grub a dub

I’m somewhat tired. I was up at 5am this morning with IC, she’s off to a foreign place to visits foreign people (no doubt to eat foreign foods and wotnot) and I decided to go with her to Liverpool Street to see her off.

It’s very peculiar being on public transport at such an hour. You wouldn’t think that the world was occupied by septuagenarian women at that time of the day would you? Well it is, all gossiping on the bus with oblong tartan shopping devices wedged between their arthritic knees. Fuck alone knows where they’re off too… perhaps they’re returning from some sort of all-night bingo-sesh pilled up to the gills on Healwell Lexaton and buzzing on Lucozade.

By the time I got back on the tube it was 5.45, already the rush hour was forming, the tube in central London surprisingly full though nothing like as crammed as they would’ve been an hour or so later. By 6.30 I was home, I figured I could get a couple of hours kip before setting off for the fucking office but despite my lack of sleep I merely dozed in the lounge frowning.

Last night I took the tube (again, that’s every night this week. I’ve spent nearly £30 and 7 hours on public transport so far, and I’m on the bastard tonight too) to Angel and jumped on the bus to Hackney. It was pissing with rain by the time I arrived and I met IC on the street and we walked over to visit some friends in neighbouring Stoke Newington. We spent a quiet couple of hours nattering, sipping wine and eating fresh homemade focaccia (sublime, you heard me) before we left to go back home for some dinner.

IC’s flatmate is somewhat of a cook, I was too late to sample her homemade-from-scratch sausages (for all I know she knacked the filling with a lump hammer, she certainly minced and spiced the meat and prepared the sheep intestine casings) but we arrived in time to eat a delicious prawn and salmon pasta in vast quantities. I’ve not had my morning motion yet but I’m tempted to take a needle and twine in the small room with me in case I tear my nick getting whatever is living inside my gut-flaps out.

The weekend’s going to be civilised, I’m fairly busy but have reserved enough time to sleep the week’s activity off and watch a couple of films on my jack jones… perhaps even play a bit of Scarface. Who knows.

My brother is responsible for today’s vid, it’s fucking brilliant. Oh no, the Friday list first… Nice weekendzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

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partz 2:two

At the end of Sunday’s race, James Allen (who, for the record, is one of the best motorsport commentators ever) said that winning Monaco was like winning half a World Championship. By the same token, seeing Dead Kenndeys without Jello Biafra is like F1 without Monaco on the calendar, or any race for that matter.

Gary and I met at the same boozer as we had on the previous evening, had a pair of pints as before, jumped on the tube like last time and alighted one stop sooner at Camden. We nipped into The Worlds End for a pre gig pint feeling all excited and what have you and talked about the gig we’d enjoyed the night before. It was still light by the time we arrived outside The Electric Ballroom and on entering it was evident that the unpredictably dangerous audience were starkly un-represented, indeed, a vast proportion of the audience were female and half the blokes looked as if they were on day release from the urology unit. I’ve been to more aggressive farmers markets quite honestly.

The first half of the gig was so disappointing I was thinking about fucking off back to the pub. The replacement singer is fucking awful, whilst he sounds a little bit like his vastly superior predecessor he’s got nothing in the way of that rawness, that dead-eyed rage that made DK such a formidable outfit. His in between song banter was blasphemy… then suddenly there was a surge in sound and it picked up, they played one of my favourites (Moon over Marin, a song I was convinced I’d never hear live, before going stright into Nazi Punks Fuck Off) and kicked off into all their classics. Whilst the singer may have been a berk that liquid bass and chiming guitar sound is still 100%, fuck it, I thought, just ignore him and watch Klaus and East Bay…From then on in I was right in there.

The mistake DK made is choosing a lead singer who’s a ‘bit’ like Jello. They need someone who isn’t like Jello but commands that malevolent presence on stage, a similar note of discordant passion; a violent hatred for what isn’t just, that dysfunction, that fucking voice that can tear ones insides out and flap them about like cotton rag blowing on barbed wire so help me jesus christ.

So it comes to a close, my 2-day mini music festival of all things punk and metal. It’s been great but even I must rest. I intend to have a clean day and night before the weekend opens its sideboard of possible delights. In the meantime I’ll leave you with one more DK song. I’ve had this band feature on Piqued than any other popular music outfit. Why? I hear you all scream… Why? Because I care…

partz to

It took me a few seconds to realise that I was looking at a man who’d never been to a gig. At the time he was vehemently telling me to ‘fuck off’.

I stared at him. I wasn’t having this, despite his height and vexation I was already 3 sheets to the wind and mentally I was already cheerfully punching him in the throat. His problem stemmed from the fact I’d essentially stood in front of his girlfriend in ‘a space’, said girlfriend -a smiley and clearly seasoned rock-fan- was then invited by yours truly to stand ahead in order to resolve this ridiculous issue but this twat was insisting that someone else was already occupying ‘that space’ (the one being offered) but had ‘gone to the bar…’ I’d had enough, ‘calm the fuck down’ I said firmly with every expectation that this was going to kick off and turned my back to face the stage just as Gerry arrived with another pair of pints. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure that I wasn’t about to be knifed, to my delight the gig-virgin was getting a mouthful off his missus, honestly, I thought he was going to cry…

Oh, the gig was fucking ace, possibly the best I’ve seen them. The images running behind the band was poetry in itself, a montage of footage of Bush, war, killing, famine, bombs…I do enjoy it when left wing types get all cross. Gerry and I had a bloody superb view and, for once, there was some volume in the venue. Sadly, I’ll never see them play again, Al Jourgensen is about to turn 50 and has decided he’s a bit long in the tooth for shouting and using blue language over of screaming thunderous metal. Oh well.

Yesterday I had an appalling day in the office. A colleague who I’ve moaned about on here before managed to piss off someone to such a degree a letter was written to the chairperson of a massive organisation just as a certain contract is up for tender. The details aren’t pertinent but the bottom line is that I may have to look for another job, the contract in question is my livelihood and on account of this fuckers behaviour (behaviour I’ve warned him about on numerous occasion) the chances of the contract being renewed are now slim… I cannot begin to describe how angry I am, put it this way, the prick at the gig was the second bloke that day to narrowly avoid an act of violence on his person and that sort of thing is as far away from me as Michel Fournier’s fucking balloon.

