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.
IMPORTANT.
HAPPY TO HAVE PEOPLE POST IN HERE BUT PLEASE REMEMBER, WE DON’T DO REAL NAMES
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
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 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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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…
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.
Marketing.
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.
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 http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/today/ 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.
Friday’s social engagement was rather off the cuff -if you’ll pardon potential puns that have utterly no bearing on what I did on said day. I digress, I’d not planned on travelling to visit Swineshead and his missus in Hackney but when the invitation appeared out of the blue I accepted.
This involved a journey by bus and tube after work which took almost an hour and a half, but being accompanied by a jolly good book I didn’t mind, frankly. I met SH when I alighted the bendy bastard bus I was crammed into just as night fell, we grabbed some beers and returned to his flat where we joined shortly by two more friends and there I remained virtually until the morning. We spent a pleasant evening nattering and listening to some music (oh, and drinking and doing fucking drugs yeah) and I think I managed to behave myself. It had been agreed at about 11pm that I would be cabbing home, SH kindly offered to pay half my fair and serendipity occurred.
I was after 3am when I got into the cab. London was asleep and we travelled from one side of it to the other, despite there being virtually any traffic the journey took an hour or so. But I couldn’t have cared less; it was wonderful. The buildings passing by oscillated between a single line of motion before suddenly flashing into two permanent hypnotic parallels punctuated only by the dazzling steel and glass monuments of the city and a breathtaking crawl over Tower Bridge which is as invigorating a feeling as standing looking over rolling green country. Apart from when I said ‘goodnight’ to the cabbie this was the only moment we spoke, each of us said ‘beautiful’ before we roared through a deserted South London and home to bed. Fucked.
Despite the quantity of intoxicants I was all right on Saturday afternoon, which is when I resurrected. I ate a kipper and made my way to B&Q to procure a large picture frame for the poster of the movie ‘On Any Sunday’ which I can see from here. It’s Sunday afternoon incidentally… (it was a fucking devil to frame) and made my way to bloody Sainsbury to grab some shopping, it was an arduous hour, I really wasn’t in the mood and I couldn’t find the shit I wanted.
In the evening Jamie came over and we went directly to the pub. Unfortunately Jamie wasn’t feeling 100% (I suspect he’s acquired a version of the bug that turned me into a puke geyser a few weeks back) and this malaise wasn’t helped by the fact the pub was rammed to the gills with barking south Africans and some wanker and a keyboard playing Bingo Hall tunes causing the south Africans to shriek along. It was like the apocalypse; Jamie and I could barely communicate over the fucking din so after a modest 3 pints we left them to it and fucked off home.
As we passed by Jamie’s van he remembered he’d brought my bass from back his home and we took it upstairs. Whilst the bass was as gorgeous as usual the case had acquired a rather nasty musty mouldy niff, noticing my undulating nostrils and sour visage Jamie mentioned that ‘something was dead under his shed’ just before he flaked out on the couch. Shortly after James, by now recovered from showering my gaff in sweetcorn, tripe and carrots last week, popped by for a cup of tea and to show off his new pimp mobile, the thug. We three, well two and a half, watched Taxidermia which probably didn’t do much for Jamie’s constitution despite it being responsible for much belly laughing.
After James went I too crashed out and awoke mid morning with a headache noticing the flat reeked like something had died and melted on a radiator. Jamie, looking frail, took himself off home and in my sorry state I managed to put the bass case into the loft (which resulted in more loft based shenanigans, really, it’s all fucking rock and roll at my gaff) clean the flat (devils horns) nip out for an Observer (mosh pit) and prepare bacon and eggs for breakfast (choke on my own vomit). After a good old fat shit I was feeling human again, I lolled in front of Scraphead Challenge before reading, writing and doing some of this crap.
Toward to end of the afternoon I prepared a roast, spuds, chicken breast, broccoli what have you, making a splendid gravy from the skin on the tits. Needless to say I ate without the accompaniment of booze, a day off for me. I’m (more) sensible these days when it comes to such things. Anyway, it was fucking lovely, a sensation.
Feeling drowsy Sunday evening was spent in front of the TV and under the cover of broadsheets. I intended an early night because today is Monday, for fucks sakes, it’s always Monday these days, but instead I finished off The Road (Cormack McCarthy) and hit the lights way after 1am. Oops.
