Monthly Archives: June 2008

mutha of intention

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, my intention was to ride my bicycle into work this morning but as I was passing my crash helmet, jacket and gloves on the landing all of a sudden I was under them, the more I weakly waved them off the more they clung to me and they forced me downstairs without my bicycle. ‘Help, help!’ I sort of didn’t say and I landed hard on my black bitch -but upright and comfortably- and before I had a chance to stop myself from pressing ‘start’ with a chuckle I was racing to work with a grin feeling a bit annoyed at myself for about a second.

On my way home on Friday, following my shift of shite, I stopped off at the Sainsbury where that bloke got slapped to death a few weeks back and made some random though essential purchases. It was weird being at the supermarket on a boiling hot Friday evening and arriving in the underground car park on the bike, the fucking noise caused a small child to burst into tears and run behind it’s mother so it wasn’t an entirely wasted effort. Back at home I cooked a new recipe for IC and I, invented in my head over the course of the day, a sort of spinach and seafood pie in a mustard sauce with mashed potato lid, it was bloody lovely but I think next time I’ll use puff pastry and white fish… either way IC thought it was sensational, she probably used that very word actually. Maybe…

After fresh kippers for breakfast (one of the best I’ve had) IC and I went for a walk in the sunshine. My new tattoos made their debut after the last of the scabs flaked off when applying the cream in the morning and we wandered through a sort of ‘hippie’ (but not really) market and through some pathways flanked by boiling natural greenery, trees shrubs and shit. I’m ashamed to admit that despite having such bucolic joys on my doorstep I’d never ventured on the 2 mile wander to a National Trust property set in beautiful landscaped grounds that comprised of vast trees, pretty flower gardens and glittering streams in which children paddled and dogs leapt. It was quite lovely. After some refreshments and a loll we headed back in time to adjust to the arrival of Jamie.

At seven we three were headed to the local, we managed to get the last bench in the beer garden but our quiet evening drink was compromised by some baseball hat sporting bloodclot who insisted on Djaying the garden to death with wank dance toss. We bumped into Frank and his missus from up the road and then we were a 5 strong drinking team. The bastard on the decks cleared up and went indoors and we enjoyed the rest of the warm evening as the orange faded to blue in civilised chat. James, who was late as usual, replaced Frank and his missus at 10 and we 4 dribbled back to the flat stopping to pick up some snacks for the occasion. Things a tad hazy from this moment on but I recall laughing a lot and thinking, ‘fuck, it’s 4am’.

I woke feeling tired at 11, James gave a husky farewell and I made scrambled eggs and smoked salmon for IC and I. We vetoed the intended bike ride due to my blunt state and we and lay about the flat watching Peep Show and shit on DVD feeling sore but perfectly relaxed enjoying Sunday for what it was intended.

IC had to go mid afternoon to meet up with some pals and I did some of this and fell asleep for an hour or too before being summoned by Frank for a pair of lazy ales. My evening ended with the invention of yet another dish, this one an unmitigated success that I’ve decided to call ‘Squ-ash’ as it’s a mix of bubble and squeak and corned beef hash, dead simple to make. Boil shredded savoy cabbage and new potatoes, drain, crush with a fork, season well and add some chicken stock and half a can of corned beef. Fry the lot in butter until crispy, it’s so good I couldn’t balance the plate on my engorged lap in front of Top Gear. Actually, I may even have it again tonight.

Erm, I love this song *runs away*

tenis pennis

The fucking BBC have done it again, after promising me a weekend of furious dark rain they’ve suddenly decided that it’s going to be hotter and sunnier than Darfur. I mean what is the point?! There I am struggling to pay their licence fee, a vast proportion of which is donated to their weather department, which is obviously being spent on fairy cakes, balloons and days out to Chessington World of Adventures. They are taking the piss! (And clowns probably).

I would’ve been failing in my duty if I didn’t rant about Wimbledon fortnight last year, I’m about to do it again so hold tight.

