Monthly Archives: July 2008

a weak

A rum deal, that’s what it was, a fucking waste of money, and I was taken for a cunt, as they say in films made by that homophobic prick-dribble, Guy Ritchie -who’s clearly a latent homosexual (like all homophobes, all of them) because he’s essentially married to a bloke with tits.

I arrived for my dental appointment dead on time and was ushered to the chair by an anonymous assistant. The dentist was already waiting for me like some local despot expecting gifts or sexual favours. I lay in the chair and awaited the usual bollocking, then I remembered that I was soon to be middle-aged, I sat up on my shoulders, before he’d a chance to draw breath I said, ‘Before you ask, I’ve not been here for years, I smoke loads and favour red wine. I’m not cutting back on either.’ And I lay back down.

The dentist cocked his head, put on his mask and proceeded to prod, after 2 mins (£15, right there) I was told, curtly, that I brushed my teeth too ‘vehemently’. I’d never heard anything more absurd in my life; it was like being angrily informed by the traffic police that I rode my bike with care and skill.

I was led to the hygienist who was an enormous Serb with teeth whiter than diamonds. I was shoved into a chair that manipulated my spine like a retards teddy prior to being throttled with a baby blue bib and leapt upon. Her tits were huge and unwelcome. They pressed against my skull like an ill fitting crash helmet and she dug away at the years of hedonism in my drooling mouth, the dribble dropped over the side of my gaping maw and tricked uncomfortably down the sides of my face and pooled at the nape of my neck, this monster couldn’t give a shit. She was worse than Karadzic.

After 20 minutes she stopped and told me that I’d have to book another appointment ‘to clean the top set’. After being given a lecture on flossing I left and paid. I didn’t realise I’d have to pay another £50 or quid for her to fuck about with ‘the top set’ until later. The cunts! Last time I saw (the previous) hygienist she did the fucking lot in 40 mins and charged me once. They should take this bitch to The Hague.

Right, that’s me for a while, catch you next Thursday, I’m off to the south coast with IC for lashings of rain after getting lost, again.

Be good.


It’s another of those dreadful days, though hopefully this is the last one like this for a while. The contract is going out this afternoon, after that it’s wait and see time…

But before all that, I’ve an appointment with the gob-doctor in an hour or two. It gets better and better doesn’t it.

I’ve not been to the dentist in well over a year and because I’m partial to a drop or two of the good stuff and the odd cigarette my teeth look like I’ve been masticating with pigshit.

This discolouration isn’t too noticeable from the front, if one were to ignore the ruination between my ivories, it’s the back of the teeth that I look particularly impoverished. They’re browner than gay wood and attached to my teeth as the proverbial of the same tone does to a blanket.

I called them up last week and was informed I’d have to have a check up before the hygienist was let loose on my face. I could hear the accusing ‘it’s been over a year, Mr. Piqued’ in her voice before I nipped that one in the bud with a passive aggressive ‘so what?’ I’m already prepared to have a fucking row with the dentist by the way.

I’ve a double whammy, dentist for a ‘check up’ (i.e., a license to print money when he ‘discovers’ I need a new fucking tongue or something) and then the severely unpleasant scraping with the hygienist, which ironically, sets ones teeth on edge…

I may be able to give you the gory details tomorrow but this isn’t confirmed. If I don’t post tomoz it’ll be a week before you hear anything from me as I’m popping down to the coast for a few days to stave off a coronary and premature loss of life.

Oh, don’t watch The Wire, you’ll never leave the house until you’ve done the fucking lot…


I’ve not had much sleep. I’ve been having nightmares. I’m nearly 40.

This isn’t why I’ve been having nightmares -though I can’t say I relish the thought of heading towards the middle phase of my life but there isn’t much I can do about it save a few wines and smile through the inevitable- know, it’s because SH recommended a zombie flick and last night I indulged on my own.

I am a confirmed zombie enthusiast; ever since that Jesus popped back to bite the throats of those that betrayed him I’ve been hooked. Zombies bridge the gap between life and death but in what context we’ve no knowledge, are they the dead walking or is there some sort of unholy life propelling them onwards? Zombies are at once enigmatic, unpredictable and worst of all, familiar, what Freud would call ‘unheimlic’. They are the coolest and most awful thing ever, they are a paradox, they are terrifying yet intriguing, zombies, bring ‘em on I say. But not really…

Anyhoo, Rec has taken the genre to the next level, I refuse to go into details because it’s to be seen. I will say this, the film turns the screw somewhat and there is scene that blew my fucking head off, largely because it’s something I’d not considered for depiction under such circumstances and hey presto, nightmares.

