Monthly Archives: August 2008


Before I came into work I had the misfortune of listening to The Reunion on Radio 4.

It’s put me in the most awful mood. A bunch of ‘mad’ public school boys headed by Sir Ran (that’s what everyone called him for fucks sake, actually it was more ‘Rhan’) Fiennes. Full name Sir Ranulph Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes, 3rd Baronet OBE, decided to go orf on an advent-eear for three yars crawsing tha Antarteek by fut n skidoo, what.

Basically, from Wikipedia… ‘In 1979, adventurers Ranulph Fiennes and Charles Burton set out to make the first circumpolar navigation, travelling the world “vertically” traversing both of the poles. Starting from Greenwich in the United Kingdom, they went south, arriving at the South Pole on December 17, 1980. Over the next 14 months, they went north again, reaching the North Pole on April 11, 1982. Travelling south once more, they arrived again in Greenwich on August 29, 1982.’

I couldn’t even be arsed to read that btw.

Oh, Prince Charles was involved in all of this. Always one for the most pointless and vacuous is Charles. Complete waste of Tartan. As soon as they got into any sort of trouble PC would call up a ‘rich chum’ (yep, I am quoting believe it or not) and have shit airlifted to them. I don’t remember Captain Oates asking for a helicopter to be filled with centrally heated bungalows when he was ‘just going outside’, because that’s what the Transglobe Expedition team got (probably).

Either way the whole fucking thing is pointless…Tell you what, I’m going to do the same journey but with my foreskin pulled back for the whole trip. Yes, you heard it here first. No one nick my idea. It’s as pointless as what ‘Ran’ and his Champagne Charlie mates did. They achieved nothing save fucking pissing me off and shooting a polar bear.

Right, home news. I can’t be arsed with the Friday List anymore, it may make an appearance in the future but for now it’s just too depressing. No You Tube feature today, I’m too busy to source anything, but to make up for it there is an article I wrote on WWM (link right) about Jodie Marsh.

Finally, IC is back this weekend, which is marvellous. Catch you guy (s) on Wednesday yeah


*snaps fingers*

*spins on heel*

*saunters off*

*gets hit by Prince Charles on a skidoo*


I’d had a bit of an ‘over on Wednesday morning so I had a night off the sauce last night, that’s 3 times in a week I’ve not drunk, that’s a record. Having said that on the days I was drinking I wasn’t hanging about, still, it shows I’ve a handle on the fucker. My old man always said you’ll deny yourself the joys of booze if you abuse it, he’s quite right of course. There is this chap down the end of my road; from dawn to dusk he sits on a bench drinking White Lightening. Not only is he clearly unhappy, lonely, filthy etc., he’s barking mad. That must be the bitterest of blows, to go insane and not enjoy the benefits of madness -shrieking into the night, laughing manically at shadows, waving your penis with impunity- just wind up sat down, occasionally bellow abuse at passing busses but mainly just muttering to yourself as you stare at the growing puddle of spittle at your feet.

After doing some back exercises, Christ they’re tiresome but effective, I had a bath and made some supper which was a very basic meat and two veg affair with some fucking water. I’d planned to watch this miserable German movie ‘Requiem’ until it occurred to me that not only had I seen it before it was just too much to stomach sober, it’s relentlessly depressing and as much fun as putting ones genitals on the hob.

I was saved by The Ipcress Files. It’s a film I started to watch many a time but couldn’t remember beyond Michael Caine meeting his superior, the chap who said he was going to ‘bite him hard’ (the same chap played that sergeant in Zulu who when asked by a private, ‘why us, Sir?’ replied, ‘because we’re ‘ere lad.’) and Caine nonchalantly whipping up some eggs for this bit of skirt.

If nothing else the film is a fascinating look at London in the late 60’s, its a London I can just about recall, just, when the streets were half full of Mini’s, Ford Zephyr’s, the contemporary Routemaster bus and black cabs. Men did wear bowler hats, polished leather soled brogues and walked with a cane, the buildings were covered in a film of grime -which no one misses- and black and grey parking meters and red telephone boxes were iconic features, and respected as such, the flora and fauna of the city if you will.

It’s a slow moving affair with limited bursts of energy but utterly delicious, apart from the awful 60’s bit near the end (I’m not spoiling this). I enjoyed it so much that I’m prepared to say, despite its age it’s the best film I’ve seen all year. This piece was going to be in WWM (link right) but its tone doesn’t really suit; I’ve nothing vile to say on the topic.

