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.

no utewb

Last night, for reasons I really cannot be felched to go into, I watched football men. Some football men were from Italy and some Africa. They kicked a balls about and someone got a net. It was fucking really dull (apart from when a man felled over because another man kicked his foot and he had to go to the hospital because of the accident).

Following this a pleasant evening unfurled with IC like a picnic tablecloth in a meadow and food and wine happened before a double helping of the consistently brilliant Family Guy, the only reason to bother with BBC3 as the rest of its output seems targeted at lonely feeble minded teenagers who can’t understand shampoo.

It’s worth mentioning that I’m writing this drivel from home. Yesterday afternoon I noticed that my email folder was all-shitted off and I couldn’t get online to look at any pictures of screaming heads or feckless buffoons snapping arms. Livid, I stormed into the boss’s office who was busying himself with rugger and explained with toilet vocabulary what was going on. Himself now furious he thumped into the main office and prodded at wires and such like demanding IT skills from the slow girl who makes tea.

It was clear that, denied of any sort of communication with humanity outside of the archaic electronic telephone, I was going to have to go home and access my folder from the comfort of my privy. By 4pm I was recumbent with a bonk-on agitating myself into a frenzy of gentleman emulsion.

Obviously there is a downside to this situation. My regular reader (hello mum) will by now be aware that business is slower than George W Bush trying to tie his fucking shoelaces without pictures and this matter of my communications not reaching certain clients isn’t helping. I’ve lately learned that the emails sent yesterday were intermittently arriving in the inbox of potential sources of income and friends and I’ve no way of discovering who did or didn’t get what without emptying yesterdays sent items and making enquiries. For fucks sake. Oh well, I’ve already resigned myself to spending the next 2 years feeding on fresh Pot Noodles and drinking bog water.

Anyway, every cloud has a silver rim, the last of the bacon has just frizzled to a conclusion and I’m about to sate my appetite on a sandwich of near epic proportions.

After that I’m going to play with myself.

sell orf

Short Piqued today, in addition to having to actually do some work I’ve been put in charge of an interview.

I cannot begin to tell you how awful conducting an interview actually is, not because of the practical interview aspect, to wit, talking to a person in order to discover their strengths and in doing so highlight potential weaknesses, no it’s not that, it’s the whole aspect of being given a faux power over another person based on bourgeois/corporate/capitalist hideousness. I like to think of myself as better than most people for other reasons, not because I fucked up and wound up working for a living by mistake and was too greedy to spurn promotion. I used to be a fucking anarchist for fucks sake, even now as I type this I’ve a copy of Socialist Worker on my desk, what have I become!

I had a quiet night last night. I met up with Frank briefly for a swift half and returned home to fulfil my craving for food by grazing from the fridge and cupboards. I did a little bit more work on my design, essentially, I sat quietly and stared at it for a while, a fundamental part of any creative process and I now consider the matter closed. After some cleaning I watched Big Brother which I will have to write about in WWM at some point soon, it’s not as dynamic as in previous years but there is some activity occurring in there which is quite fascinating. Intrigued? Don’t be.

The day closed with the confirmation that Family Guy really is one of the funniest things ever (you heard me, ever) and a naughty cigarette which caused a short panic attack as I was trying to get off to sleep. Slept like the dead after that.

There is still a weird veil of oddness over Tooting following the crash and of course a fresh volley of rumours. The latest is that the driver whose head was supposed to have come orf walked out of the wreckage completely unhurt but a bloke walking his dog on seeing the bloke get out of the car had a heart attack and died on the spot.

Oh FUCK, I’ve TWO interviews, fucking hell.

heds up

My journey was severely disrupted this morning. I travelled back from Hackney to Tooting no problem but getting out of the tube there was a cordon blocking my route to the flat. Behind that was once a car, though a third of its usual car size, with a vast quantity of wadding stuffed into what remained of the rear. Under this was a noticeable quantity of blood. Facing it was a small van with its front end all smashed off. If anyone walked away from this, I surmised, then I’m an actual fairy with pink little wings and a fucking wand.