Despite my being exhausted I cycled in today, as I did yesterday. On returning home I discovered some creature had decided to dine on my cheek and I’ve a fucking bump where it filled me with some awful spiss to prevent my blood from coagulating as it drunk itself stupid.

Yesterday was one, if not the, hottest day of the year. It was too much, one thing to be padding round the park offering yourself water, shade and benches on which to loll and another, entirely, to be stung-eyed with sweat, forearms glued to the desk, hair fused to the temple trying to de-code numerical anomalies with baffling business babble with my boss throwing paddies like rioting teenagers do stones.

Mercifully, in the evening, Frank was up for a pint in the local. After an interesting conversation about tattoos I arrived home with some shopping and settled down to eat salad with hummus and vast clumps of bread, it was following this I decided to watch Rec, following that I was forced to stay up and watch whatever shit I could find on TV, anything to take my mind off that if image of…


ruddy hot

Despite my getting up at 7am in the East End and travelling right across London by bus and tube for well over an hour, then walking home and changing I fucking cycled in this morning. The fact I look as if I’ve just had a full submersion baptism is of no consequence here.

The weekend begun with a furnace-cycle back to the flat that required a shower, the first of many over the weekend. In fact, I showered so much this weekend I may have developed a tonsure, which is keeping with my earlier simile my god-fearing friends…

I digress.

The farting-chink of the pub was calling, and after IC arrived we sauntered off into the still evening air as young children enjoyed various childish pursuits; skating, skipping, scooting, heavy petting, before arriving at the mercifully quiet local to meet Harry and make some space in the beer garden -at some point in all this my dad called to casually inform me that the family pile, the place I’d called ‘home’ for over 30 years was on the market- then James arrived, then O, then Frank (whose birthday it was) and his missus for a jolly good old laugh and wotnot. Marvellous. IC and I were on the tube by 10pm heading east, by the time we alighted at Old Street I was choc-full-o-piss and was forced to micturate in a pub populated by skins. We bussed back to Hackney via a shop to attain comestibles and booze and planted ourselves in the flat. It was the weekend.

Breakfast didn’t happen until 1pm in a little café near Dalston, I had a grilled steak sandwich which was right on the bloody money but was aced by IC’s smoked-trout salad, believe it or not (yes, a salad) and we headed back out into the burning city to go about our business and take some time out in a park. Come evening we were obliged to quench the bastard heat with a few pints in a local located in a residential street, which was local… We were joined by SH and his missus and a couple of other pals and remained seated outside until nightfall. We all piled in a car and spent the remainder of the night laughing our skulls out of its skin whilst stuffing our faces with the food purchased that afternoon.

Sunday, again I managed to avoid a hangover, we took a stroll over London Fields to Columbia Road to the flower market and walked up from there to take brunch at a place which I’ve just been informed has just been voted the best wotsit in pahh. IC knows nearly all the staff, I know a few of them too, actually, and to be frank it’s not the sort of place one would regularly attend save an occasion of some description. Both IC and I had the eggs benedict that were by far and away the best fucking breakfast-type thing I’ve ever had. The décor is white, cool and minimalist without being uncomfortable, a grand piano was being tinkled by a punk rock looking fellow and the bloody food, darling, is too die for!! (sorry about that).

The return to the sunshine was quite a shock; it was the hottest part of the weekend, too much for me but armed with three papers, two broadsheets and one vacuous tabloid, we spent an hour in London fields basking in the sunny glories of the day. The atmosphere of the East in comparison to the South is palpable, I may have already said this before, I totally fucked up buying where I bought, Tooting, by comparison is dirty, aggressive and without that vibrancy that makes the essential parts of the East so progressive and thoroughly enjoyable. Having that that it’s not everyday one sees an entire bag of offal sat splatted in the middle of the road of an afternoon, such is the rich tapestry of the East mused IC and I as we stopped for a swift half prior to home and movies and food and bit of Cava.

Having a dreadful day here, it’s still kicking off business wise.

Finally, I’m sure you were all glad to know, like me, that the honking dough-boy-faced prick Cameron has his stolen bike back… They even returned his helmet, which surprised him as he reckoned it would be worth a few bob on ebay, the sheer arrogance/ego of the tosser knows no bounds. Still, got me thinking how that would be listed.