I’m off out for a drink with Frank tonight I’ve decided, then home to watch more of The Wire. Oh, firing a shot across your bows as they say, it’ll be a short P tomoz because of fucking meetings and then nothing from me until probably Wednesday.


Short one today.

Got in late because my back is being a fucking twit. Must’ve taken me ten minutes to get from the horizontal to the vertical with my spine clicking away like a fucking typewriter. I’m seeing someone tonight to have it ballsed about with.

During this pathetic process of my getting up, something that has been bugging me for a while resolved itself.

Now don’t get me wrong here, I’m as clueless as to why I was even thinking about this as much as I am the protagonist of the thought, particularly as I was wrestling with my knackered back bones at the time.

Allow me. Napoleon Cockaparte, with whom I did the podcast last weekend with Swineshead and Chipz, spent most of the day trying to remind us of a promo for Eastenders with some song about ‘girls’… He even sings it at the end of said broadcast, do have a listen to it because you’re gonna love this.

I’ve no idea why but as I was trying to slide my disc, hanging out like a dogs tongue in hot weather, back into its vertebrae I suddenly remembered that not only had I seen the promo in question but the song actually goes like this…

Unfortunately the ensuing laughter caused me so much pain I nearly fainted/shat myself on the spot undoing some of wonderful feeling of conceited joy it’d brought me.


I woke on Saturday with a massive hangover. I’d been out with Frank and his missus the previous evening and had decided to continue when I got home. Cunt wasn’t in and I wanted to take advantage of the situation.

Apart from music I was spurred on by the fact that we won that fucking contract. According to the client it was very, very close, I’m fairly sure that if it wasn’t for his efforts on our behalf I’d be ringing round estate agencies trying to sell my flat. It’s a massive relief. Piqued will subsequently continue.

At 10.30am Frank and I met outside Wimbledon station in our best bib and tucker, it was a lovely day, sunny, warm without being contentious and despite the ‘over and my lack of IC I was in good spirits. We took the train to Clandon, a little village near Guildford and walked to a sprawling national trust property, a stately Georgian Mansion in beautiful landscaped grounds, this was to be the venue for the wedding. My reader may recall the stag do I went on in May in which I got all shot up with paint ball pellets? Today was the reason for its taking place.

I knew a couple of the guests, the chaps from the stag effort, a doctor friend and her partner I’d not seen in while, bride and groom of course, but that was essentially it. Aching from the hangover I happily indulged in some hairs of the dog that bit me and nibbled on some canapés, in twenty minutes I was back to my old self. Pissed.

After chatting to some of the guests we were ushered inside for the ceremony which was undertaken in a huge drawing room flanked with 16th century tapestries. It may have had something to do with the champagne but the wedding ceremony was genuinely moving, actually, it was nothing short of lovely. The bride and groom really are the nicest two people you could hope to meet and this was reflecting in the reaction and warmth of friends and family. I’d also like to say how nice it is these days to see a couple getting married free from the hell-fire guff of religion and priests.

More booze happened before we went back in for lunch. On the way to the dining room we invited to meet and greet the couple and their immediate family. I tried to hide the fact that I was a little tipsy, I think I got away with it despite telling the brides mum her daughter had a gorgeous neck and telling the grooms father his son was beautiful.

As Frank and I were without our respective partners we were put on a table with people in the same circumstances. We made a lively crowd us seven and all got on famously; the food was delicious, melon and Parma ham for starters with roast chicken for main and the wine flowed merrily. By the time the speeches kicked off half the guests were well and truly lubricated but in a civilised manner, of course. This made for an emotional and funny half hour, all the words spoken hit their intended targets, even the best mans speech was entertaining. I don’t want to over sentimentalise this but the whole shebang was quite perfect.

The bar opened and we went outside to smoke and carry on with our conversations which by now had become a series of comedy vignettes. Tequila happened, more wine, more jokes, I was forced to dance after the bride and groom put on a very well rehearsed display of salsa which seemed more than appropriate.

Frank and I had made a pact that we weren’t going to outstay our welcome and left at 9-ish, just at the right time I think. We said a fond farewell to the beaming couple and friends and headed back on the train home. Our carriage was empty to we had a few rounds of tube-tag much to our amusement and bemusement of those peering in from adjacent carriages. Marvellous.