Last night I met up with my mate, the one I was convinced had carked it some 5 years ago, in the Fox in town. We found a spot and stayed there all night, from day to dusk to night, catching up. The place swelled about us and we talked about the missing years and caught up. We left pissed and grabbed the tube. Bizarrely two of the girls in The Fox, not the usual fare of Suicide Girl-esque tats and tits type, were in the carriage in front and we had a conversation through the open window as the train roared through the pitch black of London rock, I cannot recall a word of the conversation but I remember that, after saying goodbye to my mate, he got off and as the train pulled away from the station he was running next to the carriage knocking on the window pointing down and crying ‘my bag, next stop!’
I alighted at Kennington aware that I was stumbling drunk and took a piss in the street. This state is purely down, ironically, to my having cut right back on my boozing, I just wasn’t used to 5 pints of lager. I called Myfwt who is still convalescing with Chicken Pox and received a message from my mate who was waiting for me, and his bag, at the next station. After a bunch of shit with lifts and platforms and what have you I ascended the stairs at Waterloo to a very anxious mate, 5 mins from his last train, and gave him back his bag. Needless to say he was rather chuffed.
The tube journey home passed in a flash, I sort of remember getting in and crashing onto my bed. I’d not eaten a bloody thing.
Mercifully it’s Friday, the office is strangely deserted and I have a few plans for the weekend to come. Tonight is clear though, I’m rather grateful for this because I’m not feeling Top of The Pops due to a mild hangover. I’m still surprised how such a relatively small quantity of booze has effected the day after. It makes me wonder how I was coping before when I was drinking more than, well, that.
I noticed that 40,000 US cunts have turned up to watch the fucking pope goosestep. Spurning the whole US policy of killing as many Arabs as possible I was slightly pleased to see that he is actually facing up to the (albeit easier) issue of sexual abuse of children in The Catholic community. All his has to do is look gormless and say ‘I’m sorry’ but he has at least acknowledged that his unpleasant religion is one of perverted lasciviousness, so it’s a good start. Nice pope.
Following the now almost non existent Friday list due to so many revolting Catholic-type peds/pervs out there I’ve something special, while the Dead Kenneyds sessions may be over (for the while) here is them playing live back in the day, the last song is as close as they got to a ballad, it’s dead pretty.
It remains for me to wish you all pleasant weekends, with the exception of those that arrive on here looking for images that, by rights, should instantly result in their being blinded, castrated and erected on a fucking pole.
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It was Pope Benny’s birthday yesterday; he spent it on American soil. At about the same time I hobbled back from the pub I switched on the news to see the Pope on a balcony with his fucking hat on, all gold and white and that, stood next to George W Bush, the closest a human has got to evil incarnate since Hitler fell out of his mothers withered thighs, whilst a throng of American cunts sang ‘Happy Birthday heavenly father’ the creeping, obsequious, fawning, drooling savages… I nearly slammed my screaming head through the tube.
Surely this overt Pope/Bush union has further politicised Christianity, what are the Muslims to make of this in countries where the Americans have decimated their land, destroying communities, families and lives? In addition, this idiotic act has symbiotically made a mockery of Christianity by presenting it in league with fucking satan? No one wins. How fucking stupid!
Another thing, red Rizla, I’d not bought a packet in a while and was seriously fucked off to notice they’d secretly made them narrower so the whole ritual of folding the surplus, licking along the crease, peeling off and discarding in a tiny ball had been denied me. What on earth is the world coming too, first the fucking Pope and Bush on the same stage and now this.
My back is still bad; I had to spurn a long journey into East London last night to see some friends because I was concerned it wouldn’t stand the sideways motion of the tube and the long walk to the venue. Frank called out of the blue at 8-ish and asked if I fancied a pint, the walk there and back wasn’t too bad and certainly worth it but I’m wandering if it has exacerbated the problem. Following the pub and Pope rage I made sardines on toast and watched an old Saxondale (the first season is so much better than the second) and a Q1 before retiring with my book exhausted.
You may have, or not, noticed a new link in the blogroll for ‘bmezine’. I feel this deserves some sort of explanation. It’s a website for body modification, mainly tattoos and piercing but at times it can get rather extreme, some of the work is beautiful, some is utter shit, aspects of it are plain disturbing but if you’re in the right frame of mind it does make you think about why people do things to themselves that at times go against the grain of what (Western) society considers ‘normal’. I have to say I’m addicted to the site for various reasons –don’t blame me if you come across something that throws you into a state of abject confusion, or makes you just plain throw up.