‘Unfortunate device designed for saving the brain of a right wing fuck-wit. It stinks of misguided ambition, Just For Men and excretion. Will gladly pay to have shot of it’

Cameron, eat some Lard.


It’s been business hell, utter fucking hell. Don’t get me wrong, it’s far from over, which is just fantastic isn’t it, I mean it’s not as if it’s fucking roasting hot in the office and the air has turned into porridge.

Making things psychotically worse is there is this girl in here who is on a ‘diet’. I don’t know what literature she’s been reading but either she’s got the wrong end of the stick or it was penned by a WWF wrestler. Yesterday she went up to a colleague in order to castigate her for the sugar content of a fucking watermelon before making her 12th trip to the microwave, which seems to involve lots of desperate acetate-pricking and beeping, stinking up the whole fucking office with a ‘weight watchers’ Meat Bastard just as we’ve got over the last low-calorie derived pong, and repeating the process from scratch minutes after the last of the meal plops into her seething guts.

On her desk are a range of dietary-based snacks, essentially, cakes, crisps and biscuits. Forgive me if I’m wrong but if a slice of carrot cake has 2.5 grams of fat eating 7 boxes of them sort of reverses the good you’re doing? Or is it just me.

The office perpetually fucking stinks and if it carries on much longer I’m going to snap. If you see a headline along the lines of ‘MAN SMASHES OVEN INTO CO-WORKERS CUNT’ then it could be yours truly, the bitter, sweating author of this very muck you’re reading. A TESTICLE FOR AIR CON…

But aside from this I’m again in splendid cheer. It’s Friday, I have a splendid weekend ahead lined up with IC and I’m delighted to present both the Friday list and another popular song that Swineshead reminded me of yesterday.

Cheerio all.

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For the next few days there won’t be much in ‘ere

Simple fact is that I’m up to my clockweights in work shit, we’re in the process of trying to renew a contract that, if we don’t win, will see me wanking for coins at a station near you soon.

My immense apologies but do click on the link to the right for ‘how the good look naked’. It’s due to be updated today and I’ve been privy to a sneak preview of the complete filth on offer.

In the meantime, if this doesn’t make you want to open your chest and snap off ribs to jam in your eyes, you’re weird…


Despite being in most excellent cheer I have so much work to undertake today I’m not going to be able to fulfil my duties as ‘blog author’.

For this I’m most eternally sorry.

Karadzic: Santa will never be the same again.

cock-ring hall

I’m rather delighted they’ve caught that fucking sod Karadzic but how come it took 13 years? Someone must have known where he was. Maybe the people harbouring him got bored of having him ‘in’ all the time, not pulling his weight about the house and using the last of the shampoo and not telling anyone. I’m sure they would’ve covertly rung round to see if anyone else wanted him as Karadzic sits in ignorant bliss on the sofa watching Scrapheap Challenge and eating Tangfastics with his bloody clodhoppers on the coffee table. Again.

I was driven to the Royal Albert Hall in a fucking Merc if you please by a pal at work. Despite the usual reluctance to attend such events I have to say approaching and entering The Albert Hall is quite humbling, it’s a truly wonderful building and being fortunate to have a box stuffed full of finger food and booze one can’t help feeling a little smug after the former aspect has subdued. There were 12 of us, the boss, his missus, their son, myself and 8 colleagues. As usual the boss and I took the seats at the rear of the box, it’s nearer to the refreshments and there is room to spread out, and the concert began.

Expecting the usual twiddley twee shit (I make no apologies for my dislike of classical music, it’s not a question of not ‘getting it’ it doesn’t do it for me. Period) I was rather surprised that the stage was entirely empty save a bloke half way up the wall in a little rectangle. The organs at the Hall is one if not the largest in Europe, and fuck my old boots if it doesn’t make a noise. L’Ascension by Messiaen sounds like a horror movie score, for this reason and for the simple fact that I like the sound of an organ the first quarter was rather jolly good, the second part wasn’t too bad either. It appears I quite like this particular composer.

After the interval in which I shoved things down my neck at a rate of knots the second half was a mixed bag of yawn-inducing scraping and ball-cracking inspiration, the latter down to a Japanese-inspired arrangement requiring gongs and cymbals that were genuinely unsettling and momentarily beautiful. One thing I did notice by the way, all of the people that enthused about the music in question, all of them seemed to spend more time thumbing through the programme than actually listen/watch what is going on. I’m not saying they were bored but when I go and see Slayer I don’t even want to blink in case I miss a single thing… actually, I’m implying they were bored, periodically at least; this doesn’t happen with the stuff I like.