The day had completely cheered me up so I continued to celebrate when I got home at 10-ish. I vaguely recall listening to some music… I woke up on Sunday lunchtime on my landing fully clothed feeling like death.

Since then, apart from one visit to the pub for a post wedding drink with Frank, I’ve been at my desk writing. The book, which I began a few years ago, has been trawled over in recent months and I think I’ve finished it. I’ll start sending it out next week.

IC is back next weekend too which splendid.

Oh, last weekend Swineshead, Chipz, Napoleon Cockaparte and I made a podcast in between bouts of drinking and shouting. The fruits of our labour can be heard by clicking on the WWM link to the right. I shall leave it up to you to form your own opinions of the outcome.


After a week of pedo airport tennis, Gary Glitter is now finally safe and sound on British shores. If there was a god he’d have been on that plane heading to Gran Canaria on Tuesday. Actually, if there was a god there would be no Gary Glitter, or plane crash for that matter.

When I was kid Mr. Glitter was a well-loved popular star, he was a bit chubby, not particularly pretty, frankly he was a bit crap but his vivacity and dynamism carried him through and most charmingly, his tongue seemed to reside in his cheek. If only it had stayed there.

Mums liked Gary Glitter, he was harmless, apparently, an asexual sort of creature, all pouting and sequins and volume, everything about him appeared loud but we knew it wasn’t really loud. It was just Gary Glitter showing off.

When he got caught with those pics of nippers the nation wasn’t just collectively horrified, it felt as if it had been in someway let down. Gary, believe it or not, was a national treasure. But, however abhorrent, there is a fundamental difference between looking at pictures of nippers and actually raping them. Whilst Jonathan King and Chris Langham feel the collective public disgust at the images they were viewing on their computers (how on earth Pete Townsend managed to escape the wrath and stigma of doing the same thing is beyond me) they are merely despised, Glitter revolts and disgusts us. He’s hated pond-life.

He would’ve never disassociated himself from the stigma of looking at child p*rn but to then cynically take himself off to place where impoverished children are exploited by westerners with impunity, for the sole purpose of engaging in these despicable acts, puts him into a new category of uber-arrogance. It’s almost as if he was thinking that if he’d been tarred with the pedo brush he may as well get stuck in.

The Cambodian authorities ejected him for his crimes, though he wasn’t punished for them. Like Jonathan King who perpetually squeals his ‘innocence’, Glitter could’ve done the same thing, we wouldn’t have believed him of course but if he played it right (‘they were taking advantage of my reputation for which I’ve atoned, I done nothing!’) there would be significant doubt that would label him ‘disgraced’ rather than ‘vile’, even ‘evil’.

But no. This pathetic beast takes himself off to Vietnam where he’s caught red handed raping two little girls, he’s given a pathetically inadequate sentence and the rest, as they say, is history.

When I heard of him faking a heart attack as he was being deported from the country into which he’d brought so much misery, I couldn’t help thinking of the old dynamic Gary back in the 70’s pointing and mugging at the camera, though I wasn’t laughing. I felt sick. The pathetic little wanker trying to induce pathos by rolling around in an airport lounge, clutching his chest, reaching out for someone, a fan? before he faces the vicious teeth of the gutter press in London.

The coward couldn’t face us in the UK and tried to take himself off to other Asian countries with less than adequate records on the protection of vulnerable kids muttering something about reviving his career, but they wouldn’t have him. Instead of being known as the disgraced former pop star Gary Glitter who was charged and convicted for looking at illegal pictures of kids in England, he’s now despised the world over as predatory paedophile.

I’m glad we get the shit. We can keep an eye on him, the press will hound him to his grave, that’ll be the only gang he’ll lead these days. Even as he enters Heathrow he can’t resist smiling as if he’s the prodigal son is being welcomed back into the bosom of his family, he seems to relish being in the limelight at whatever cost. He’s still hoping that out there just one fan will show him that it’s still 1970, and everything is alright.

It’s not mate, you arrogant, pedo cunt.


On awaking this morn I became aware that I couldn’t actually move. ‘Blow me down’, I cheerfully ruminated, ‘I appear to be in a bit of a to-do’.

Problem is, you see, that my ruddy back had decided to, like, make like an explosive and fuse, yeah. Recalling the instructions of how to deal with this (and it isn’t to scream ‘fucking Jesus fucking Christ’ and break all your fingers punching your skull, that would be uncouth) I loosened it up enough to be able to get my sorry botty out of the bed and (literally) hit the floor.