What was more pressing was the fact someone had selfishly decided to get all gory and stop me from going about my business. And I needed a poo. I approached a copper who was probably very upset by what he’d seen twenty minutes earlier and demanded I get through. ‘No son’, he said softly looking forlornly at the pulverised remains of a car and, I shouldn’t wonder, some guts. ‘For fucks sake’ I said loudly and I gave him a glare of epic proportions that, if he wasn’t so upset, should’ve resulted in me being taken down any alley way and beaten over the head with a steel truncheon until my mouth was full of brain matter.

So I had to make a deviation along with all the other innocent commuters and school children inconvenienced by some tit who couldn’t drive properly. Oh, just found out his head was lopped off. Cool.

I had a lovely weekend; I was in Hackney with IC on Friday night where I finally saw No Country for Old Men (I wanted to read the book before I saw the film, I achieved this only because I’m great) which is oddly identical to the way I pictured it in my minds eye. On Saturday morning IC and I went off for breakfast in Broadway Market, we selected a lovely little café that doubled as a bicycle repair shop and sat out in the sunshine sipping tea and waiting for our orders. Suddenly the sky was filled with wave after wave of military craft, from the 2nd world war to the present. I’m no fan of war or army shit but there is something about fighter planes that makes my willie go all funny. It was fucking ace.

After brunch IC and I headed off to the West End, we stopped along the way for me to take in a haircut, then to a pub in Piccadilly with the hairdresser in tow. We had a couple there then we were off to Central St. Martins to take in the graduate show and meet another friend. There was some bloody good stuff on show but as usual the place was populated by pretentious little pillocks preening and posing as if they’d just invented clothing. We stayed for a bit after being genuinely impressed by some of the work and popped off to The Japan Centre to buy some sushi and on to The Princess Louise for a pints before IC and I took the fucking tube back to my place to watch Withnail and I and drink wine with the delicious food we’d acquired.

Sunday lunchtime we got into bike gear and headed off to my folks. IC hadn’t been on the back of the black bitch and was a little nervous. Fortunately I calmed her fears and worries by hitting 110 mph within 5 minutes of her getting on board (she fucking loved it). My mum had excelled herself with a fisherman’s pie (mum isn’t much of a cook which may have something to do with my perpetual surprise that I am) and the whole family sat down to eat a fathers day meal amid the usual volley of swearing and laughing. My niece, 10 months old and getting into making words, farted and tottered about the lounge like she owned the gaff, a few splendid hours passed before IC and I were off back to town then back on the fucking tube to the East end to attend a party.
I think ‘incertitude’ is entirely the wrong word to describe my feelings about attending a party hosted by and attended by gay men. It was just something I’d not had experience of. Whilst I spent a great deal of time a few years back on a film set with lots of queer sorts I never really socialised with them outside of a few beers following a days shooting. I’m being brutally honest here, I’m about as bigoted as Ghandi but one can’t help mentally defaulting to ludicrous stereotyping in the face of the unknown can one.

One thing I will say about homosexual men is this. They share in common something that us ‘straight’ types will never understand, that is, growing up in a society that isn’t really adjusted for anything outside of heterosexuality. I daresay it was worse before the 60’s but either way; there is a bond among them that I found rather moving. Possibly because of my friendship with IC who knows a lot of these chaps very well I was made to feel properly welcome, even fussed over. After many introductions and protracted conversations about art and music IC and I had to go, it was getting late and Monday was looming. After kissing loads of blokes we left to home, to eat, to bed. Knackered and chuffed.

One of the guests at the party was a partial to screaming guitars, he recommended the following band. The sound quality is at least okay… this is ace.

the thirteenth

In terms of business, this week has been like wading through slurry. It’s been hysterically awful and the desire to wantonly squander money has never been stronger. It’s like I’ve this innate desire to revolt, when I should be being careful and prudent with my money I’ve this obscene desire to squander it all on clothes and tattoos, it’s like ‘credit crunch? yeah? Well fuck you!’ until I’m left homeless and penniless shivering outside tube stations with a fine collection of togs and tats selling the Big Issue and used Travelcards.

Having said that last night I decided to spend another evening away from the temptations of bars and restaurants, just me and Scarface, a film and some food. I tried to do some work on something I’ve been doing for a while but gave up due to my lack of concentration and opted to watch Top Gear on Dave, one I’ve already seen a few times but unable to shun due to the cathartic nature of squealing tyres, V8 engines and Clarkson’s facetious chatty commentary. I’ve tried, I really have, but I can’t do anything but like the berk.

