, who knows.

After the edited Friday list a tune from Jane’s Addiction. I leave you with my best wishes and a genuine desire for you to have splendid weekends.

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green worry

The matter that’s causing me some concern, the sleepless nights fellow, the terror of which I’ve mentioned recently? That? Well it now has teeth and a face in the form of a time and place, in just under a few weeks the ordeal will be over, post-ordeal seems an impossible place from here.

In addition to being fucking irritating being all cryptic and what have you, this may have an effect of Piqued, if posts are a little short for the near future you’ll know why.

But life goes on yeah, after getting home I rammed my face hole with the second half of the fisherman’s pie I made the previous evening. As with most pie related things, they’re often tweaked by their cooking and having been left to cool and chill (I mean ‘chill’ as in fridge ‘chill’ I don’t mean fucking ‘chill’ as in ‘pill’ and I resent having to include this caveat into today’s post because this country is chock full o’ cunts) and last nights sensational offing was no exception.

Tube to Clapham, bus to Battersea. I caught the fucker just in time and passed the vast expanse of Clapham Common, viewed from the top deck, as dusk gathered. Little groups of people were engaging in torpid exercise or were gathered in some sort of post activity de-brief, it was a lovely evening and my enquiring mind recalled the last abstruse dark lines of Blakes ‘Echoing Green’ “And sport no more seen, on the darkening green” with a fucking stiffie.

I alighted at Battersea and walked the high Street to the pub and met up with my cousins, one a photographer of some note and the other a doctor… well, of some note too, we were joined by the doctor’s charming wife and my bro and we caught up. My Dr. Cousin had injured his arm and was self prescribing some tranquillisers and drinking, my photographer cousin was blasted on Guinness, it’s jolly nice to know that this whole ‘getting out of your head thing’ isn’t just my peccadillo when it comes to the family, I have support. Oh, do remember, most doctors DO smoke.

My bro and I took the bus back after loudly relieving ourselves in a public street like a pair of a fan of the footballs and we went our separate ways. I was home by midnight with just enough left to endure a taped Apprentice which made me do at least one good laugh despite my intrusive imaginings of how I’d like to despatch the West Country Matt Lucas Look-alike, at this moment in time I hate him more than all the atrocities ever committed by man on his fellow man/woman/child in the history of human existence –fuck my Congo moan earlier this week, give me him bound and gagged and an lazy Sunday afternoon…

I never really got on with this lot in terms of ‘Metal’ but this bastard song has been going round my head, here, catch…

georges beard

It all fell off, nothing to do with me. I wasn’t even pissed either. The trim turned into an hour long series of ‘you sure?’ dashing twixt lounge and bathroom, on each visit a little more of my beard was shorn, every time I returned to my armchair I wasn’t convinced it was right so in a moment of sheer wilfulness I shaved the fucking lot off leaving only a magnificent pair of furious Georgian sideboards that run under my jaw –all I need now is a winged collar and syphilis.

The worst aspect of this temporary hirsute-holocaust, in addition to looking like a huge Murray Mint, is that I can feel air. It’s like having a piss outdoors when the wind suddenly licks around ones member and it feels inordinately cold because it’s an unfamiliar state of affairs purely because one doesn’t walk about in the great outdoors with ones cock exposed to the elements, not on St. Georges Day anyway (we’ll come back to him). My face has become sensitive like a vast helmet (as in ‘cock end’, not ‘crash’) if someone calls across the road I can feel their breath on my shorn skin, every pore of my face is aroused by the mildest whiff of a waft, perhaps from under a door, or the tiny beating wing of a yellowhammer, yonder, under the gathering storm clouds of complacency, yeah.

The weather yesterday was the first warm day we’ve had in this country since that odd day at the end of the British Superbike season last October. Of course as soon as there is so much as a hint of heat every fat white underclass wanker in Christendom strips down to their fucking pants and takes it on themselves to wander, slowly, through public places. Tooting yesterday looked like a chessboard, burkha vs. blubber.

Doubtless these flabby tosspots are the same types that bedeck their grotty houses with the cross of St. George, or ‘I am a racist’ flags. (Some) people moan on and fucking on about how we should celebrate St George’s day like the Irish do St. Patrick’s and what have you, but it would be impossible to do this without the whole fucking thing being completely overtaken by bullet headed men getting completely inebriated before singing ‘send the buggers back’ and beating the fucking shit out of each other and whomsoever happened to pass by.

Because it’s very hard to separate the St.Georges Cross with right-wing thuggery, for the time being at least, we’ll just have to accept that we’re not mature enough to have national St Georges Day celebrations, yet…

But there is a solution, a way to claim back the St. George flag for all the decent tolerant English citizens, of which I’m one.


St. George was a Greek speaking Turk, he’s also the patron saint Aragon, Canada, Catalonia, China, Ethiopia, Georgia, Greece, Montenegro, Palestine, Portugal, Russia, and Serbia. Lets tell all those flag waving cunts who crawl out their tax-paid for houses to moan in Ladbrokes, MacDonalds, Weatherspoons etc., about immigration, how it’s their English right to indulge in all-day St. George inspired piss-ups, that their patron saint was a wog… Then the rest of us can enjoy a nice day off with moral impunity.

My ex girlfriend who was Japanese thought this was our national anthem, if only.

packed owt

For the first time in weeks I was able to see a cured Myfwt. She popped over at dusk and we ate, watched a splendid programme on medieval cathedrals and got a little pissed on Pinot Noir, her commitment to quit the fags went out of the window and we had a jolly old night. This morning I’m vaguely hungover, the flat smells like it’s been used as a doss house for navvies and I’m here in the bloody office wondering if I can sleep under the desk for an hour without anyone noticing.

I woke up to the most awful thing on the Radio, Myfwt had already left so I was left to shudder alone hearing the most dreadful acts of horror I can recall since I saw my dads winkle when I was 5. It was to do with what they do to women in the Congo, actually, go here and download ‘Thompson in the Congo’ and check out how they treat their women folk, it puts a certain degree of perspective on ones day to day life and in addition to my passing malaise I’m still vibrating from recently acquired knowledge that I’m finding awkward to shift, like a petulant poo. It’s fucking unbelievable, frankly.

My schedule has tightened again; I’m finding it hard to see a clear path to June without a single day spare. Also, the thing I was worrying about last week, the cryptic thing of which I cannot speak? That? Well there has been some sort of confirmation as to its occurrence, so in addition to feeling hungover and disturbed my guts are simmering with fear. All will be revealed in a few weeks so until then I’ll be forced to allude to this auspicious aspect of my existence from time to time.

This evening I’m due to meet up with my brother at the Clapham hostelry with his mate Al, I don’t foresee a big one as I need to keep the boozing under par, this week I’ve many engagements and if I want to survive the summer, I’ll need to be careful now.

Little ditty today from Stiff Little Fingers, best thing to come out of Northern Island since my granny, with some hilarious footage of the troubles. Just found out they’re playing as part of the Meltdown Festival, in addition to Ministry, Dead Kennedys (the following day) looks like I’ll have to chalk that up as well, it’s a tough life, I just hope my liver can keep up.