It’s bad enough living and working near Wimbledon. It’s one of the most dreadful Towns I’ve ever had the misfortune to spare any change in. It’s sterile bland vacuous dull miserable boring obtuse fallacious drab and dreary, it’s like dying on the toilet after being abandoned by everyone and everything you ever loved and your putrefying remains not being found for weeks.

Occasionally I’m forced to under take a mission there, an actually briefed and planned organised mission to procure an item of desire cleanly and swiftly as possible. In yesterdays instance it was some new pants, we’ll come back to those later. After pootling into vector sw19 h.e.l.l I parked up and made my way through the voluminous mass of wankers that like tennis. Not content to make itself the home to a squad of tedious semi-criminal alcoholics, for some reason Wimbledon thinks it’s a good idea to then invite in a herd of really fucking weird thousand-yard-stare (a good proportion infirm and disabled) Tennis fans, a sport more disheartening than prison showers.

For two solid weeks, in addition to the 3 wheelchair bound beggars (one of which seems to lose a limb every time I see her) the whole street is criss-crossed with walking sticks tapping on ponderous pavements, it begs the question why? Is it some sort of exercise in perversion, a bondage kink, I may not being able to walk but I’m bloody happy to sit all day long on the baking hot sun and watch young people leap up and down for fucking hours pointlessly passing a ball to each other. It’s like watching porn without a penis, or if you’re a lady reading this, having your fundament filled with cement.

Back to the pants briefly (da boom boom tish) since when did a pair, one pair of fucking pants cost over £20?? Yes, one can buy a pack of 300 pants for 4 and half p from TK Mart or whatever but they’re about as effective as Dairylea cheese slices. There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground, it’s either walk about with your pills jangling about in rizla thin polyester before one or both fall out or spend the money and cosset your vast manhood in luxury cotton designer splendour which will last longer than your children’s children I should imagine.

Today’s video is hilarious, in places knowingly so, still be in doubt that this sort of shit really didn’t go down well in the 80’s in terms of the moral majority. This band invented a genre, read all about it,,2287472,00.html
then watch the vid and have gorgeous weekends after suffering the list o’ fried.

Do these things to please me.

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bob rantz

Just before 7 yesterday evening I popped into the warm summer evening ideally dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, I say ‘ideally’ because at the moment I have to keep the tattoos covered, they’re going through the scabby stage and they look all scabby, so I was forced to endure a fucking cardigan following my running out of long sleeved clean shirts as I’m having to wear those at work for the same reason that last night I was wearing a cardigan. Anyway I was hot.

I met IC at the local and we were joined by one her friends and his missus. The friend had been born in Zimbabwe, ah ha, I thought and instantly we talked about Zimbabwe with our mouths! It was ace!

Anyway, on the hot topic of Zimbabwe, I see that finally Nelson Mandela has opened his overrated cake hole on the staggering situation in his neighbouring country that employs a systematic system of murder, rape and torture in order to ‘win’ votes leaving thousands dead and dying as the entire nation slides into abject poverty and cannibalistic starvation… Mugabe will think twice now after Nelson’s scathing attack on the unbelievably disgraceful situation in the formerly named Rhodesia (I didn’t think anything could make Ian Smith seem alright) that’s right ‘failure of leadership’ will haunt the fascist dictator and all round fucking cunt to the grave. Why, along with that and the jaw dropping revelation that the Queen has withdrawn his honorary knighthood and the fall over backwards suggestion that the UK should revoke his visa I’m sure Robert is already stood teary eyed on his bucket ready to dispatch his sorry self to never never land.

This morning, following a gentle evening of conversation and sophisticated dining, I was up with the dawn chorus enjoy the dulcet tones of the radio 4 team as I went about my daily ablutions and having a bloody big shit. Esther Rantzen was talking about how it was a good thing that adults who worked with children were ‘checked out’ following two examples when unchecked adults had raped minors, been convicted, released after serving time, then been given jobs working with kids and done the same thing again.

Astonishingly some prick was objecting to this on the basis of it being an invasion of civil liberties. Now don’t get me wrong here, when it comes to CL I’m right there but this wankers argument was so unbelievably nonsensical my nipsy snapped off a trog in fury spoiling my cathartic me and poo time.