Here’s some (new) shit I like. Hairy men, guitars.


alberts hall

I’m sat in a boiling office wearing a fucking suit. I refused point blank to wear a tie mind you; when Hendrix was playing Monterey was he wearing a tie? No. Then neither shall I.

Tonight I’ve got to go to the Albert Hall and watch a man play with his organ, it’s a big organ and I’m going to stare at it, all glassy-eyed and bored shitless. For this reason I’m wearing the suit, I’ve been invited by a client and have been instructed to dress according by the MD who is also attending, he’s wearing a tie though. I’m not.

I had a nice weekend even if something was distinctly lacking. I met up with Harry on Friday and we had dinner at The Eagle, a ‘gastro’ pub that serves more than half decent fodder, sausages and cannelloni beans for me, Harry had the pork and we imbibed throughout, catching up in a mnner of civility. I took a long walk back through a subdued London to Moorgate and was home in good time for a pair of G&T’s and a lazy television episode.

Saturday I got up and set to work on the flat, a top to bottom scrub, dust and Hoover, which I punctuated with bubble and squeak with shredded bacon. After I did some writing stuff, which took me until early evening, it was back on the tube with Frank to meet Harry and Ollie in Fitzrovia. After a few beers we went to Busaba, a decently priced Thai restaurant and gorged ourselves on all manner oriental delights. I was home comfortably by midnight but due to the fact the flat was looking half decent and that there was no sign of Cunt I took advantage of my record player. One thing led to another and with wine in hand I accidentally turned in on Sunday morning at 6am with the fucking birds screaming their tiny feathered heads off and more light than a super nova.

I was up by 1pm in time for the Grand Prix but my poor head felt like corned beef. After a most congenial ending I did some more work before James arrived late afternoon for a cup of tea that turned into a pint. The evening drifted off over baked beans on toast and The Moto GP (nice one Valentino) and I watched The Machinist before retiring to bed, ironically if you’ve seen it, and I suggest you do.

Oh, new link to the right, How the Good Look Naked, check it out, just over to your right…


Fucking Nat West. Since the blackmail incident when I was a student -I told the manager that, unless he gave me £50, now, I wouldn’t pay my student loan into my account the following week, of course he gave me the £50 after suggesting he could actually call the police as I was technically blackmailing him…I invited him to do that also but reminded him that it’d just be easier if he gave me the £50 fucking quid and not have to deal with the hassle of trying to reclaim the funds, which I assured him I wouldn’t pay, and he’d have to go through all the legal tooing and froing of taking an impoverished and possibly criminal student to court for the sake of a few pounds- they’ve been quite good.

Essentially I picked up the wrong chequebook to pay a credit card bill. I use a cheque once a month for this purpose and it just so happened I accidentally picked up the chequebook for an account I never, ever use. Of course, there are no funds in it so they charge me £38 fucking green queens for it’s being bounced. Thirty-Eight! I am contesting this fee on the basis that, as I never use the account and the same amount of money goes to the same source every fucking month they are responsible of alerting me when strange activity occurs in the account I never fucking use, they have a duty of care for fraudulent behaviour so someone would’ve noticed that, suddenly, an amount of money, the same fucking amount of money paid every cunting fucking month from the account I always use to the same source, but from a dormant account, was a bit ‘odd’.

They then said they’d call me after I initially complained, they didn’t, I just get a standard letter informing me they’d tried to call me, which is an out and out lie. I’ve been in the office for the past 2 days and my staff were alerted to the fact I was expecting a call, and they’d looked into the matter, the matter I’d not even fucking explained yet, and that they were charging me Thirty Eight fucking quid.

Here is transcript of the conversation. (Please note recipient of this call had a Yorkshire accent, this in itself is divisive as it’s reckoned that this particular regional accent is regarded as the most ‘friendly’. I agree actually. I digress)

“Good Morning Na…”
“Manager, now please”
“Can I as…”
“Piqued, *insert account number here*. Manager. Now”
“Hello, Mr…”
“You the Manager?”
“No, sir, I’m the …”
“Manager please…”
“The Manager is…”
“…dead, is he? Unless he is I want him on the phone, now”
“There is no need for that sort…”
“Yes there fucking is, you charging me…”
*click. brrrrrrrrrr*

I can’t be fucked to call back, I’ll write a stinking letter and attempt blackmail again, they make enough money from me as it is, I’ve no intention of paying the fee, if I have to transfer funds to a new bank I’ll ensure that I’ll leave them £38 in arrears and they can take it up with the beak.