On a brighter note my bike passed it’s MOT and tonight I’m seeing The Dead Kennedys… More left wing angst, but this has a darker edge to it. Lovely.

death cab for piquey

Some fucking raspberry parked his chariot so close to my bike that this morning I was unable to get it vertical enough in order to kick up the side stand. Yes, I’ll admit that my rear tyre was a centimetre into his disabled bay (there was no where else to park on Friday) so the twisted old fuck had exacted revenge but parking as close to my bike without physically touching it resulting in him having almost 4 feet of clear ‘dithables’ space behind his car, space no one able to wipe their own arse can use.

Furious and genuinely unable to get out I lifted my bike upright and watched my footrest disappear into his fibreglass spoiler, I had to lean over the side of my bike to engage first gear with my hand (I couldn’t use my foot as it was supporting my weight) before leaning the bike back to it’s original position (and thus revealing my footrest with a pop) and staggering off.

The bloody-minded old bastard, I’ve seen this so called spanner by the way, he’s a bit of a limp but nothing to warrant being able to park in half the fucking road for free and then laying on a ‘this’ll teach him’ bit of parking so I can’t actually get to work. Well, I’ve taught him something. And I can fucking dance too.

Apart from this, and an incident with a cab driver on Saturday night which didn’t go down well with my companions, its’ been a gorgeous weekend.

Beginning with a few beers on Friday with Frank, in which we imbibed in the garden as dusk went from night jesting about wearing my neighbour’s chest cavity as a hat, I had an early night due to my having to set off early for the bike show on Saturday morning. Along the way I picked up Louche (Not a Gay, link right) and we drove down to Kempton Park where we met Den, the old man and oddly my mum (who was essentially charged with the collecting of teas for dad and his hairy hoary old mates hanging out on the VMCC bike stand).

We wandered about checking out the vintage offings. For me looking at old bikes provides a ludicrous amount of delight (my old Triumph was on display) that in all probability most wouldn’t understand. A happy few hours passed chatting and pointing until we three jumped back in the van after lunch and headed back to Tooting. After a couple of beers by the river in the sunshine we all took the tube to town, my pals alighted along the way and I arrived alone at Camden to meet IC who was already waiting for yours truly by the entrance. More wandering ensued concluding in The Devonshire, the seminal London goth boozer and we had a pair of drinks and watched our fellow alternates schmooze and pose for one another.

By the time we arrived back at Hackney the first attendees for the Eurovision party had arrived -IC’s housemate is Swedish so every year her and some friends celebrate this auspicious occasion by getting all pissed- and the festivities began. I spent most of the party in the kitchen with IC, Swineshead and his missus talking at passing guests. Despite the throngs of people (must have been a representative from every country in Europe too) the atmosphere was relaxed and friendly and the hummus was sensational (how do you like that, huh).

Chaz from up of the North arrived with a couple more friends and instantly made himself popular despite the smallness of the hour. The last guest departed just before 5 and we passed out as the moment the latched clicked behind them.

By mid afternoon the following day we were back in Camden. I was in a most excellent mood after watching Lewis win at Monaco in one of the best F1 races I’ve seen in years. Light shopping preceded a tube journey back to London where we readied ourselves for the evening. We met my bro and his missus at Wimbledon station and took the train to Woking where my sister scooped us up and drove us back to her gaff where my bro in law was wrestling with vegetables and salmon.

The evening was hilarious, I nearly threw up laughing at one point, the food was sen…delicious and the booze flowed like tap water but tasted decidedly better. I insisted my bro-in-law play along to Take That with his Les Paul passed through his Laney via a distortion pedal at volume and the result was surprisingly effective. Oddly the evening seemed to pass in a flash and before I’d chance to draw breath we were in a cab racing, literally, to the station to catch the train home. I decided that the cab driver was taking the fucking piss so I tapping him firmly on the shoulder and demanding he slowed down prior to overtaking a car in a 30mph zone on a blind left hand bend… unfortunately I was a little vehement in my request and this didn’t go down awfully well among the other passengers. The second cab journey from Clapham Junction was a lot more congenial and by 1am IC and I were home and safe.

Monday started at midday with smoked salmon and poached eggs then off again into town, this time to meet Den, Harry and an assortment of friends at the South Bank. By now the weekends delights had started to catch up and I beginning to tire. No matter, we had a few pints in the BFI bar and before we ruined the following day arrived home by 7 and spent the evening picking at sushi and watching movies.

I’m seeing Ministry tonight in Kentish Town and Dead Kenneyds in Camden tomorrow… there is no sign of this perpetual enjoyment stopping after that either. Rock on? Yes, alright I will.

cunt breath

I had a fucking awful day in the office yesterday. In addition to discovering that a few members of staff had attempted to undermine a directive in my absence, I lost some money, something that isn’t particularly helpful at the best of times, this not being one of them.

The ride home allowed me to readjust, but there was one more vicious surprise in store. As I parked up the front door opened and Cunt walked out and begun speaking at me all friendly like, like I was his best fucking mate.

I tried pushing past via a series of congenial nods and timed ‘ha, yes’ but he stood in front of my door and insisted he talk at me still wearing his dark glasses. It was fucking awful. His lips were cracked and flecked with white from lack of water and his breath smelt strongly of acetone and shit. The stuff coming out of it was utter, utter, nonsense, hyperbole aside, twaddle to the point I was pretty sure he’d dropped something (aside from his guts into his gob) then realising he probably hadn’t.