The last instalment of The Dead Kennedy’s in the studio folks, sorry. I saved the best to last though, this is joyous…
My cunting back has popped again. No reason for it, I went to bed okay and woke up not. That’s the worst thing about having a fucking slipped disc, it’s completely out of your hands, subject to its own malevolent and petulant will. The merest sigh can aggravate it, a cough, nay, a fart… the most terrifying of all is a sneeze, the year before I wrote this blog, when it first went, I sneezed in my flat and fucking fainted –it was dreadful.
Last night was fun, I took the t’Northern Line into Soho and met an old friend for a drink, she arrived right on time, most unusual for a bird I clucked to myself and we had one there before arriving at dusk at a Japanese Restaurant opposite the Groucho Club which was completely deserted save one middle-aged Japanese lady with teeth like tombstones. We ate sushi and sashimi with wine, not saki (that scanned beautifully) which was fucking delicious though my dining companion wasn’t really au fait with chopsticks like what I is and took to stabbing her food. I smiled patronisingly, I did, I could feel myself do it. I nearly went ‘ha’ as well.
By the time we got out it was raining so hard I was forced to procure a brolly for our heads for the walk to the tube with was awash with drenched looking types. In hindsight it may have been this that fucked my back, allow me. Wet surfaces have a tendency to cause a chap to slip, especially if he’s wearing a pair of beautifully crafted leather soled shoes, and subsequently one is inclined to compensate for slipping by treading gingerly with a flat foot causing the back to tense, I reckon that’s why I’m sat here now with a rictus grin and moist eyeballs.
But at least I’m in fucking work, that’s the good bit.
More from The Dead Kenneyds recording live. I find this type of thing separates the men from the boys, only wankers hate this, hear me? Wankers.
Before I go, the only band that are referenced on the opening titles to Nevermind The Buzzcocks are The Dead Kenneyds, and that’s a Piqued fact –actually, I’m going to pop an interview with Jello Biaffra by Jools Holland RIGHT AFTER THIS FUCKING SONG.
Yesterday was one of stark contrasts. One of my closest friends contacted me with some desperately sad news about her unborn son, and 30 minutes later, a friend of mine I believed to have died called me up out of the blue. It’s not a funny old world by any means but on occasion it can trip you up.
I spent another evening in the chasm of sobriety, I’ve quite a schedule over the next few evenings so two days away from booze seemed ‘sensible’. I found last night quite simple to deal with, once one has accepted one isn’t going to drink in the evening as soon as one awakes, thereby quashing any acceptation that the day is going to be anything other than fucking shite, it’s sort of alright living through it fully aware of the whole world about you in stark boring anti-climax.
The bright sunny evening and bike ride home cheered me though, it’s funny how putting myself in mortal danger in order to satisfy my lust for hard acceleration gives me such a thrill, I can see parallels between that and drinking too much or taking drugs, though the latter elements are slower of course. I was thinking about this with regard to the ban on advertising tobacco in motorsport, yes, smoking isn’t particularly good for your health but far worse would be to hit a fucking wall at 200 mph.
Following supper and a documentary on the Gutenburg Press which I knew more about than the documentary, though it was enjoyable enough to watch the arcane process first hand, I watched Name of The Rose. I’d not seen it for a while and had forgotten how utterly wonderful it is, it’s not aged (of course) and still has the emotional punch I recall when first seeing it some 20 years ago as teenager, it’s almost without flaw and as contemporary medieval thrillers go, it’s without peer.
The only irksome aspect of the evening was finding lumps of James’ stomach lining in my washed clothes. I’d thrown the vomit clad sofa bedclothes into the machine within an hour of their soiling and washed them at once in the wee hours of Sunday morning. I’d forgotten all about them until early evening yesterday when I went to fill the machine and found a huge pile of wet stuff quietly retting away.
I grabbed bundles of sheets, towels pants and other ephemeral items of clothing and pulled them onto the kitchen floor, but in addition to sweet smelling linen there were large dog-food like chunks scattered about the laundered clothes, back they all went into the drum, the floor was brushed of James’ lunch and I fired up the machine again. Two hours later the same thing happened, there were fewer lumps of Chum but enough to put the clothes back in to wash, the floor was brushed a second time and the machine switched on.
Third time lucky, well luckyish, after the Name of the Rose and before I went to bed to spend an good hour reading I found myself picking small lumps of someone else’s sick off my underpants.