Right, the Friday list and a chewn (sort of, watch it to the end, makes me feel a certain degree of warmth for the English bobby) and a desire that you have splendid weekends.

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Fuck cycling in this morning, the sky looks like an old ladies hair. No bicycle, you stay in, me and black bitch are going together, yeah… fuck you.

After a strangely busy and not entirely wasted day in the office, I peddled home like a cunt and hung out in my flat for a while -pottering like the old lady under the hair I just mentioned- prior to getting on the tube and alighting at London Bridge.

I strolled through the city to a hostelry to meet IC. She’s been summoned there by her ex-work colleagues to send her off with gifts and heartfelt thanks as I nattered cheerily to her past and supped a remarkably well-kept pint of IPA.

After some fond farewells we took the bus to a pizza place on Columbia Road. We’d been there before and I may have already extolled its virtues. The pizzas are discreetly reckoned to be the best in London and I heartily concur, they are fucking enormous, spanning well over a foot in diameter, and idiotically tasty. I opted for the Quattro Stagioni, which was so fucking brilliant I’ll never, ever order any other sort of pizza in this eatery again, ever, the base is hand thrown and the topping fresher than a nippers piddle. I ate most of it with my eyeballs rolling about their sockets in sheer ecstasy, IC had something else, it doesn’t matter what, it wasn’t Quattro Stagioni.

I don’t want this illustrious pile of tish and fipsy to resort to some sort of pseudo political commentary following on from my Cameron rant yesterday but a quick word on the fucking Pope. This really got my goat (ironically eh Satanists)

Less than a week ago Pope Nazi the Thirdreich apologised for decades of sexual abuse of children by priests. He counted this with a genius oxymoron by declaring that paedophilia was “incompatible” with being a priest. If it’s that “incompatible” why are so many Catholic priests fiddling with kids you fucking twit.

In today’s news its been reported that the Pope has attacked popular culture and consumerism. Apparently it’s not good to smoke or drink as it damages the fabric of society and he goes on to condone TV entertainment thus: “could anyone standing face to face with people who actually do suffer violence and sexual exploitation explain that these tragedies, portrayed in virtual form, are considered merely entertainment?” Were all these abusing priests watching TV and smoking and drinking then? I don’t think so…

For decades (make that hundreds) of years the Catholic priests have been sexually abusing children, hundred and thousands of them. This is a fact. Abusing children is just about as low as a human being can sink, it’s made even worse by the fact that the priest has taken advantage of his benevolent position as a supposed protector and defender of the weak and vulnerable and used it to commit an act in direct opposition of his intended purpose. This is unadulterated evil.

Watching fucking TV, having a tab and a pint isn’t, you prick.


No drink, no drugs, last night was more boring than a beige stapler –actually, if you were to actually manufacture beige staplers and market them in the right circles they’d probably be quite cool, so that metaphor probably failed. The fact remains intact.

Making it worse was that I cycled in and out of work so by the time I began to eat broccoli in the evening I felt like Tim Henman or Sebastian Coe, a sport-cunt frankly. My woes were exacerbated when, through sheer boredom, I decided to adjust my beloved face furniture and nicked off half a bugger grip, subsequent adjustment resulted in my having no bugger grips, chin strap or underlip stamp, just a huge potato with sad brown eyes blinking back at me.

Despite looking and feeling like David Cameron the desire to neck a bottle of wine, drop a dove and smoke myself into Dylan I managed to switch on my PC and wank it all away. Then I had a glass of water and watched TV.

My only small saviour in all of this was tobacco. David Bowie once said that quitting smoking is harder than giving up smack, never having had to give up smack (despite trying it once by accident) I can only imagine how hard it is to give up smack, as quitting the tabs seems insurmountable. Last night roll ups became more than just ‘something I do’ and transmogrified into ‘treat’ status.

I’ve a deadline hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles and I need to get on but I’ve the most excellent reward lined up for myself this evening in the form of IC, dinner and sweet, sweet Horse, I mean, wine.