The film in question was ‘The Day After Tomorrow’ a sprawling epic of utter tosh that had more special effects than a cyborg Ray Harryhausen, in places it was dead good but the fucking script was dafter than a bald toothbrush. I pushed a pasta bake into my face as the threadbare plot unfolded and avoided thinking about my job. Perhaps fatefully I then watched a documentary on the early days of Mrs. Thatcher who sold this country down the river following the economic slump of the 70’s. Initially I found it tough going, I despise the woman and hold her personally responsible for fucking up my education but, in the true tradition of knowing thine enemy, I watched it and it was fascinating stuff believe it or not –must be my age.

Another short Piqued, I do apologise but I’ve a meeting this morning. You can entertain yourselves by the horrific Friday list (I swear I don’t make any of this up) and some lovely music…

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Aaah. Morning all. It’s a little bit overcast today, not entirely unpleasant though, cooler certainly… I had a pleasant evening last night, watched a remake of Flight of the Phoenix -not a patch on the original- ate some fishcakes, had a shower… then woke up this morning to the news that somebody had been murdered in the fucking Sainsbury I frequently moan about in here.

I mean it’s not the first time I’ve been nearby such things, when I was a teenager a mans body was found in the front garden four doors down from my parents –turns out he’d been having an affair and his wife had contracted a fellow to pop a knife in the base of his head- living in dubious parts of sarf landan muggings/ knife attacks were part and parcel of the day to day but what occurred in the supermarket was fucking ridiculous, and being a frequent shopper in the establishment I can just imagine the cunts involved.

As far as I can ascertain some young shit kicked off at a woman in the car park, the husband then went off to teach this young turd a lesson, not entirely sure of the lads identity his fucking wife points him out in a queue but instead the husband lamps a 57 year old man who stood behind him and is felled with a single punch and dies. Great.

By all accounts it sounded as if the young cunt could’ve done with a slap, he was carrying on in the supermarket being all aggressive and cross and what have you to shoppers and staff alike so the wallop he’d coming by this myopic moron may have served as a lesson in manners. But as this is a prime example of how fucking stupid some people, hysterical women, knuckle dragging alpha male acting in haste and now, repenting at leisure after a totally innocent chap gets whacked in the chops.

Another hideous day in the office looms, how much can I get for a kidney?

Calm, relax. Shhhh

hots and tired

The cunt that is supposed to purchase my van has welched on the deal for the second and last time. So clearly is he a fucking crook that I’ve a good mind to just report him to the police on the good chance he’s done something heinous in the last 24 hours. So after ballsing up my evening what I was left with was duller than Songs of Praise.

It was another hot day but this conspires against the poor sap in the office having a tough time as the economy decides to take itself to the toilet to vomit up credit before going to bed groaning and following through cash.

Following my being blown out by the aforementioned crook I plodded back to my flat and, having no plans, picked up the PS2 console and took Scarface on a killing spree, said killing spree took on an extra dimension as I should’ve really been playing Grand Theft Auto 4 on the PS3 I’d have bought with the fucking money I’d have got with the fucking van. The evening was marginally saved by mashed potato, chicken and broccoli and then cacked up by Big Brother which I never should’ve got involved in.

Short Piqued today, I’m fucking busy.

Check the bass.


It was so hot in the office yesterday I’m sure one of my testicles partially melted. It’s bad enough having to go to work at the best of times but when the weather is actually inviting one to get on board a motorcycle and head to the coast to eat ice cream and dodge dog turds on pebbles as the cold grey sea chews at the shoreline it’s a bit much, frankly.

To make matters worse business is slower than a special needs child learning quantum physics, which makes the day seem a billion times longer than it actually is. To add insult to fucking injury the tool that was supposed to be buying my van blew me out (again) and has ballsed up my evening already. And it’s not even 10am yet.

Still, mustn’t complain. I did get to hook up with IC and Frank in the beer garden at the local last night before the former and I popped back to the flat for some hard core kitchen chat with mackerel salad on the side. I’m on a roll with mackerel at the moment, I can’t seem to get enough of it, I’ve even bought some in little tins in tomato sauce so I may smear it ‘pon toast for my fucking tea.