Here is the first of the promised youtube discoveries from Friday night, fucking great stuff…
It’s very frustrating having some news and being unable to divulge said news so one doesn’t compromise oneself, well I have news that I’ll only be able to broadcast after the event has taken place. It’s neither good nor bad, just terrifying. I’m terrified and will be until the aspect of my news has been undertaken.
Unlike me, I suggest you don’t dwell on this, but when I refer to something wicked approaching you’ll know that it’s of major concern in my day-to-day comings and goings.
My entire weekend has been dominated by it, there have been moments of joy (usually when pissed) dismay (when pissed and sober) and split second moments of acceptance that evaporate like petrol. It’s fucking dreadful, but also cool. Maybe. I don’t know and this is why I’m terrified.
I discussed this matter with Frank on Friday over a pair of hastily swallowed ales before returning home to unravel what we’d discussed. Needless to say I had a few more ales (‘sensibly’ spurning the wine) and wound up on Youtube until the wee hours looking at some material that I didn’t know existed, the fruits of this research will be the music cause celebre this week. I woke on Saturday feeling wonky but well and did some writing. My desk was covered in post-it notes from the previous evening as I tried to face up to a responsibility, the one that is terrifying me, and I thank the person for their invention as there was useful shit amongst the drunken babblings.
After a fat smokie kipper I took myself off on my black bitch to visit my parents, sister and niece whose now decided I’m all right. For the last few weeks I’ve been Satan incarnate in flesh, the very second my shadow had fallen over her face she’s shrieked like a two-toothed banshee with such force I thought her little head might pop off like a purple champagne cork. Now I can’t put a foot wrong, even when I actually did treading on her hand, she squawked, I said sorry, she laughed.
After cleaning my bike, which was a complete waste of time as it fucking rained on my journey home, I said a hasty farewell and shot off home in order to meet Gerry in the pub for a pint, he’d just finished his shift and as he passed by chez piqued it seemed only stupid to not take him up on his kind offer of refreshment.
I got back home and cleaned the flat, did some more work and ate a lamb and mint sandwich. James had called to see if I fancied meeting him later in the evening, aware that I’d not seen him for a while and our combined liking for beer I thought it wise to eat before I went out rather than grab something after. It was a sensible course of action on my part as I assumed we’d push the boat out.
What I’d not taken into consideration was his lack of recent drinking practice, James has a six month old son and hasn’t stretched his legs in a while…
We were already a bit pissed when we got back from the pub after 4 pints, it was approaching midnight and James decided he’d have a can or two then catch the 1.05 bus back to his house. Unfortunately it wasn’t beer we drunk but a bottle of Cava I’d stored in the fridge for emergencies, this went down a treat and as there happened to be one more we took that on board too.
We chatted about stuff all the while steadily smoking dope. By 2am James was muttering something about ‘getting a cab later’. Perhaps when he fell in the bath shortly after whilst negotiating his zipper, there was an enormous crash and I walked in to find him giggling on his back with his head between his legs, I should’ve thought twice about a final Claret nightcap. All’s well in hindsight isn’t it.
Thirty minutes or so later James went extremely quiet and turned sheet-white. It was clear he was passing out; a rush of adrenaline spurned me into action, quickly I prepared the sofa bed and attempted to get his wife’s phone number to tell her James would be crashing at mine. I walked him to the lounge from the kitchen where we’d been ensconced since our return from the pub and he fell onto the sofa bed with a thump and began moaning. I went to the airing cupboard to get some bedclothes and just as I’d decided that, perhaps, I should get a bucket just in case he threw up there was a single loud and decidedly wet cough from the living room.
I ran in. I was too late. James was still sprawled in the bed but had been joined by a vast lake of vomit with all bits of sick in it. I grabbed his head and lifted his gaping mouth over the bucket where he let rip. The volume of his evacuations was astonishing, a combination of rumbling groans, high-pitched yelps and thunderous expletives. I’m very confident that the next-door neighbours would’ve assumed we were bumming.
James was violently and noisily ill for a good 20 minutes before finally collapsing on the living room floor still grasping onto the bucket like one would a buoy in treacherous seas, he was completely unconscious. I arranged him into the recovery position before I too gave in to the vast quantities of booze and dope we’d imbibed and flaked out on the floor a few feet from him, though I woke up in my bed, fully clothed and very hungover.
A about 6 am James appeared in the bedroom and said something before quietly leaving. I eventually got up at midday; there was lunch to prepare after all.