Oh Speaking of David Cameron, you fucking racist tit-witted cunt, for Christ sake, dear reader, New Labour may be a bumbling arsehole but to make genuine racist comments such as the filth that spewed from the mouth of that over privileged abortion must render them as wholly unelectable? We may be having a 1970’s economy but to resort to the awful days of 1970’s racism is beyond the fucking pail. In my opinion he should be arrested and charged for inciting racial hatred, such comments can lead directly to fucking riots. Mark my words, the Tories get into power and you’ll see the rivers of blood Enoch Powell predicted, not for the reasons he cited but for the attitude that wrote the speech.

say tan

On the way to the pub last night I saw Cunt and his ‘family’. I think he’s feeding off his emaciated partner, she now resembles a skeleton with hair and he’s looking all chubby and shit. The fucking wanker.

He was carrying bags of shopping (mainly pizza boxes and beer the fucking prick) and informed me that he’d been shopping as if I was incapable of identifying Sainsbury’s carrier bags bulging with mainly pizza boxes and beer, and then said ‘we’re food lovers’. No, you’re not a ‘food lover’ you bloated lazy parasite; you’re an insipid worthless cough, a blood clot, a fucking disease that could only benefit humanity with its demise. You eat shit, you love shit, you fucking shit.

I had a quick drink with Frank and slouched home wondering what delights would erupt from under my feet when I returned home. The usual depressing noise levels of GTO 4 (daddy bought the fucking tool a PS3, he deserves it, right kids) as I tried to watch a programme on The Qur’an, which was superb I hasten to add. At 10 I was treated to a barbaric combination of toneless shouting and what sounded like broken church bells being hit with a piano as his kid screamed it’s head off in the next room. I took myself off into the kitchen and opened my heart to the possibility of some sort of divine being that could snuff out the existence of human poo poo.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m in reasonable cheer, cycled in today which was actually rather ‘pleasentish’, busy at work but beyond care and about to eat some fresh sandwiches of my own doing. And I have a bag of Quavers.

And a gun.

Manna from heaven


I cycled into work this morning. I’ve not done that since last autumn and it came as somewhat as a shock to my fragile system. As I type this I’m shaking, I feel nauseous and I think I’ve become gay.

When I left the flat this morning I ignored the fact that I had a black bitch with a fat engine happy to whisk me about space in effortless joy and opted for the velocipede, which requires undivided physical exertion. It’s a Monday, I don’t want this on a fucking Monday but as it was sunny and bright and I’d completely run out of excuses as to why I shouldn’t cycle I reluctantly bumped the bike down the stairs and wobbled off to work buoyed on by my desire to stave off the icy hand of premature death.

The council have been fucking about with the towpath; I was actually amazed I arrived here without seeing a limb sticking out of bin liner. The once pretty hedgerows and shrubs have been razed to the ground and replaced by stinking weeds and tarmac. I peddled on relentlessly knowing my goal would be a boiling hot office and the feeling that I might faint or be sick.

I was returning from a jolly lovely weekend. I met IC in a boozer in Shoreditch following the misery of the working week and, despite the rain, ambled cheerfully about the East End, initially to visit a gallery, and then to indulge in some delicious Vietnamese fare with lashings of wine.

After sleeping like the dead on Saturday we visited a splendid café for brunch followed by Dalston market, which is more vibrant than a multicoloured vibrator, and not without a hint of stale female secretions about it to boot, where I procured a small non-stick, frying for under 3 quid. The decision to go to Camden market is steeped in controversy, it was rammed full of young cunts but despite this I managed to score a black t-shirt shirt before we cramped back to the flat on the tube for a lightening wash and scrub up.

Tem minutes later we were back on the (over ground) tube with James headed slowly towards Shepherds Bush, we three had a date. With Rock.

Gee was already waiting for us outside The Stinging Nettle pub when we arrived after a long shite journey and we happily slurped beers and Barcardi’s in the warm evening sunshine until it was time for our appointment. With Rock.

The Shepherds Bush Empire was already heaving when we eventually entered. It was actually quite simple getting booze and making it to the bogs but the throngs hindered our progress to a decent spot in which to view the band. The Fields of The Nephilim were playing 2 sold out concerts in 2 consecutive evenings, cheerlessly riding high on the wave of nostalgia-rock they’d split the gigs into ‘old’ and ‘new’ which was a tad misleading. Despite not really being loud enough they did an okay set, it was let down by the opening half and gradually improved as they went on highlighting magnificently twice.