This is what I learnt; he doesn’t believe in an afterlife but believes there is a heaven (can I remind you that I was completely passive throughout all this, I just wanted a lull in this guff so I could go inside). He didn’t know that that Brazil was a third world country despite having a Brazilian daughter, girlfriend and having just spent 2 months there with them. In fact, he didn’t beleive me until I ‘promised’. He’s not worked for two years because of music and art ‘commitments’, I pointed out that it was actually five years and in his confusion managed to open my front door as this information filtered through. He’s a kung foo expert. He reckons he’s been exhibiting his ‘art’ in Brazil and began moaning on how expensive it was to get gallery space in the UK as I prevented myself from biting off my lower set of dentures, I curtly suggested that to get a piece of work in the Summer Exhibition (“what’s that?”) at the Royal Academy of Art (“where?”) was free before just pushing past him muttering something about needing to stab myself through the testis with a fork and slamming the door behind me sweating and gasping like Jonathan King busting one over that lad from the Sixth Sense who sees dead people…

And, I still stayed off the pop, despite all that. Instead I soothed myself with roast potatoes and sausages and played Scarface imaging every single recipient of my violence was wearing dark glasses, had bad breath and the brains of a rocking horse. And was expert at Kung Foo.

A gorgeous bank holiday weekend looms so no Piqued on Monday, in the meantime the Friday list then some ‘I was listening to them fucking years before they became big’ rock and a sincere wish that your weekend and what have you are bloody ace of spades.

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the first aids

On Tuesday evening I took to the tube to Clapham where I met up with my bro and Al. It was still a pretty evening but a little cold so we chose to sit inside after a few blustery cigarettes on the roof garden. Shortly after a hysterical conversation about Boxing Helena (I laughed so hard I nearly tore a rib) we were joined by Harry and O and after another pair of Courage Bests my bro and I left them to it and we went our separate ways home. Myfwt popped over for some beans and a chat and on account of her having just moved from a rented room to a flat, picked up some stuff that I’d been storing on her behalf. I had an early night because Wednesday was going to require a little more focus than the usual day at the office.

I arrived at Blackfriars with just enough to time to smoke a tab in the sunshine. Taxis and buses carrying commuters passed the throngs of pedestrians that sloshed about me as I located my destination, screwed my cigarette on my shoe and went upstairs.

On entering a colleague said ‘good morning’ and some badly tattooed wag with spiky hair and an American football t-shirt grunted ‘we’ve been hearing all about you…’ An embarrassed rumble of sotto laughter descended as quickly as it had rose. ‘Christ’ I thought to myself ‘its going to be one of those days’.

On contrary it was not. The whole day was as much an exercising in undoing bad so-called first-aid practice as learning the correct procedure. The group, a motley combination of ten -managers, teachers and office types –and one trainer (a pleasant Asian estuary-English-spoken woman, typical paramedic if you’re familiar with such types) introduced herself, as we did to one another, and dropped us in the thick of a horrific motorcycle crash related scenario and quizzed us on our actions.

Having some basic knowledge of first aid, possibly more when it comes to those relating to motorcycle accidents so I thought (having been on the receiving end of a few) I was amazed to discover that if I’d been first on the scene the fictitious patient in question would’ve died a screaming agonising death. Possibly in flames. It’s okay to move them, even remove their helmets in order to check they’re breathing and take it from there, sounds obvious doesn’t it but so many myths and archaic ‘facts’ had been piped into me over the years I was immediately concerned about being on the receiving end of incompetent treatment of people like myself…

What was slightly annoying about the day was the perpetual interjection from the hooligan with the spiky hair, he was a nice enough chap actually but had a mouth bigger than the Blackwall Tunnel and seemed to me at least that just about every possible injury known to a human had occurred to him in some form or another, including incidents of ‘when I was 6, right…’ and ‘this geezer, right…’ until he bowled us a googly when it transpired his brother was a 26 year old autistic epileptic lad with Spina bifeda and he’d pretty much been his sole carer in his brothers life. Trouble is he realised he’d touched a communal nerve so he kept on about it ad infinitum and decided this was a good opportunity to discover every possible nuances of what to do when someone has a fit, which is essentially nothing save calling a fucking ambulance. I was more interested to know about what to do if someones guts all came out or how to help a person squashed under a train, or something. We didn’t learn this either… but I do know how to stop someone from carking it if they get stabbed or slashed open and shit.

It was a fascinating day, even more delightful was that but 2.30 we were done. I took the tube back with my colleague and stopped off at that awful Wimbledon place to procure an espresso maker for IC and got back with plenty of time to write some of this and take a much-needed shower.

I met IC at the local in the beer garden for a couple before departing back to the flat with sushi, we watched a very insubstantial documentary about the Austrian lunatic who imprisoned and raped his daughter and their subsequent children for a quarter of a decade… it was shit.

Another beautiful day, gee, I hope it doesn’t rain or anything.

dead and buried

Before I forget, there will be no Piqued tomorrow. I have to attend a course for work and won’t have access to a PC. For some reason they nominated the office misanthrope to go on a first aid course on the basis, one should imagine, that I’ve had ‘medical experience’. Wiping old ladies arseholes and pushing spoonfuls of mashed up food into their gawping maws is quite a long way from Holby City I weakly protested as I was coerced into signing up. I suppose it’s a day out of the office if nothing else. Complete waste of time mind you, all that resuss stuff is so unhygienic, ugh, the thought of having to put my mouth near a common person or a foreigner is enough to make ones stomach eject ones kedgeree, to be honest I’m perfectly happy to watch someone cark it smoking a nice tab then massage my subsequent woody until all spunk comes out.

I had a clement evening after my session of enforced labour. I was extraordinarily tired which didn’t help the work dynamic but I muddled on through. I arrived home, changed then went off to meet Frank in the local. We had a couple of pints of ale and discussed matters of no concern here, these were cheerier topics than that implies incidentally, and I was home before 8pm. I resurrected the chicken and mushroom pie from the freezer and shoved it in the oven while I attempted to make progress on Scarface instead of just picking fights with passing strangers and shooting them in the head. It was useless so I gave up and watched the The Three Burials Of Melquiades Estrad which I’d not seen before, why hadn’t I seen it before? It’s brilliant. If you haven’t you must.

Out again tonight but like yesterday I’m taking it easy and putting in an early night. I don’t fancy being to taught the first aids with a hangover, less so, taking a post rush hour tube up to town feeling like my brain and stomach have traded places.

I’ll be back here on Thursday to report what I learned tomorrow, don’t know about you but that thrills me to death.