My brother joined me at 1.30, by this time I’d made an entire Sunday lunch, roast chicken, potatoes and veg though I can barely remember undertaking any preparation or cooking. Despite this it was fucking lovely and following a poo after the Moto GP I was pretty much back to normal. My bro hung about until 4 and left me alone in the flat complete my duty of recovery. I watched a bit of TV, wrote what you’re reading now and made chicken soup with remains of lunch.
I had an idle Sunday evening and went to bed early feeling shattered. And still terrified.
Before I indulge you in the youtube stuff I mentioned just now have a look at this. If you’ve never ridden a bike it sort of feels like this, even the end has a ring of truth to it. One of my favourite bikes of all time, make sure you’ve your speakers on full to hear that engine…
I’m feeling so much better than I was yesterday; this was largely down to my drinking about 3 litres of water during the course of the day and not over doing it yesterday evening. I mean, even I questioned meeting Frank for a couple of pints, but I did and returned home to abstinence, food and a book before retiring at midnight.
The weekend is lovely and shapeless, a few markers are in position but largely it’s all mine to relax and indulge in doing as little as possible save a spot of writing, maybe, and some bike racing on Sunday, for certain.
But all is not hunky dory in Chez Piqued, I got fucking busted for the bill of my Home Information Pack (HIP) to the tune of 450 odd quid, despite my flat being off the fucking market. And there is nothing I can do about it save point at the receipt with my mouth open and closing like Shannon’s mums legs and scream ‘what?! WHAT?!’ like I’ve just been accused of faking the abduction of my child for fiscal gain, I mean who’d ever do that? Whilst it’s a travesty I just have to shut up and pay it, nothing I can do. Fucknuts.
Still, it’s a lovely day and the weekend is inevitable, business isn’t too bad at the moment and I’m not as worried about the potential damage I may have done to my insides through years of abuse. Transpires that the reason I was getting the odd disgruntled ache was due to my not drinking enough water, something I should’ve resolved after a rice krispie sized kidney stone shaped like an explosion scraped it’s way through millimetre thin tubes resulting in my being hospitalised for 3 days following much screaming 8 years afore.
I fancy a pint tonight to celebrate my medical breakthrough.
For some reason I remembered today’s youtube offing as I was waking up, no idea why but seems rude not to post it. Of course it comes after the (edited) Friday list and my sincere desire to wish all of you cheery weekends, wherever you are and what ever your circumstances (unless you’re one of the people that arrive on here looking for something not only illegal but depraved over and above de Sade, I wish you perpetual genital agony).
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I have a hangover, I’m not proud of it but it was the spoils of a work related function where the booze was complimentary, following the event which is of absolutely no interest here, myself and a couple of colleagues wound up in a hotel bar in West London drinking until the small hours. We took a cab back to south London, according to one colleague I insulted the driver, of this I’ve no recollection but I do recall having a whiteout in a vehicle and the other colleague vomiting what looked like blood and diced papaya onto the pavement. I had to take him back to my flat, he was completely incapacitated.
Forgive the short piqued, I feel dreadful today.
Dreadful.
But briefly, what isn’t good for a hangover is seeing that fucking moron Jordan in all the fucking tabloids at the British Book Awards. What the fucking sweet Christ is that cunt doing there? She’s not written anything for fucks sake. It’s like me going on page 3 showing off my tits.
I have a work engagement following the day in this place, I’m sat the office with a mild hangover dressed like a fucking gangster, black suit, boot and shirt, ice white tie. I look like a complete berk.
Yesterday the office became a twisted intestine of strife; I had argument over row with a variety of colleagues, in every instance all were far too unaccomplished in the ways of sapience to work out that they couldn’t be further off the mark ejaculating into the Atlantic hoping to jelq a fish finger. I’ve decided that, whilst not the most intelligent fellow on planet Earth I wilfully despise the thick, they make life such a fucking bore don’t they –with the exception of Shannon Matthews mum, I don’t think I’ve been that entertained by the news since Princess Diana wore that nifty little engine block on her face.
Last night was a godsend, therefore. My first pint since Sunday in Southwark with Urban Woo and Louche. The former and I met up outside a crowded boozer and discussed matters of no concern here before being joined by the latter and moving off to a strange watering hole nestling in solitude under the vast glass and steel curves of corporation. The pub looked as if it had been dropped into place by some 19th century time fissure, it was perfectly square and its filigree décor and small dark windows stood in stark contrast to its contemporary urban surroundings, once inside one could’ve been by Dartmoor or the seaside.