We arrived home with fast food and snacks and spent the remainder of the evening playing music whilst James flew his son’s mini helicopter about my flat; at 2-ish we were all done and crept to bed sated.

James left before lunch on Sunday. IC and I ate kippers for breakfast/lunch and, following the Moto GP, readied ourselves for a sunny motorcycle ride. For a good hour she and I tore up the Surrey countryside arriving sweating on Box Hill for a cup of tea and fag. We zipped home via my parents for more tea and fags and after dumping the bike and kit nipped over the road for a jar.

We ate grilled marinated king prawns and salad for our tea, it was ridiculously good for something that was healthy and relatively simple to prepare and rounded the evening off watching Vertigo which was a bit like the gig in metaphorical terms.

Still not sure if I’m going to be sick.

I still want one of these…

weakend cumming

I’m really sorry, up to my pills in it again. Enough time to cut and paste the Friday list which I’ve no time to edit and to wish you all delicious weekends.

(something weird with WordPress at the mo, there is usually 3 times this many in the list and my stats have gone down the pan in a way that suggestes they’ve changed something…)

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It’s been like Blade Runner down here for the past few days, permanent fucking rain but without flying vehicles, video posters of oriental girls taking drugs and Harrison Ford, actually… no, definitely without Harrison Ford.

Work is stultifying dull but also immensely pressured in a sort of casual disinterested way, like someone nonchalantly chatting to you about the state of the economy whilst gently rubbing a 6 inch bread knife over the top of your penis. Obviously this intensifies somewhat when the boss calls and demands an update on something I’ve been unable to update, I’m then forced to blabber virtually incoherent excuses that I punctuate with moronic optimism until he goes away sated by confusion. It’s fucking horrid, really.

Last night was clement but dull. I selected the way of abstinence, it’s been a week, and I gorged myself on the corned beef hash n’ veg delight which, I’ve concluded, is heavier than Stonehenge. I think I’ll take a short break from it for fear of having to be winched onto the loo by a Sea King Helicopter.

Before settling down to gawp at the box I found myself in full domestic trance making my own sandwiches for today’s lunch. The action took place under the spell of Front Row on Radio 4 and judging by the package I had to carry from the fridge to my rucksack this morning I may have over done it. It’s the size of a human head.

Oh, watched Saw 4 last night, it’s relentless crap but I was being held down to the sofa by my swollen guts and made it to the end. I was going to write a review of it on WWM but it would be a pointless exercise, I absorbed none of it and despite my sobriety can’t even be arsed to bother remembering what actually happened.

This is ace.

wind n’ rayne

Well there goes summer then, it’s been pissing it down solidly since the wee hours, It’s still doing it now, the selfish bastard.

Yesterday was dull; despite being exhausted I worked hard after putting up the self-referential wallowings… but to no avail. It’s deader in here than Rod Hull. The boss is on holiday in Portugal, he may was well be in Glasgow on the brink of being beaten up and raped for all the good it’s doing him, he’s on the phone every 5 minutes checking up on progress, I can virtually hear the veins throbbing in his neck as he relentlessly discovers that business is about as healthy Bhopal.

I staggered home ravaged and sorted my flat out; it felt odd being in there, like someone else’s place or at best, a familiar hotel suite. I’ve been spending so much time in the East End lately, feeling all the better for it I hasten to add, that my part of London doesn’t really give me that kick anymore, not that it did in the first place actually.

At 7-ish Lana came over. I’d not seen her in an age as she lives in Switzerland with her husband who is in the porn business, not in a cock way I hasten to add. We walked off to get a curry in a little eatery down the road. Aside from the pub and the tube this place is the only thing going for my area, why did I buy there, why?

Anyway, the food in this gaff is always marvellous; it’s south Indian so it doesn’t feel like you’re eating chilli lava that will blow your gristle through the porcelain the following day. We conversed about our comings and goings over supper and a bottle of Kingfisher then popped back to the flat for a quick smoke before Lana departed into the night.

I watched the last Criminal Justice which I reviewed on WWM (link à)and had a gin and tonic trying to remain awake. I’m looking forward to doing fuck all tonight I really am, I’m going to make a fucking pile of corned beef hash n’ veg and spend the night watching TV in my pants, clutching my belly and burping. And farting if I get a look in.

Oh, thank god, the boss is on the phone.