I’d like to take brief umbrage with the BBC’s weather forecasting, briefly. It’s a racist slur and a damn lie that the British are obsessed with the weather, and have wonky teeth, so I’m not going to bang on about this too much, save to say this.

It’s taken me a few months to work this out but on the BBC website the ‘today’s weather’ is always as seen in the sky at any given moment and whatever the forecast is for the following day it’s guaranteed almost 100% to be completely wrong.

According to yesterday’s website it was supposed to be pissing down with rain, yet when you look at it today it’s all sunny and lovely. The bloody cheats. Any cunt can do that; I mean what is the point of forecasting the weather inaccurately if you’re only going to just look up in the sky and change to suit your vicious needs.

If it does rain later all of a sudden the ‘today’s forecast’ will inform me it’s raining. Yet it’s just informed me its hot and sunny. With this in mind and knowing they are completely fucking useless they usually default to forecasting ‘all weather’. The logo with a dark cloud, some rain and a bunch of fucking sunshine coming out the top. What the hell is that?! For fucks sake…

I need to make an appointment at the dentist later.

bbq bike

I’ve stuffed my bloody face with motorsport over the weekend. I gorged on engines, tyres and crash helmets like they’re made out of really fucking nice cheese, or barbequed mackerel. Speaking of which, I had some barbequed mackerel yesterday in the afternoon, outside in the burning sun, but enough of that, lets go back to Friday and the pissing rain…

It pissed with rain on Friday, the day in the office was another complete waste of time (I think I might start a new career in wanking for coins) and I arrived home a little dejected from the day but wholly delighted by the prospect of not having to sit in that fucking office chair for at least 50 hours.

I was out of the flat almost as soon as I’d got in, off to Waterloo to meet IC and then to the South Bank to hook up with Den and his family. They’re moving orf out of London and we decided it would be nice to have a few cheerio-for-now drinkies. We were joined by Alice, Myfwt and her gentleman caller and we happily sipped wines and wotnot and caught up. IC and I were off before 10pm and home to sushi and fine wines in front of the last Peep Show and Big Brother. I think.

IC was off early the following morning as her sister was flying in from NYC. I stayed in bed until I was bored and got up to a pleasantly bright and sunny Saturday. After a trip to buy a newspaper I took breakfast, did some more on my design and played Scarface until I was given notice of the evening’s plans. I briefly met with Gee in the local to exchange money and tickets for an upcoming gig and quaff an ale before setting off again on the tube. It was hefty journey from sarf London to the East, the tubes were being cunts and the bus took and age to wind itself through the bustling late afternoon streets. I arrived late but was in plenty of time to wander down to a Vietnamese eatery with IC, her sister, Paul and Molly in the early evening.

Said restaurant is located in a converted public toilet. Despite the dubious venue it is studded with awards and the place was packed to the gills with locals, more importantly, Vietnamese locals, and we sat down to eat. The food was fucking wonderful. I ate strips of beef in a sizzling sauce with rice and vegetables after a starter of squid and spicy prawns and I happy dipped into the plates of my dining companions until I was sated. After settling the ludicrously reasonable bill we five popped out to a bar to round the evening off before bidding my friends farewell and reversing the bus and tube journeys and arriving home shortly before 1 am.

By the time I got out of my pit on Sunday the TT highlights had just started. I made breakfast with one eye on the TV in the kitchen –fucking heroes every last man jack of them, and then, joy of joys, the Moto GP from Spain was started, it was a fantastic race with a great result for all concerned…following this I once again I found myself on the flaming tube heading back up East.

It was 4pm when IC, her sister and I arrived at Paul’s place. Molly was already there and I was introduced to some new faces and thus began a perfectly lovely Sunday afternoon. Not having a garden I can’t remember the last time I’d been to a barbeque, frankly I usually find the combination of cremated/raw meat a little dull, not to mention dangerous but this wasn’t even comparable. In addition to the aforementioned mackerel there was squid, sausages and chicken (properly cooked) tomato salad, baked sweet potato, bread and sauces… it was a perfectly warm afternoon, the beer slipped down gently and I thoroughly enjoyed the company I was keeping. It also dawned on me that I’d made a complete cock up of buying a flat in South London.