Here we drunk Early Bird (the beer I’d celebrated in Whitstable last weekend but one) and the conversation turned to writing and comedy, after 3 more pints we wandered back through a stark and beautiful London to Waterloo and departed in 3 different directions.
Having Slayer in my phone made for a super fast journey back on the tube, trying not to tap and judder along was quite a task but I think I succeeded, I got home and took a shower and went directly to bed, it was midnight by the time I popped my sweet godamn head onto the pillow and I was out like the snap of fingers and thumb.
I had some fun here yesterday in amidst the squabbling at work, do check the comments, I make a guest appearance along with Swinsehead.
I’m delighted to see that the protests in London over the Chinese governments treatment of human beings has globalised. The Parisian leg of the relay was an utter fiasco; the torch organisers didn’t know whether they were coming or going and it seems very liking this whole relay business will be scrapped by the IOC entirely.
This wasn’t the intention of the protests; it was never an attack on The Olympic Games per se, the torch needs to continue its journey precisely so it may draw attention to human right atrocities but of course the IOC aren’t keen to have the torch politicised… Berlin 1936 anyone? Actually, it was the Nazi’s who introduced this relay concept in the first place, the cunts.
The Chinese government are determined that the torch journey continues, one would’ve thought, initially, that they’d be rather keen to just forget about it but of course the reason The Chinese Government wish to see the relay continue is because of it’s final entry onto the Chinese mainland. I think they’re hoping that all the fireworks and shenanigans they’ve got in store (and lets face it, it’s going to be spectacular by anyone’s standards) will somehow make everyone forget about 8000 executions a year and what have you.
Boring day yesterday, the only incident of note was a mercy mission to visit Myfwt with a phone charger and clothes at lunchtime. She looks pale and a bit blemishy but not as bad as I was expecting –actually I’m not entirely sure what I was expecting, something out of Dickensian London shaking under a black hood by the side of road coughing up dark yellow phlegm, hands outstretched for alms? Despite being ill she’s in fairly good spirits, the illness isn’t going to get any worse, the most unpleasant aspect of the condition is the sheer pain of the spots, in some cases small lesions and out and out boredom.
Shortly a post will arrive on Watch With Mothers about Clowns, apart from watching that and reading there is nothing whatsoever to note about last night, I didn’t drink, I barely ate and I went to bed early because I was knackered.
Odd youtube posting today, some goon has mixed up Madonna and the Sex Pistols to make the following, I’m not sure how I feel about it at all. One thing I am positive is that towards the end when the former ‘artist’ sings the very high notes at the end she sounds like Anne Widdicombe, listen, it’s uncanny.
Friday was dreadful, I was so exhausted at work I could barely keep my eyes open. Rather than fall asleep at lunchtime I took it on myself to get my new leather boots soled. Shoe leather doesn’t have much longevity and suffers in wet weather; it acts rather like a potato on contact with water eventually causing liquid to arrive on the underside of ones foot by foul the foul chemistry of osmosis, fuck that, I said to an old lady’s face as I entered the heel bar.
I’d an hour to kill, so I groaned my way to HMV in order to procure the latest offing from popular beat combo Minstry, they’ve just released a covers album. It’s rather de rigeur for ‘metal’ bands to undertake such ventures, Slayer’s Undisputed Attitude is a masterpiece and it could be argued that Metallica’s Garage Days is their finest release, in true piqued fashion I’ve digressed, forgive me, I’m fraught with malaise.
‘You got Cover Up by Ministry?’ I said to the gum-chewing child behind the counter after failing to find it in their comic subdivisions.
‘What?’ He said looking at me as if I’d just spat a turd into his sculpting wax, I gave him a withering glance, ‘Oh Ministry of Sound, yeah, hang, o…’
‘…No’ I hissed, ‘not Ministry of fucking Sound, do I look like I do glo-sticks?’ I was delirious with the squitters and in no mood for innocent misunderstanding.
The young lad looked a little worried
‘I don’t know what you mean’, he said looking as if he might cry, his pricked up hair wilting under the halygon lighting.
‘Put ‘Ministry’’ into your computer and tell me what it says…’ By now I was starting to sound like Clint Eastwood, I could feel a queue bristling behind me. He tapped at the keyboard, after what seemed like an hour he piped up.