Did some more stand up last night. It would seem that the first one did go fucking well as this wasn’t as smooth. Audience right in my face, mic a bit too quiet (for me anyway) and, to be honest, not really given enough notice to shoehorn new material into an already fledgling act. I learnt fucking loads though and the headliner who I won’t namedrop was extremely complimentary. He, incidentally, was superb. Nothing nasty or shouty, just a funny decent chap with stunning delivery and splendid material.

I was given notice of my second gig on Thursday afternoon; the information fell into my inbox like a peanut studded turd. This cast a watery glow on my splendid weekend, it didn’t ruin it by any means, it just meant that every so often ones stomach would revolve, by Sunday evening it was most certainly at the forefront of my thoughts and the yester day evaporated into the concerns of the evening.

I spent the weekend in Hackney with IC, it was completely relaxed and, like my fucking gig, unrehearsed. Serendipity, well, contained within a simple format of sorts. Dinner on Friday with IC, lunch with Swineshead and his missus on Saturday… despite the food hovering below the ‘adequate’ bar and abstinence all round it was much fun and drinks in the evening with friends, one of whom is inked by the same fellow what done my arm, yeah, heralded the end of the ‘oh it’s not for ages’ phase of the impending stand up.

Sunday was a little tougher, the ‘oh it’s not until tomorrow’ motto was weakly lauded about my frazzled cortex, the nerves were beginning to poke through. IC and I took a lovely walk by the Thames from London Bridge to The Hayward Gallery to see Psycho Buildings which was largely an expensive disappointment. In the future The Hayward can fuck off actually; in all the years I’ve been going there I’ve never seen anything truly memorable except vast receipts for not much.

We walked back through some sort of lively Brazilian Festival and saw that bloke from ‘how to look good naked’ sucking so heavily on a cigarette the air before him was curved. I passed on the spontaneous urge to show him my goods and IC and I walked back in the drizzle/sunshine combo to the bus stop and took the 55 to a pub we know of in Shorditch. The evening wound down in front of The Mist (jolly good actually) which helped to take my mind off what occurred last night, sort of…

…Don’t get me wrong; I got quite a few laughs. Just don’t think the crucifixion and cancer gags didn’t hit home.

On to the next.


…Nothing from me today apart from this, I’m busy and, well, I’ve something going down yeah


Quick Piqued today for similar reasons as outlined yesterday…

Look, don’t get the wrong end of the stick, things are fine over here… Actually, I’ve not been this good in fucking ages. It’s just the whole making-money-to-live side of this has become a little more pertinent and in addition to that some other non-work related stuff has come up that requires my attention, but it’s all good though. SO CHILL THE FUCK OUT OKAY.

There may be a P on Monday as much as there may not. Secondly, I may have a mild hangover, thirdly, I need a shit.

Just had a shit.

I spent the entire day ‘working from home’, actually ‘working from home’ not in the euphemistic sense which implies spending the entire day crouched over myself a blur of fist and cockflesh making all spunks fly about mine head, no. I actually fucking worked. I suppose in a way it’s enlightened self interest, admittedly the PC’s weren’t firing on all cylinders in the office so working from home wasn’t really an option, but to have a marginally successful day working from home thereby proving to the boss I wasn’t spending the entire day crouched over myself a blur of fist and cockflesh making all spunks fly about mine head means I may be able to ‘work from home’ more often, perhaps even giving me the chance, should I want it, to spend the entire day crouched over myself a blur of fist and cockflesh making all spunks fly about mine head. And having thunderous shits without upsetting the bosses wife.

Before I leave for the weekend, which looks dead exciting by the way, I have to quickly mention Cunt. Firstly he’s played the same song, I mean the exact same song over and over and over and over and over and over again for the last 3 days, admittedly, it’s not that loud, but I can hear it, over and over, that’s night right is it? It’s not is it?

Secondly, his kid and emaciated partner are here. I never hear her, ever, but I hear the kid crying and last night in the kitchen I heard Cunt deal with the crying kid. Kid was crying, Cunt loudly went BWOOHAAAA HA at it, really loudly, so the kid really starts screaming and I heard him thump off to another room. That’s not right? Is it me?

Finally, last night I was the grim witness to the sounds of him fucking. Again, no word from here, just him really making a big song and dance about having a fuck with someone who is clearly ill. On what I presume was ejaculation he actually went ‘woo-hoo’ and he continued to go ‘woo-hoo’ at 15 second intervals for the next 5 minutes.

Did I tell you he reads The Mirror by the way?

There cannot be a God.

Isn’t Guy Ritchie a tit.