Oh, I saw the F1 when I got home following another fucking stint on bus and tube and dying to take a tinkle all the way home… naughty Lewis, what were you thinking?

big, er. doesn’t matter

I spent most of yesterday afternoon at work working on a design I’d been working on that wasn’t for work. I’d hit a Zen-like moment of post stress, with the world crashing about my ears I calmly armed myself with a pen and paper, zoned out of reality and into the la la land of Piqued where the rivers run with fine wine, the trees are made of the most sensational foods and forensic evidence just magically vanishes, and I just ruddy well drew.

In the evening I met Frank for a swift half in the balmy evening weather and I returned home and made supper. I didn’t watch Big Brother mind you, I didn’t.

I did a bit. By accident because this year I’m not watching it. No way. Uh uh, not me.

Anyway it’s fucking boring, the same old shit. I’m not falling for that again.


(there may be a review of it on WWM link right later, someone else will be writing it mind because I’m not going there)

The Friday list ladies and gentlemen, then some popular music. Have lovely weekends please. Thank you Davina.

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phone sex

It was about 9.30 pm when I was convinced I was about to get a kicking from a rather large skinheaded chap wearing a tracksuit. Funny, he didn’t look the ‘sporty’ type.

But before all that lets go back to when I met Den, Bob, Red and Harry in a pub off Long Acre in Covent Garden, actually, let go back to before that when I had such a shitty day in the office I seriously thought about fucking off and becoming like that bloke outside the Costcutters who drinks White Lightening all day and shouts ‘ooyah’ at cars, actually, let not.

So there we four were. It was a glorious evening; the usually rammed boozer was inside out with the weary patrons all stood on the street blinking in the sunshine bearing that gormless expression of perpetual surprise as if been recently informed of some grubby financial windfall. We were inside in the dark, seated.

This impromptu meeting had arisen for two main reasons, Harry was due for an operation the following day on his knee and Bob who lives in Paris was over on some business. When the latter’s agent and assistant arrived we walked off into the evening to go and find a suitable eatery to sate our quivering appetites. Rob suggested ‘TexMex’ the group polarised into those that hadn’t tried it and those that had, I was in the former, cynical, camp.

These fears weren’t aided by the very real apparition of Paul Weller stood outside the selected venue smoking a tab in a manner best described as uncouth virtually ripping the gluteus maximus off the pelvis of a young lady friend as his huge raspberry head bobbed back and forth like some sort of plasma basketball. Once inside we ordered a vast jug of Margarita and perused the menu, most of the dishes on offer alien to my delicate western face, before ordering some unknown dish with familiar components.

The restaurant was a lively bustling place, certainly not unpleasant, made rather delightful by my companions and I joined together in an unfamiliar environment on the verge of potential food serendipity, and Margaritas. When my order arrived I was looking down at a vast plate of yellow and brown that appeared to have measles and a touch of gangrene. Despite its appearance it was fucking delicious, I ate the whole bloody lot, much more than I’m used to and I pushed away a perfectly clean plate feeling like Ron Jeremy.

Bob and I decided to go out for a tab when the aforementioned skinhead approached all smiley and ‘exasperated’ because, duh, like an idiot the battery in his phone had died and could he ‘put his SIM card in my phone to make a call’. (It’s a mugging technique, of course). After telling him I don’t have a phone I rounded it off with a lame quip about him sounding as if he wanted his phone to engage in some sort of electronic coitus. This went down like lead balloon, his supraorbital torus shuddered, knuckles dropped south and the smile was exchanged to one of quizzical consternation. ‘Shit’, I thought.

Bob helped by declaring me a comedian and to not worry about it, but the boneheaded fuck wasn’t having any of it and insisted I explain myself about what I’d said about ‘wanting to have sex’. I tried to explain but it was no use, he leant over me, his moon shaped face a visage of indescribable hatred, I mentally located his bollocks which I intended to attack without prejudice should he begin mixing my face with his fists and braced myself… Then Paul Weller appeared for another tab, the skinhead was distracted, he wasn’t focussed on my cracking cranium anymore, he was trying to work out how Weller had gone from The Jam to the Style Council, as was I, and the skin unable to process the simple fact that Weller is pot bellied cunt took to his Reeboks and legged it.