‘Oh, we’re expecting delivery of ‘Cover Up’ next week…Er, you want me to pre-order it for you?’ He looked up at me preparing to flinch.
‘No’, I said, ‘No, I don’t believe I want you to do that, no.’ and on the verge of passing out I wandered out the shop into the sunshine feeling like a proper tit.
I should’ve taken some heed of this incident, everything was weird and out of place, I reluctantly picked up some food and my newly shod boots and went back to the office where I fought with sleep for a further three hours.
Things weren’t that much better when I got home, lunch had made me feel sick and I was still absurdly tired. I called up Myfwt who was still feeling dreadful too. Turns out she’s got Chicken Pox –I nonchalantly mentioned her nephew had it last week? Her ‘immune’ theory didn’t hold much water I’m afraid, she’s currently convalescing at her flat refusing visitors on terms of altruism. Oh, I had it so I should be fine…still.
Friday evening was a disaster, I was feeling so rank I only managed 1 pint, I spurned my second after a few sips, I don’t think I’ve ever done that, Frank was rather taken aback. I made up for it on Saturday though, I’d had a day of rest, popped out for some supplies and had done some writing but apart from that I was recovering from the working week and having the shit of budget cola. On Saturday evening in the local Frank and I had one of those symbiotic conversations where everything flowed to a considered point before the formula was revised with another topic. We supped a variety of hand pumped ales and ended the evening facing a huge bonfire in the pub garden discussing female workers during the second world war before returning to our homes. I was feeling much better now, I whacked on some music and enjoyed a few G&T’s before going to bed late a bit pissed but by no means drunk saving myself a vast Sunday hangover.
I woke up to snow; I stood blinking at the window watching it fall not entirely sure what was going on, it was coming down heavily. My bro was due over for Sunday lunch so I began to prepare the vegetables. I’d already slapped the lamb up with rosemary and garlic the night before. By the time he arrived the snow had pretty much vanished which bode well for the afternoon. Lunch was devoured, there was much of it and it was fucking splendid, the crisp spuds were done to a tee having absorbed some of the lamb juices and the subsequent gravy, whilst not abundant, it had a thousand times more flavour than anything out of a jar or packet. A bottle of wine accompanied this taste sensation and we took charis for afters, following a giggling session at youtube footage of people being sick my bro and I wrapped up and walked out into the cold April afternoon. We were on a mission.
Destination: North Greenwich. My bros missus and her mate had arranged to meet some Amnesty International Members out side the tube to kick up a bit of a stink over the China Olympics. In case some of my readers have been eating lead, China were awarded the Olympics with the proviso they cleaned up their human rights record, something they’ve spectacularly failed to achieve. In addition to the situation in Tibet the Chinese government executes 8000 people a year without what could be regarded as a fair trail, essentially, you speak up against the Chinese regime, you’re toast.
My bro and I were feeling a little dozy on the tube but by the time we arrived at North Greenwich we were feeling a little more able. We met up with his missus and her mate, caught up with some Amnesty protesters and wandered to the bank of the Thames surrounded by hundreds of police who inadvertently fenced a potpourri of Amnesty types and pro Tibet protesters into a single posse.
I’ve been a member of Amnesty for 5 years but this was the first time I’ve ever actively protested, in fact it occurred to me I’d not protested about anything since my days with CND. I hadn’t missed much, standing about with a bunch of oddballs isn’t my preferred way to spend a Sunday afternoon but you’ve got to give the activists their due, it felt good being there, as the fuggle of booze and charis left my system I began to appreciate that it was actually a very good thing I was in attendance.
The atmosphere was tense but peaceful; we were flanked by hundreds of police and groups of pro Chinese Olympic supporters, the latter were rather perplexed by our presence and responded to our chants of ‘Shame on China’ with, ironically, ‘We Have Rights Too’.
After an hour or so the flame arrived by boat and down a gangplank framed by purple pops of fireworks. Cheering, boos and shouting accompanied tens of running police, dozens of Chinese security and within, one tiny athlete bearing a measly flame, they passed right by us and the shouting peaked causing the police to line in front of the group and face us with folded arms, the berks.
We followed the torch to its final destination with thousands of anti Chinese demonstrators heckling speakers with boos and yells, in among the crowd were a few pro Chinese supporters looking dismayed and upset, some in tears. I watched the crowd as one; there was no personal insults or acts of aggression, just a unified democratic voice voicing it’s disapproval, when the speaking was done the crowd evaporated and we took a packed tube back to South London for a post protest pint feeling jolly pleased with ourselves.