This band make a long overdue debut on Piqued…

chopper

On Friday morning another motorcycle ace bought the farm, Robert Dunlop, brother of Joey who held the TT record for most wins and killed in 2000, was riding a 250cc in practice for the North West 200 when the rear wheel locked throwing him off and killing him. His two sons, both bike racers, saw dad off at the hospital, got on their bikes and rode the very race their dad had won 15 times.

Speaking of bikes, because I was, in yesterdays GP Jorge Lorenzo who came second to a brilliant win by Valentino Rossi was unable to get off his machine at the end of the race. He trundled into the pits where his bike was caught by two mechanics and he was physically lifted off the bike. Two broken ankles can have that effect; he got those in practice following a spectacular highside in China but rode anyway –sort of puts a bit of perspective on screaming reclining football players after they’ve twisted a nostril I thought.

Speaking of football injury, because I was, Harry is on crutches due to a football related incident a few year back in which, as far as I can ascertain, he tried to kick a fellow player and fucked up his knee (one would never see such disgraceful behaviour on the motorcycle circuit). The injury, a bit like my slipped disc, is ongoing and can reoccur for the sake of itself; the bottom line is that we had to meet Harry in a pub near his flat in The City due to his restricted mobility. This was fortuitous; the boozer in question was in Farringdon and sold a range of cask-kept organic ales which were fucking delicious. We were joined by 4 other pals and spent the evening outside nattering about music, predominantly, before retiring home. My attempts to spurn wine and death metal on my return were fruitless and I put in a 3am finale completely off my face.

Saturday began after 1pm. Incredibly I got some work done before acknowledging that I did have a hangover of some note and resigned myself to playing Scarface which I’m really stuck into. I decided that I was going to spend the day and evening with myself, I’ve not had a night in for ages, relishing this thought I popped off to the shops to get some ingredients to make a chicken and mushroom pie after being unable to get the concept out of my head following its mention in Viz of all things.

I also decided to paint my dining table/desk white, not all of it; I’m not Laurence Llwelyn wotshiscock, just the top. Took 20 minutes from sanding to completion and looks rather fucking wonderful, actually. To celebrate I made the pie which took a while but, well, it would be rude to bang on at great length about how utterly sublime it was when completed, but it was… by early evening stuffed and still surprisingly tired Scarface and I spent the evening massacring gangs and executing warlords, pausing for The Apprentice which bored me actually, before continuing with a-killing.

After Sundays Moto GP I put on my finest leathers and took off on the black bitch to visit my sister. It was sunny and clear but there was a gusting wind which became problematic at anything over 120. I think I need to change my helmet as it no longer seems able to sit completely still on my head and the chin strap begins to bite into my windpipe which isn’t ideal. Not be able to sustain high speeds for a while may have accrued a certain degree of luck because it was as I was backing off from 130 and tugging at my throat I noticed a helicopter moving round to my right. Two minutes later, by now travelling at 80, it was still there and most certainly pointing at me, indeed, even when I left the A road to whistle through the lanes to my sister the cunt was still hovering over my barnet. It was only on arriving at my destination that I noticed it had gone. Not having learnt a single lesson from my brush with the authorities I raced a Maserati on the way back, my head nearly came off due to the wind speeds but I beat the cock, that was the main thing.

I was home by 4pm then straight out again to grab the tube to Whitechapel. Haemorrhaging bits of Observer along the way the journey passed in a news drenched flurry and I alighted at Aldgate East and made my way to The Golden Heart to meet with Harry. I had a couple there then got back on the tube to meet IC at Angel, we then took a bus to Hackney where I was introduced to a bunch of charming Europeans, one of which had been tattooed by the same fellow that inked me a few years back and took in some London Pride. IC and I went back home and ate sushi in the kitchen and the weekend drew to a soporific halt.

I had to take the tube into work this morning, subsequently I was forced to endure a revolting span on a commuter-packed train, so bad was it that I was physically unable to gain access to three previous trains. It was like being packed into the meat trucks that rolled with grim predictability into Belsen and this song popped into my head…

‘They can’t sing, they can’t play’ Really? This blows the piss out of my guts.

friday riot

I rather enjoyed the footage of The Ranger’s fans going berserk yesterday. The mentality of the rioters was fascinating; there wasn’t a complex set of psychological stations stemming from a genuine and understandable grievance that initiated a pack mentality sparking violence, but because their fucking telly broke and they got all cross.

I mean who can blame them? The first thing I did when my TV bust a few years ago was to punch the ever loving shit out of my girlfriend then take bare chested to the streets in order to throw bins and paving at the police. It’s completely rational right?

Maybe not rational but it’s to be expected, mix alcohol with some knuckle dragging fuckwit who can’t tie his shoe laces up without help from his mum and, inevitably, he’s going to start lashing out, he doesn’t need a reason, he just will. This is why there was a police presence on Wednesday night.

What I wasn’t expected was the way a group of trained peacekeepers responded to the rioting. I’ve seen more courage under fire from wood pigeons and better organised retards. The line of police were pushed back by an angry mob of delinquents, fair enough, but the line was completely random, braver officers moved back slowly whilst some just fucked off out of it, subsequently one officer was left to face the mob on his own and down he went under a hail of boots and fists. He received fuck all support from his colleagues and if it wasn’t for the bravery of some army medic we’d be looking at a murder enquiry.

Last night was splendid, a few drinks with IC in the local then back to the flat for fish fingers and a spot of telly… Oh, and some wine (and a little G&T for good measure). Tonight my run of social engagements continues, I’m meeting Harry in the city, poor chaps smashed up his leg, for a gentle night on the tiles. I intend to spend much of Saturday sleeping off the past 10 days which have been intense by anyone’s standards.

The revolting Friday list follows this and some comedy after, sent to me by a mate yesterday, with an addition of what can happen when you go to Manchester, as if Wednesday’s episode wasn’t bad enough.

Have lovely weekends all. (What the hell are ‘squitter tits?’)

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wet tube

It’s been a busy week, over in the Eastend with IC on Monday, out with Swineshead and Frank on Tuesday and last night my old mucca Jools was over from NYC.