The evening ended cheerfully and without any further incident, well, on the streets that is… It was a different matter on the tube.

On boarding at Charing Cross I stepped over a large chap lying prone on the floor, he was breathing so I didn’t pay much attention but as the stops passed there was still no sign of his stirring. I checked him again, no, things weren’t right. The tube was crowded and I didn’t really fancy waking up in the morning to read of some poor bastard found dead at Morden as a bunch of refreshed revellers left him to rot on the floor. I grabbed to the bloke next to me and asked him to help me get him up.

The guy was heavy, I prised open an eyelid and a ruddy eyeball stared directly ahead with nothing behind it. He wasn’t pissed but he was completely unconscious. All of a sudden a wave of passengers descended on me and the guy trying to get him up, ‘is he alright?’ they all clucked like some Orwellian barnyard. We had to get him off the tube. Helped by the bloke we managed to drag him off, the tube doors closing on his head in the process as we clumsily alighted, and a station manager appeared asking for an ambulance on his walkie talkie. ‘Yeah, he’s sustained head injuries’ the jobs worth station man announced with no authority whatsoever, I corrected him just as the patient began to stir whereupon I asked him if he was on medication. The patient reached behind himself and produced some sort of medical ID just as the last tube appeared. The station manager assured me that he was in safe hands and seeing as there was no more I could do I jumped aboard and headed on home still feeling thoroughly bloated from dinner.

I tell you what; it’s me that needs an ambulance this morning, right, all is a little fiery downstairs if you know what I mean. Chilli stools, friends, chilli stools.

weigh high

I heard this morning that Paul Gascoigne (aka wahheeyy the lads, Gazza, Fog on the Tyne. Wifebeater) has been sectioned again. For his version of Fog on the Tyne alone it’s nearly enough to prove the existence of a divine being. The icing on the cake, when discussing his ‘troubles’ (i.e., taking too many drugs, drinking like a basking shark and punching his wife’s face in) was to employ the services of that lovable… sorry, fat obnoxious cigar chewing fat cunt Eric ‘monster, monster’ Hall to speak highly of him on BBC’s flagship news programme Today (?).

He recalled a hilarious anecdote that I have to share. Apparently, right, to describe what a great sense of humour Gazza had, right, yeah, well, Hall and Gaz were in a restaurant, twenty years ago, (that’s twenty. Monster!) and Gaz couldn’t read the Italian menu!! It doesn’t stop there, so the waitress says, ‘Ay meester Gazza, Aaaayy’ (I’m paraphrasing Hall’s charming racism. Monster, monster) ‘whadddadddauuwannnnnna? Eh? EH?!!’ and Gaz, right, still doesn’t know!! Anyway, right, the waitress goes ‘Eh EH Meeester Gaz, you lika Scampi?? Eh, youdalika Scampi EH EH AHAHAHHAHA???’ And Gazza, right, looks at her and dead casual like says…

‘Yes, I like all the Disney films.’



For the first time in a decade of listening to Today I’ve never ever heard John Humphries shut up quite like that. What the fuck was that on Today for? A letter will be constructed following this; I’ll keep you posted.

Yesterday, following a quite headbangingly awful day in employment, I was out as soon as I got in to meet my cousins in Battersea. My bro joined us and following a splash and dash I was on the bus heading for the fucking tube (I’ve never been underground so much in life, I’m convinced I’m growing feelers) to meet IC at Liverpool Street. We then offed back to her gaff to sip wine, well, one glass of wine after I’d smashed hers by accident after pointing at the sink and catching the glass on the back of my hand…

It’s stopped raining finally and it’s a beautiful day, it’s so great to be at work!! I love it here!! Monster monster.

tea tee

Sleep, it’s a bit like food really, when it’s abundant it’s great, but if it’s in short supply things aren’t good…

I wouldn’t mind if being wide awake at 4am was the fault of another (well I would, I’d be livid of course, but at least my awakness would be known quantity) it’s just I’d done everything to facilitate a decent nights sleep and my own cunting body conspires against me to deny me of this right.