You know what, it’s just not bloody fair.

arzehole to beak

5.45pm outside my house at volume, note ‘at volume’ in a whiney latent-aggressive bullying tone not without a hint of hatred, ironically…

“That was shit, shit, shit…If you really loved me, I mean really, really, really loved me… I mean, knew me, really knew ME, you wouldn’t do that, you wouldn’t do that, if you really, really, really loved me, you wouldn’t DO THAT.”

Stood in his room with his windows open, like most of the street on a hot summers day, Piqued stood stock still in utter disbelief, surely he must know everyone can hear this? What is the purpose of humiliating the emaciated and clearly ill mother of your totally emotionless 3 year old (with pierced ears) in public? Then the penny dropped, of course! He’s the big man, not the breadwinner as such (Cunt hasn’t done a days work in 5 fucking years) but he can meet out justice when he’s been wronged, right? The big strong macho bullet-headed fuck. It’s his right, his fucking right to show the street who is the fucking man, who is in charge, in control… silly Piqued for not understanding immediately, surely he should’ve know by now.

Despite this and a rather clumsy day at work I still had enough energy to haul myself into Chelsea in order to meet a friend for dinner. The deal was simple, friend and I pose for pictures for some newspaper and we get to eat and drink f.o.c. We arrived at the venue on the Kings Road, a loud eatery swarming with awful Chelsea types that comprised largely of clean-cut men with tailored shirts (daringly tie-less) and random vacant blonde bloodsuckers all haw hawing over fucking huge platters of meat and claws.

We were led downstairs which was slightly more appealing than the surface and ushered to a table where a photographer was waiting patiently for his models to arrive. The large dining room was knowingly dingy with a styled ‘shack’ quality to it, Americana prevailed, the walls daubed with adverts for archaic hot sauces, bbq condiments and the boastings of the finest crabs/ribs/lobster/heart condition, a two-man band blared out Eagles-like covers reducing conversation to a less dignified yelling and the posing commenced.

We ordered all the food based on aesthetics, dishes that would give the place an identity when consigned to the printed page. I wasn’t expecting our shared starter to be a dish the size of a UFO, there was more food contained within than some poor starving bastard in Bangladesh would see in 7 lifetimes. It was a crammed cornucopia of meat, seafood, cheese, potato, fried stuff, more fried stuff all lolling over tortilla chips and prawn crackers, the latter tasted like they’d been cooked in 1978 but the rest of it was fucking lovely.

The process of eating was punctuated by yet more posing, a bucket of Budweiser’s arrived, more posing ensued, I was already sick full by the time 3 grown men had given up on the fucking starter, the giant dished was removed for all intents and purposes untouched.

Then came the main course. I really didn’t want any more food but it arrived anyway, like a nightmare. A crab the size of Robert Mugabe’s head was shoved under my nose, then came steaks, a lobster, massive shrimp tails that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Darryl Hannah, fries, peas, another bucket of Bud’s, Jesus fucking Christ, it’s no wonder the Americans are so fucking fat.

More posing, more eating, I didn’t like this anymore. My friend and I resigned to gout bravely consumed, our will to live diminishing with every swallow. Some arsehole ordered pudding, I think it was me, by now I was bumping my chin on the table to force my jaw to masticate, I’m sure I passed out a few times.

The pudding arrived, cinnamon apple waffles with proper vanilla ice cream. Oh no, not waffles. Like doughnuts and cheesecake, waffles are one of those foodstuffs I can eat until I fart blood. Insane with cholesterol, my shaking cutlery found it’s way into the heart of the food mountain and I scooped a giant fork full of matter into my gaping maw, my eyes rolling back in my cranium, sugar rush, sweet Christ what have I done.

Suddenly, I was on the bus, upstairs at the front. How had this happened? I checked my vitals, I wasn’t pissed just utterly overwhelmed by food, I could hear people behind, were they talking about me? I felt more paranoid than Tom Cruise.

I got off the bus early in an effort to walk some of this shit out of my guts before I hit the sack, by the time I arrived home I was so shattered I walked upstairs, undressed without so much as a by your leave and slept like death.