Yesterday had been another hot one in the office, the sun eventually decided to make itself known at about 11am and remained hanged in the heavens until it’s customary departure at 9-ish… After a short sweet zip back on the black bitch I briefly changed and was straight out to hit the tube, again. I can’t recall a period of my life when I’ve been so au fait with this fucking mode of transport, I maintain that I don’t mind it anymore simply because of reading books over those free right-wing papers that were, in my opinion, wholly responsible for London voting a galloping dick headed gitprong as mayor. A slow drip of invective and barely concealed propaganda seems to have infiltrated the moronic minds of a large enough quantity of the electorate –those who did vote for this blonde bastard may not have noticed that he seems to have disappeared, he popped up to ban booze on the tube and since then seems to have gone to ground.

Jools was waiting for me in sunny Sloane Square and we ambled to a pub off the Kings Road for a couple of pints and a catch-up. At 8 we walked to an upmarket curry house where we were joined by Paul and his friend and ordered a slew of fantastic food. Despite myself I stuck to beer, and I kept this in moderation, even managing to make it to the last tube home and thus avoiding the usual fees for a cab which slide convoy-like up and down the street tempting me with their orange Cyclops eye, the shiny black sluts.

It’s pissing down with rain, the light is gunmetal grey but I don’t mind, the weekend is expected to be pleasant enough and it’s finally within reach via a night with IC in Tooting. But first I’ve got to survive a day in this place, god help me.

if I had a hammer

I had to turn Gordon Ramsey off.

This wasn’t because the show was largely bollocks, it was because fucking Geri Halliwell was on it pushing ‘her book’ and Ramsey was actually flirting with the harridan, it was like watching the school bully trying to score with the school bike, and failing.

Apparently, according to this incisive in depth fucking interview as Geri and Gordon made meatballs (Geri tonelessly repeated some guff about ‘mamma’s meatballs being the best’ and alluded to some sort of Spanish heritage in a futile attempt to scaffold a depth of character over and above the vacuous pimple-brained prick we all know and despise) Geri spoke of her career.

She doesn’t see herself as a diva, apparently, and accepts that, perhaps, she’s not as technically adept as Mariah Carey (who for all her sins can actually sing) so she’s turned, as she puts it, ‘to writing?’ Like, Children’s Books?’ and answers all questions with a question (called upspeak if we’re going to get technical) clearly indicating that she’s telling one long protracted fucking fib, because no one that stupid can hold a Bic the right way up let alone have the capacity to pen a bestseller.

Gordon helpfully mentions the title of ‘her book’, called Evigunder Millifluffle or some such shit; she repeats the title of ‘her book’ with such vehemence I thought her fucking eyes were going to shoot out of her gormless lolly pop head and hit that fat Welsh cunt Gordon had been crawling over five minutes previously. It was disgusting.

So I turned it off and played Scarface, actually I didn’t play Scarface, I made Scarface get in his car, drive about and kill lots of people, all of which I imagined to be wearing little Union Jack Dresses.

Oh, some of you that read this more than once will be aware of Cunt, well, he’s back, the knuckle dragging half wit has returned from wherever, back are the Mousterian pulses and thumps, fundamental confusion over the physics of doors and an all round air of chinless backwardness. I want to move again.

The sun seems to have fucked off as well.

(check out the audience)

painted stag

We crept low through the dried leaves and branches, they were out there moving to towards us, and we toward them… Frank looked over, ‘move left, I’ll flank them to the right’ he whispered. I nodded and checked back for movement ahead.

Nothing.

‘Good luck’ I hissed as he rose to move, as he darted away I sensed something wasn’t right. I saw the scrub shudder before he did but by that time it was too late, a plethora of shots erupted yonder accompanied by a groan a few metres away, Frank had been hit.

Nothing I can do for him now. I think of his mother at home looking out of the kitchen window anxious for news of her boy. Jesus…

As the broken leaves and twigs settled onto the canopy floor there was more movement ahead, and to my horror, something to my left. I have to go, now… I rose slightly bringing my weapon up to my shoulder, a shot is fired at 9 o clock, I spin to face an enemy and take immediate action, he’s hit… move… adrenalin rushes into my blood, a clumsy lurch causes me to lift myself up higher than I intended, I hear the shots before I’m hit 4 times, 3 in the chest and 1 in my already injured leg. Christ, no. I’ve been hit, I’m all fucking covered in yellow paint…

Being hit by a paint ball hurts, though it’s random, the ones that catch you on the side of the back sting like fuckery, I still have bruises from Saturday.

The day had begun early, I met Frank at 7am and we took the train to Chiswick where we were picked up by Sim and taken to a paintballing place near Slough to meet up with some friends, and, of course, the stag. There were other lads there too, borstal boys, all prison tats and shaved heads with a few of gangsta types thrown in for balance and it was with this crowd we would be spending the morning. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so conspicuously middle class in my life.

We were split into 2 random teams, the upshot being that I was expected to actually work with some of these yobbos, bizarrely once the masks are down you can’t tell who is who, one is either yellow or red and that’s that. There is obviously something deeply significant about this of course with regard to us as human beings and the nature of warfare perhaps… but I can’t be pissed to make a big deal out of it.

I found myself working well with these strangers, or friends, due to the camo gear and motocross masks I could only identify Frank and the stag (well he was wearing a pink tutu fairy wings and deely boppers) and that was it. In one game I even managed to capture the enemy flag while my crew kept me covered under fire, I even high fived someone, I don’t do high fives, I’m not a high fiver, it was ridiculously exciting -a bunch of thirtysomethings reduced to 8 year old boys playing war. By the time we left all of us were exhausted, sweating, filthy and grinning from, ear to ear, the yobbos and gangsters were now comrades, they all said goodbye as we exited the site.

Next stop was a waterpark so some if the chaps could indulge in wakeboarding. Frank and I sat this one out, my back had already had a jolly good workout and I didn’t fancy pushing it, I’m glad I didn’t too, it’s not great today. We spent a lazy afternoon by the water watching the remaining stag party going round and round, the stag was still sporting a pink tutu fairy wings and deely boppers…I took some shots of them on the water and smoked cigarettes in the hot afternoon sun.

