Monthly Archives: May 2008

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…