I still feel full now; I don’t think I’ll bother eating until July.


It’s something I’ve done before so I wasn’t nervous, a touch of trepidation perhaps? Not because of the inevitable discomfort but because of the positioning, it’s a little more obvious than the others… or is it?

Too late now I thought as I settled back in the dentist chair, I was given a nod, I responded similarly and it began.

Friday morning had been fucking awful, it was supposed to be a day off but after checking my work mails from the comfort of my lounge it was clear I’d have to deal with some matters there and then. Making things slightly worse was that I was mildly hungover. Following a day in the office in which I pulled a fucking rabbit out of a hat and saved a job I was working on I met up with my bro in Clapham for a giggle and pint. The warm tingle of having saved a portion of my bacon allowed me to indulge in a few more drinks as I settled back in my chair thinking later in the evening of what I’d achieved and what was to come on my now-confirmed day off.

After dealing with some shit from the office I took a shower, packed a bag with spare clothes and books and headed off to Kentish Town by tube arriving at my destination dead on 1pm. I was expected but my appointment was running a little late. No problem, I sat in the small shop reading with one ear on the banter yonder occasionally popping out for one last cigarette.

After a while I was called through, the design I’d been working on for weeks in practice but years in theory was handed over to the assistant and it was transferred into a purple stencil. My arm was shaved and prepared and the design was offered up and applied, after a few minutes deliberation as to its positioning the artist set to work.

There is something vaguely homoerotic about allowing another man to touch you in such personal and consequential manner, it’s a strangely gratifying experience knowing you’ve allowed this exchange of trust to take place, indeed, it’s the epitome of liberation. Despite the wholly tolerable ‘pain’ (it feels rather like a cocktail stick is being dragged over the surface of the skin) I enjoy the sensation of being tattooed, the endorphins kick in and make you feel whacked, one is furiously aware that this is as permanent as ones’ nose on ones’ face -which is rather exciting- and one feels fucking well hard to boot.

The artist and I chattered away, we joked, discussed his business… it’s good to know that the bloke inking you for life is a good sort, it’s not essential by the way, so long as he does what I want as far as I’m concerned they could have a thing about dogs’arseholes but it’s nicer that he didn’t. I don’t think. After he’d re-tattooed an older one I’d had done a few years back I was good to go, bound in cling film I set off into the street and made my way to Camden to have some quiet time in the The Worlds End to enjoy the post-inking buzz and reminisce on my new arm and wave in the weekend.

At 5.30 I met IC in London Bridge and we headed off to Hackney. Swineshead and his missus popped over and we spent a pleasant evening quaffing a few drinks and smokes. IC remarked that my film-wrapped arm looked like a fresh chicken in a supermarket which had me honking like a goose, possibly because I was higher than Jimi Hendrix.

Saturday began with breakfast, a wash down of the new tattoo which is healing well thanks for asking and a walk under the grey skies to pick up some bits and pieces before heading to the west end to the White Cube for the Chapman exhibition. Fucking Hell (discussed in wwm, link right…) is a masterpiece, instantly accessible and thoroughly entertaining. I’m not going to harp on about it save to say it’s a must see. Oddly Damien Hirst and Jay Joplin were in there too, the latter is the owner and one would’ve thought the former would’ve been privy to many a private view of the work. I can see why he may want to see it again; it’s too much to take in one visit.

The experience was profoundly exhausting and we headed back home, exhausted. A second wind breezed us back into the Eastend, we had a little drink in delightful place near Hoxton and nipped into a little pizzeria for dinner. A lovely evening unfurled with wines and fucking lovely food, best pizza I’ve had outside Italy, the bill was more reasonable than Ghandi and we walked back in the now balmy evening completely aware we’d survived the longest day with great big tits on it.