We left at 5 to go back to London and were dropped in a bustling Camden to begin the evening’s entertainment. By now the eight strong group had bonded into a fully operational drinking machine, after a few in a pub we went to eat Tapas and drink Sangria, mountains of food was served and demolished in minutes, I don’t think any of us appreciated how hungry were. Another bar featured, this time outside on the street drinking Sol before a final few in The Underworld with the stag still grimly bearing his tattered pink tutu fairy wings and deely boppers. A smashing day closed and the tube rolled Frank and I back to south London in measured oblivion.

Last night I arrived in Hackney at 7 to meet IC; we hooked up with Swineshead and his missus to enjoy a few beers in the twilight. It seems that the whole of London has slipped easily into the clement weather; there is a palpable mood of contentment despite the city being governed by a fucking idiot. My journey back from Hackney this morning featured a sea of short-sleeved shirts and summer dresses, the suit seems to have been obliterated from society, it’s rather nice actually –long may it last.

rasslez

I managed to get some of the weekend instalment written before I went out on the razzle with Harry yesterday but I didn’t post the bastard thing to myself at work, subsequently the other of half of the weekend will be right here tomorrow.

I’d like to point out that I didn’t mean to go out and wind up drinking. I was already feeling delicate from Saturday, it was all worth it though.

At midday yesterday I woke up and ate half of the burger I’d made on Friday, I was probably chewing with my mouth open with my eyes virtually closed cradling my head in the other hand. After some writing and the washing of Saturday’s clothes (what was all mucky) I watched the Grand Prix, which was used as an aid to recovery before crawling out the flat and hitting the sunshine.

It took me a few minutes to get over how warm it was, being the clever fellow I am I’m rather adept at keeping my place cool using blind and open window combos that block direct light and ensure subsequent convection sucks the heat away from my fucking balls, so walking out into the heat of the afternoon was a little surprising.

At 4-ish, following a sodden bus and tube ride, I met up with Harry and we managed to find a spot on the roof terrace of a pub–this was probably our undoing. It was such a lovely spot with a splendid view over Clapham Common that to leave it would’ve been akin to plopping on the Jesus child.

Harry and I began to converse about everything and as the beer flowed the minutiae of life was probed and dissected with enthusiasm reserved only for those in our quite magnificent predicament. Presently our table became occupied with strangers and, subsequently, conversations were struck up providing an excuse to continue for longer than intended. I reasoned that because it was a Sunday, and that I usually don’t drink on the day of the cunting Sabbath, then it was my duty to imbibe. Before I left for home I wound up drinking a vodka expresso or something, I have to confess to feeling a bit muddled.

I do recall that when I arrived back I ate a crumpet. This I know to be true.

gig

It is done.

In advance I’d like to apologise for the late P today. I’m knackered and I have a hangover.

A few weeks ago some berk that occasionally uses this site to peddle his filthy wares correctly guessed that I was going to do some stand-up. Of course I denied all. I believe there was a wager in question to the tune of £10, or something, £10 he now owes me because I fobbed him off, and therefore won.

The venue was small; indeed, if it wasn’t from the generous support from my friends (I was actually rather touched that so many came and so many that couldn’t were so supportive) the audience would’ve been effectively halved. To be honest I was, initially, a bit disappointed by the turn out of strangers. My friends already know what a thumping great git I am and stood up in front them telling them stuff I wouldn’t even put on here wasn’t dong much to steady my pre gig nerves. Besides I know that a lot of them would’ve been feeling nervous by proxy and even if I’d come on like Bill Hicks may have been too stunned to react.

Urban Woo made an excellent MC, a task I would no more undertake than I would eat a Cornish pasty full of Tortoise turds and gelled all the acts into one seamless set as I paced up and down in the green room (I always wondered why it was thus named, I now know) trying to remember 9 minutes of material.

The other comics, 3 of which were pros and 4 of which weren’t, had all done this sort of thing before, some of them for years, and were rather surprised that this was my debut. The first guy on was bloody good, I wasn’t sure if this was a necessarily a good thing from my point of view so I decided to take myself off to the bar (I’d already had a couple of pints) to drink whisky and chain smoke. After a couple of other comics and what seemed like an age I was given a sparkling introduction and there I was.

The thing is, when you’re actually up there doing it it’s quite hard to get much of an idea of how it’s actually going, which sounds a odd –maybe it’s something that comes with practice, I was too busy trying to remember my set, a quarter of which I fortuitously forgot (I say ‘fortuitously’ because apparently the girl-kissing-after-sucking is very old hat) and ensure that I didn’t waffle my lines. Apart from when I’m blowing my wad I don’t think I’ve ever felt less like ‘me’. The adrenalin rush that I was expecting afterwards didn’t really happen; this may have had something to do with a sense of sheer confusion following coming off stage as I came back into myself.

According to friends, strangers and the other comics I went down very well. I was required to interrogate the opinions of all my friends to make sure they weren’t just being nice. There were 3 in particular that would’ve told me outright if they thought I was shit (my bro being one) and apparently, I wasn’t. Indeed, within minutes of getting off the stage I had other bookings.

I’m too knackered to write anymore, but like some dreadful curse I’ll be back Monday. Have nice weekends.

boris brown bastards

What a beautiful day.

Some cunt in government has decided that we’re throwing away £10 billion, much of it still in it’s packaging, of perfectly edible food per year. There is a solution, the government cunt explained this morning on BBC’s Today. We, that’s you and I, can prevent this by ‘perhaps eating it before the sell by date and, therefore, not throwing it away…’ Well fuck my old boots, I’d not thought of that… this can be the most unbelievably insulting utterance by a minister to it’s minions ever? Really, who the fuck do these people think we are?

This comes on the back of a ‘Labour’ u-turn on dope. Spurning the advice of all its scientific advisers and just about every possible aspect of common sense, democracy and ethics Smith has taken it onto her fat old arse to go ahead anyway. Fuck you all.