I only stayed for one, Frank and Harry had invited me for a spontaneous curry. I said a fond goodbye to my co-protestors and walked by Clapham Common to the tube. It was getting near to 9pm when Frank, Harry and I arrived at the restaurant. I was feeling hungry but it was only when I ate I decided that lunch was still sustaining me and I picked at my delicious combination of dishes like a bird. I managed to inhale a pint of Kingfisher mind you and, despite my appetite, had done a pretty good job on my meal when the bill arrived.
Harry reminded about this band last night, without going into details he’s working with one of the chaps, please notice your shoes when listening, stare at them, for they are fine shoes, fine
Just thought of a brilliant money spinning idea, so good I almost daren’t share it in public in case one of you cunts nick the idea off me. Inspired by the disappearance of Shannon in Dewsbury, the softheaded little girl with over a hundred siblings found safe and well with her stepfathers, brothers, uncles, brothers, son or something, the news coverage inspired a single mental image of a business so magnificently apt that I was virtually knocked to my knees by it’s sheer immensity.
Mobile Baseball hat / kebab shop.
As none of these interbreeding scum can drive, and, judging by the obese electorate, they don’t walk much either. Of course, everyone wears a baseball hat in Dewsbury, everyone, from babies to 30-year-old grandmas. The opportunity to stuff a Donar down your cake pipe whilst perusing the latest in knock-off designer headgear would see me on the Dragon’s Den panel sooner that you could say ‘compromised pictures of nippers’.
Short Piqued today, I have work to do on account of getting involved in a discussion in WatchwithMothers yesterday (link right, titled under Eastenders) with Swineshead and that Napoleon character. It made the day pass quickly and entertained me immensely, especially as I won the argument with romantic dignity and trademark wit but as a subsequence I didn’t achieve much on the work front.
Yesterday evening I returned from work and met up with the aforementioned Swineshead in my local. We chatted about the day in hand but mainly talked behind the back of an associate as we supped beers and laughed ourselves hoarse. Harry joined us a bit later, he himself was a little worse for wear following a long lunch with colleagues and after some more giggling I returned home at 10.30pm, four pints down and feeling utterly exhausted. I was only good for bed and book (Ackroyd’s biography on Poe makes for splendid bedtime reading) and by midnight I was asleep. Day done.
The weekend has suddenly exploded with options and invitations, I’m not entirely sure what to accept and what to decline, the only sure thing is lunch with my bro on Sunday and the rest is of my choosing.
Before I go, here is the edited Friday list and then a popular tune.
Oh, good weekends all, farewell and goodnight.
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vagueness in contemporary dance
Last night I had a PC breakthrough. I managed to make Youtube work again and using a combination of phone and PC have successfully injected some Slayer into my phone. You may well scoff at the ludicrous ease of successfully undertaking such a task yourselves but it really isn’t as simple as that. Honest…
…I mean who would’ve thought that ones internet security would prevent Flash from fucking working in Youtube (fucking hours over weeks I’ve been trying to cure this problem, re-installing Flash, un-installing Flash, allowing Java script, enabling Active X, disallowing cookies, burgers, churches, steeples…) when as a last resort I just turned security off and screamed ‘COME WHAT MAY!’ as I stood naked in the half light of my lounge, my arms drawn out from my body, hands and face upturned in a gesture of agonised fervour, I was fucking resigned, I was prepared to die, dear reader, die…
I’m feeling better today, not quite back on threes and fours and I’m certainly tired still but I don’t have that malaise about me. Myfwt is currently copping the whole thing in the neck, though she’s managed to avoid the throwing up part, and I’m hearing of others who’ve contracted this shit. It’s a horrid way of spending 24 hours really, worse than being down in a sewer, or even on the end of a skewer.
Last night was as dull as death, I avoided all forms of botanic and cordial intoxication and chose instead to cure the aforementioned PC woes, read quietly and watch TV. There was fuck all on (though SH has just reminded me I missed The Apprentice which is irksome) the highlight being an old Saxondale, first series, when it was funny. Even Grand Designs was shite.
Still, it’s a lovely day, the weekend is round the corner and I’m no longer barking out gastric effulgent from my fundament or countenance. I just feel weak and tired and like I may pass away at any given moment.
futile screamings from a git 