We managed to get up early enough on Sunday to walk through London Fields to Columbia Road. It was lovely day, windy without being fresh and very warm. The market was in full swing and we picked out way through the throngs popping into art galleries occasionally to be both dismayed and impressed by the works on display. After taking some time on Brick Lane to wander through the market and shove bagels into our faces we went back home for the sole purpose of watching the Moto GP which was rather dull actually. After eating some cold pizza from the previous evening (I wasn’t leaving anything behind I couldn’t finish. It was as good as it was hot, even better, maybe) we were out again by 5 to nip into a pub where a chap we know works (coincidentally we discovered that we were both using the same tattoo artist) to imbibe, dead gently, and off to one of IC’s ex flatmates house to visit some friends.

The gaff consisted of 3 Italian chaps, IC and the latter’s ex flatmate who is Spanish. They were watching the Italy vs Spain match. I’m not a fan of the football but it was impossible not to be caught up in the sheer passion of my Italian companions. Their language was utterly dreadful, I insisted on translations which at times had me weeping with laughter, it was a glorious combination of extreme blasphemy and rather complicated acts of sex to be performed on ones’ mother all delivered in a gorgeous lilting flow of sonic poetry. One of the chaps was 4th runner up in the best pizza in Italy competition last year and punctuated the banter with these fucking pizzas that nearly gave me a woody (actually, in hindsight these were the best pizzas I’ve had outside of Italy, or even inside. Fuck they were good).

We drunk delicious wines and smoked killer grass that made my speech go all funny and turned my quick visit to Tesco to get some more wine into a fucking adventure (security wouldn’t let me in initially, I was wearing a vest and burbling). Obviously the Italian contingent weren’t best pleased with the result but the Spanish element took her victory with quiet dignity. Five minutes after it was all forgotten, we left them all pushing more pizza into their faces chatting away like nothing had happened.

Monday wasn’t as fun. After watching a woman boot a rat into the air on Old Street tube station first thing in the morning I arrived into work to discover the boss had lined me up with training a complete and utter bellpress. The girl, all jolly hockey sticks and showjumping (in as much she looked like a fucking horse) was blessed with the mental capacity of a potted plant and was clear that after a good 5 minutes of repetition that the only way anything was going to get through that thick skull of hers would be the persistent and aggressive use of a ball peen hammer. After wasting an entire morning and discovering my MD had given someone some of my fucking business on my day off I finally managed to get some work done, in so far as I began to write this.

Pleasant evening with Frank in the boozer last night and a relaxed TV gawp followed with some homemade pizza, not the best I’ve had outside Italy I hasten to add.

Came in this morning and that new girl quit as she was leaving last night, glad I didn’t waste my time all fucking day yesterday then. For fucks sake.

George Carlin has died; watch this, it blows the obvious irony of the subject into the middle of next week.

normal service resumed tomorrow

technical, it’s that

billy willy

‘That was William Haig’ said Den.
‘Fucking what!!?’ I span in my seat to watch a little bald tit skip lightly up a flight of stairs
‘Yeah’, said Den, ‘Cameron comes in here too…’
I retched.
Den was more interested in who Haig was meeting. I was more intrigued to know what the fucking Tory cabinet were doing in a club better known for the likes of Lilly Allen and co all pissed up on Champers and whacked on sniff. Then I was interested in who Haig was meeting after concluding that I suppose this is the modern way of politics, get into bed with the media, rub shoulders with the celebs and bright young things and work the system to ones’ advantage. Christ, how awful.

I’d met Den, Harry and Bill for a few quiet drinks in an establishment in Soho; the place was gently fizzing as we chatted about our comings and goings, we sipped beers and gorged our faces on burgers that breached the balance between the ordinary and sublime. A drunk man passed by our table nearly falling onto some elderly guests, as I left via the blood-soaked toilets the drunk who’d clearly then fallen over in the privy was being treated to a gash over his right eye. At his age he really ought to know better I sighed as I walked into the balmy evening to catch the tube home. I arrived back at the flat feeling exhausted and oddly sober, watched some TV and went to be early bored shitless.

I really could have done without the news of the UK economy this morning. Surely the more they go on about how shit things are going to be then the prophecy will be self-fulfilled?

On that note, it’s a short Piqued today, I mean someone has to fill the gap don’t they, and that someone dear reader is me.