Surely all this shit must be in response to last week’s by-election? Labour have concluded that the electorate don’t think they’re being fascist or dictatorial enough, like what the Tory’s is, so they’re happily shitting on all their liberal policies and talking down to us as if we’re snotty-nosed retards –Boris bans booze on the bus, Brown bans beer in bars, it’s the ‘they send one of yours to the hospital, you send one of theirs to the morgue’ simplistic mentality of Hollywood (that was from the Untouchables btw). And it’s fucking shit. The Labour party has officially died; expect ‘wogs taking our jobs’ next week…

Last night was jolly. I walked to the tube in the quite oddly warm sunny evening and met IC at Clapham Common where upon we took ourselves to a public house in order to drink in the balmy climes. Shortly after we went back to the flat where we had a few more drinks and I showed her some footage shot by Jamie a few years back of me vomiting violently into a sink.

The day of reckoning is upon me, the unspeakable events I’ve been alluding to over the past few weeks have arrived. To be honest, and this could well do with me having a hangover of sorts, I don’t feel too bad as I type this.

Actually I do. Short Piqued today. There will be one tomorrow (assuming I’ve not succumb to some sort of fatality) but it may not be until the afternoon. But it may be on time as usual. Who knows? Or cares for that matter…

lacuont

I awoke this morning to the horrific tones of Norman Lamont, the ex Tory Chancellor of yesteryear. For those that don’t know of this cunt he was a 24 carat titurd with a wife who looked liked the underside of a cow pat, but with a blonde coiffure. In addition to being largely responsible for Black Wednesday he was embroiled in a typical Tory sex scandal by getting involved with a prostitute dubbed by the tabloids as Miss Whiplash. Just hearing his voice was akin to a screaming bummed-by-dad nightmare and I curled my toes until they were digging into the balls of my feet. To make matters worse it’s a fairly good indication that the Tories are back in vogue, this makes me feel sicker than a pike with gizzard cancer.

It’s a beautiful day, proper summertime weather, nature has shed itself of the immature pastels of spring, insects are beginning to lazily fizz into life and all is bright and sharp and outlined with clear cut blue, dammit all, it even smells like the summer.

Yesterday at work was lazy, in addition to it being warm inspiring dozy nothingness my mind was preoccupied by the thing that shall not speak its name (not buggery) and this particular facet of my existence is causing me a few of those mental wanderings, you know, when you’re doing something and your mind just gets completely drowned in itself and you just forg

Bloody Scarface. I didn’t go out last night, despite the sumptuous weather, and remained at home playing on the ps2. I’m stuck again, having to play the same bit over and over then failing at the last hurdle. I now remember why I was happy for the Playstation to gather dust the fucker.

It’s going to be a tough couple of days in the office due to the wotnot. The concern the gubbins trails in its wake isn’t linear, at times it’s okay, bearable even, but then it shifts itself into something more foul than Mrs Thatcher’s clout. Christ imagine that…

This is Ramones weather, a fine example of them in happier days. Only Tommy is alive now… Oh well, at least I got to see them a few years back even if you didn’t. Really, that’s all that counts.

curry brick

On Sunday night, that night being a bank holiday night, a rare night when one can get completely and utterly off their face, I mean cock-fighting drunk (which is where you fight your own cock) be sick on your chest out of it, wake up in cells, fucked and covered in blood… I abstained. Having said that I spent much of Friday and Saturday in a stupor.

Friday was one of the best, a classic piqued night in/out, beginning in the pub with Frank for a few that ultimately wound up with me lurching at piles of CD’s in the wee hours, headphones clamped round my red chortling face, eyes moist from being clobbered about the head with whatever rock-based delights tickled my fancy. Sensational.

I awoke on Saturday feeling surprisingly well; this was actually rather odd because I’d pushed the boat out until it reached Calais, frankly. Still, Saturday wasn’t exactly an energetic one. It was warm and sunny, I had to get to the shops to get my mum and my brothers missus cards and gifts and shit –it occurred to at the same time I might be able to pick up a new PS2 controller to play Scarface, as recommended by Swineshead… I lazily made my way through a flabby white-fleshed south London, rubbing shoulders with behemoth gold-hooped teen mothers, dodging fried chicken eating groups of livid youngsters, the prams of the former, the broken dreams of the latter before a near aneurysm in fucking Argos trying to order a game accessory.

I hate Argos, I hate the people that work there, the people that shop there, the huge catalogues with a million things, 999,999 of which you don’t want and the little blue pens required to note the gargantuan item number after it’s been located from plastic encapsulated pages, the way said number appears on that fucking screen and hovers about before a cheery computerised female voice calls you to stand waiting for one of the dead-eyed gum-chewing shop assistants to flatly ignore you as one hops from one foot to the other, thrusting forward a curled white ticket as your item sits giggling out of reach on the sparsely occupied shelving behind them. But when you’re finally served, the moment the ticket stamp clicks over the receipt and the precious object of desire is placed in ones hand, the empiric sense of victory is overwhelming. Item purchased! I skip out loving the world.

The rest of the afternoon was written off on the game, I only stopped playing because I had an appointment in the local with Harry, Frank and his missus with guest appearance by James. We sat in the beer garden as the evening gave way to dusk then nightime chatting away and drinking steadily. James and Henry and I took ourselves off for a curry (perfectly ordered this time, just the right amount of food and heat) and afterwards James came back to my flat for a final can and speechless laughter before offing himself into the cool night air. For the second time in a row the headphones found their way round my brain, I think I went to bed at 4?

Sunday lunchtime, I’m dressed head to toe in black leather boarding the black bitch to ride to my folks. It was the first hot fast day of the year, the bike was as happy as I and we shot out of London. Possessed.

I arrived in time for lunch, the rest of the family were already there, my bro and his missus, my sister and bro-in-law, niece (now sort of talking) and parents. We ate fisherman’s pie amid the usually clatter of conversation and wise cracks, gifts were exchanged, photos of the Christening passed around (save the one of me and my bro stood in front of the alter pulling devils horns –not one for the folks that) and spent the afternoon nattering and playing with my niece who was in a most congenial frame of mind.

I arrived home by 5 following some hero antics on the bitch and I got back into the game almost as soon as my helmet was off. Apart from the odd break to catch snatches of movies on the TV, Spiderman 2, Desperado, the evening was given over to fucking Scarface, no drinking, the odd spliff and Scarface, Scarface until 3am if you please. Scarface.