Up until this point things had been splendid, I’d met with Harry and Frank at the local to engage in gentlemanly conversation about Star Wars and was back home by 8-ish to prepare a light supper of fresh pizza (I roasted cherry tomatoes with Olive Oil and garlic, blended them, seasoned it, chucked on some Basil, whacked it on some fresh French bread, topped it with ham, parmesan, under grill. Er, done) as I washed my hot tight bod in the bath. You could see my penis and everything.

By 9pm I was fed and watered and settled down for coverage of the TT. If you don’t know that the Isle of Man TT is then check it out and get back, I’m not going to help… Okay then, I’ll stick a clip of some instead of some music, you’ve twisted my arm. You win. Happy now? The TT is as old as my granddad (literally) and is dedicated to nothing but racing motorcycles and I’ve never been, I hope to next year though… Following this was more TT stuff ‘The 100 Greatest TT Moments’ which for the average viewer would’ve been as much fun as slotting nails into ones pupils but for me tear-inducing joy ensued, despite the poor production values.

I hung around the TV for a while; I was exhausted but aware if I went to bed too early I’d not sleep so at the optimum time, 11.30 pm, I hit the sack and was out like a light… then on like one at 4am and I’ve been awake since.

Work is hellish today, we’ve got to work on this enormous contract to take care and the boss isn’t too good under such pressure and I’m no better at being on the receiving end of his issues, despite them being my issues too.

I hate issues.

late party

After work on Friday Frank his missus and I took the tube to a boozer in Barbican where we met Harry and O to sup beers in the balmy early summer weather. I was utterly exhausted on account of my morning with IC and left relatively early to get some sleep. Of course, as is the way with such things I got a second wind just as I was preparing for bed but despite this still managed to sleep before 1am.

I got up late morning on Saturday. After breakfast James popped over for a cup of tea and a chat about his awful moving situation, he departed and I wrote an article for a friend. I then drove my fucking van over to my folks, I wasn’t prepared to pay for another year of parking permit as I’m trying to sell it and I stopped there for a while to catch up on various aspects of family existence –nothing to report save my mum treading on a wasp and having some aphid beast chewing her eyelid causing it to swell somewhat- and I took the train back into town to meet Myfwt and her bloke in a bar in Covent Garden.

By now it was 7.30, we 3 were due to arrive at a party in Fitzrovia but it was clear by the ordering of a second bottle that we were gong to be late. A cab arrived and we were whisked off to our destination all of us feeling jolly from the Shiraz. Just before we engaged with the throngs of guests we had another quick glass in a pub and arrived at 10-ish feeling squiffy but ready to go.

There were about 30 guests, most of whom I didn’t know. This didn’t matter though; full of social lubrication I ingratiated myself on the company, all of whom were very receptive to a bit of Piqued chit chat, and the evening flowed off into the small hours punctuated by cigarettes and crudités. By 4 am I was one of the last guests standing, not prepared to pay for a cab back to South London I stuck about until dawn chatting to the host who’d excelled herself in hospitality (and tolerance I should imagine) then walked off in the vague direction of the tube station.

At 5-ish am I arrived at Tottenham Court Road, I think, and along with a few others I settled down and waited for the gates to open. By now it was daylight, the last of the Saturday night revellers drifted in and out of my vision some asking me tube related questions and others the chance of a spare cigarette. Feeling safe I sat down in the mouth of the station and slept with my head between my knees for a while until finally the gates opened and I descended into the crepuscular light underground.

Being tired and a little refreshed I fell asleep and missing my connection. When I’d returned back to the connection I then fell asleep again and missing my stop and had to return back the way I’d came to get back home. It took fucking ages.

After I’d alighted I did some shopping, by the this time I was walking dead but managed to make it back, unpack, set the video for the Moto GP after which I slept until 4 in the afternoon. I took a bath I made a huge roast dinner, so vast was it that I spent the next few hours picking at it whilst I enjoyed the bike racing from Italy, Rossi won of course, so good to see him back on form…

Needless to say Sunday was written off in terms of actually achieving anything, I did make some adjustment to the article I’d done on Saturday but TV and a spot of Scarface were the only logical way forwards. I had an early night in complete sobriety; I only smoked one cigarette the entire day.

And that, dear reader, is how fucked I was.

This lot supported Ministry last week, bit annoyed I missed them…