My clear head on Sunday was in stark contrast to the previous 2 days, I had some tea, washed some clothes, shat and showered and headed off to the tube at midday to meet up with Harry and Frank and arrived on Brick Lane an hour later.

The Bank Holiday atmosphere and warm sunny weather created a lovely atmosphere, the trendy scruffs, piss pots and knowing artytypes mingled with purveyors and staff of some of the countries finest curry houses. We moved up to the Vibe Bar and were joined by Den, Ray their 3 year old who is a streak of delight and O, fresh back from Afghanistan –if I say any more on this matter I’ll have to kill you, and he’ll do your family- where we all sat outside sipping cold beer and engaged in deep and meaningfuls, well, a lighter version of.

Following this we took a walk to the Lahore Kebeb House, reputed to be one of the finest curry houses in the UK and completely pigged out. I’ve not eaten that much meat in a month but for the fucking life of me I can’t recall anything that tasted as good –disgraceful as it may be (I was a veggie for a decade so eating meat still comes with that twinge of shame, like smashing a prostitute over the head with a hammer, you enjoy it at the time but after can’t help feeling just that little bit remorseful) it was wholly worth it and as the restaurant is Muslim-owned and doesn’t hold a licence it was remarkably cheap.

We waddled back to Brick Lane were we resumed drinking in the late afternoon, friends melted away leaving Henry, O and I to enjoy the melee outside The Big Chill Bar, or something, heaving with cunts it was, still happily drinking away. Early in the evening we were joined by IC fresh from a weekend in Italy and we had a few more before the latter and I popped off to Hackney.

It’s another gorgeous day actually, warmer than the last and I really don’t thank the powers that be for making me have to work. In fact I blame fucking Boris…

tory hell

Sorry this is late, the reasons, that I’m not going to expand upon, are infuriating.

My heart is heavy, the fucking Tories are making a comeback –this doesn’t fare well for the London Mayor elections, the unthinkable could become a reality. And I know why.

It’s the young reactionary tits under 30, they’ve no recollection of British life under Thatcher, the blue rinsed slattern that ruined so many lives, mine included, with her money begets money policies and anti union fist. The tories have been recruiting hard in this sector and as the rest of us have been gently sighing at new Labour and Ken, lazily accepting our lot (because it’s shit but not disastrous) the fucking tories have been aggressively touting for business, they’ve no policy, no experience of modern government and their leader is doughboy-faced upper class twit of the highest order. In fact all we really know about them is that they’re right wing cunts…

Last night was amusing, a book launch took place on Clerkenwell Green, ‘Green’ being a bit misleading, its a green in its heart only, the place is a slab of concrete with some houses round it, which was themed as a sort of medieval Mayday with a hog roast, jesters and traditional Morris dancers. Whilst highly entertaining this didn’t go down well with some of the more cynical guests, as the performers began spinning yarns and dancing cries of ‘this is shit’ and ‘fucking crusty cunts’ echoed round the small square and a few instantly departed to the nearest boozer.

Prior to this, chatting to an old friend, his ex-girlfriend appeared with her new boyfriend. My friend, a little worse for wear, screamed ‘usurper!’ at the confused looking steak of piss, ‘’ere’, he continued, unaware of his friends moving away looking vaguely horrified, ‘I hope you got something better for your fucking birthday than I fucking did, I got a foot soak for my feet, a fucking foot soak, she said I’ve smelly fucking feet…’he pointed at her embarrassed face stumbled backwards, steadied himself then lunged forward and attempted to grab his exes arse. I was stood there holding my pint giggling like the village idiot, pure entertainment and decidedly more interesting than the hippies with bells and mandolins.

My weekend was briefly looking very different to the one I’m faced with. I shall say no more, no more… but it’s all looking good, no Piqued on Monday as it’s a bank holiday but doubtless reams of crap will be available on Tuesday morning…

Next, the foul Friday list, some Bill and a Piqued desire for you all to enjoy the bank holiday weekend.

I wonder if anyone has been looking for pictures of Carol Voderm…. oh

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Ken

One thing I don’t get, motorcycles horns. The regular reader of this tripe will know that I’m a privileged owner of a snarling fucking beast that looks as good as it goes, bit like my mum. So why, then, when using my horn in anger does it sound like one of those whiney farts one extrudes when one is backed up with yesterdays breakfast?

Take this morning for instance, when riding in some right wing yobbo (I know of his political persuasion because he was driving a Rover and despite the time of the day was togged up in a Chelsea football shirt allowing the world to witness his revolting Bulldog tattoo simpering on his forearm, which was as thick as my leg, rather like this fellow I concluded) just before he pulled out on me as I was passing him by.

I leant on my horn which squeaked into life causing this herbert to actually fucking smirk. Humiliated, frankly, I braked and let him carry out his preposterous manoeuvre and slotted behind him. I revved my engine and he looked in his rear view mirror.

Then he gave me the finger.

Quick calculations followed, we were travelling at about 20 mph, the road was clear in the opposite direction, there was one car in front of him about to turn left at the apex of a left hander, I pulled out from behind his car, accelerated hard past his retarded vehicle and in doing so kicked the cunts wing mirror off, shot in front the car about to turn left (thereby concealing my registration) and disappeared up the road like black streak of death before he’d even have had a chance to inhale to scream. Great stuff.

I had an appalling day in the office yesterday, business was virtually non-existent and co-workers were hell bent on aggravating me. In addition the weather was beyond contempt, it was colder than Hitler’s heart and wetter than a squids bum. On my journey both to and from work it rained with such intensity that my waterproof trousers fucking gave out causing my scrote to moisten. I was glad to get home I can tell you. Yes.

In the evening I wandered up to my local in order to meet a friend for a couple of pints, we returned back to my gaff in order to eat sushi and drink wines. A delightful evening passed in front of youtube, The Apprentice was spurned but doubtless a review will have already appeared on WWM (link right)…

Right, it’s the London elections today. Vote for Ken’s for fucks sake, I know he’s not perfect but he’s head a shoulders over the competition, in particular that blonde bastard Boris. Don’t be fooled by his charming bumbling bimbling buffoon act, inside is a hard right wing fuck face with delusions of his intelligence.

Can’t believe this is on youtube… (bear with it)