After rolling onto my back which caused me to profane somewhat, I used my brain and skill and worked the bastard back bones to a point I was comfortable enough to consider basic human movement as opposed to that of upturned tortoise. Shortly after I made it from the horizontal to the vertical and from there successfully onto my feet, actually, I did quite a good job on myself (not wanking) and as I type this the rubbish bone-string feels alright.

Yesterday was dreadful at work, it’s not much better today actually, some staff members have realised that the contract decision effects them too and they’ve withdrawn into themselves like crustaceans. Last night wasn’t dreadful, I’m mid way through this lack of IC business which lifted my spirits, and some writing I’ve been doing for a while is beginning to give me something back. I opened some wine and after speaking to IC, some spaghetti for supper (the (fresh) tomato sauce was slowly roasted for three hours, fuck it was good) and an episode of The Wire I listened to The Gutter Twins, I listened to it two and a half times in a row.

I’m with a mild hangover and I need to take a plops, here have some of the good shit I was doing last night…

Go on, take it…


We’ve now sent the final, final, final, fucking tender out for this bloody contract. We’ll know next week so I’m now due to spend the bank holiday weekend in a state of pseudo relaxation, my calm thoughts perpetually pervaded by wet thoughts of riffling boggle-eyed through bank statements, pounding a sweaty digit into a calculator before concluding that, even if I sell my flat, my black bitch and bottom, I’m so fucked as to consider getting hold of a shooter and giving the Crown Jewel Caper a rattle. She won’t miss ‘em. Gawd bless ‘er.

And lets say the spine matter is really serious, I need to pay for treatment, perhaps even a fucking wheelchair. I’m doomed, destined to spend the rest of my days shacked up in a crack-den eating Aldi Bakes Beans, my role in the household, in which I’m bullied and beaten daily, is as a mule for the drugs and guns stashed in the seat of the chair. Who would suspect the Baked Bean-eating tramp with the beanie hat, piss-stained jogging pants and yellow ‘I shot JR’ tee shirt? Who?

The police that’s who. I’m to be taken down to Paddington Green nick and brutally questioned for 48 hours, put on remand for 3 months before being found guilty and sentenced to 20 years in Wandsworth nick when they discover one of the weapons killed Madeline McCann. I’m put into isolation for my own safety but the prison wardens turn a blind eye on a regular basis when I’m wheeled down to the shower block screaming for my life and, after having my balls stomped on by Razor Kray (aka the Dalston Pit Bull), flung from my moorings and spit roasted until I pass out.

Last night I saw a documentary on Daniel Johnson, it was fascinating. In addition to being too mad for the Butthole Surfers he once had all of Sonic Youth out looking for him following an episode. He’s lucky; Sonic Youth can’t help me now. Well, maybe a bit.


My fucking back is up the spout again. It’s been a bit shitty for a few months if I’m honest with myself but like most things that border on the serious, I’m very good at ignoring it. Something trivial and you won’t hear the end of it. Did I mention the hangnail? Horrific.

I decided yesterday that I had to go and get it checked out as it was fucking smarting. I think my experiences with the chiropractor pre-date this blog but I’m sure I’ve harped on about it… Anyhoo, I needed a place near to work and decided to try an osteopath, for a laugh like.

The fundamental differences between the two practitioners is simple, the former cracks and snaps the latter massages and presses. But that’s it. Both, cost the same, each feel the other is less competent and you always require more than one fucking session. It’s the rules.

The other thing I forgot about these characters is that one is required to strip down to ones shreddies. I hadn’t taken this into mind when I booked the session and boldly declared I couldn’t care less if the practitioner was burbling purple sea-creature, so long as they could make the fucking pain stop, I was indifferent.

Stood there is my less than adequate underpanties with a piss o wet patch, my gentlemans’ crushed into the shape of a shoplifters fist and still in my socks featuring a single toe window, I’d concluded that I’d looked better, especially as my spine was doing most of the alphabet every time I so much as breathed.

She didn’t half bang on this bird. I just wanted her to get on with it, not teach me fucking exercises for later, I needed her to sort out the problem, this session was costing me 45 bloody quid for stuff I could find online! Then she mentioned a single awful word that stopped me dead in my mental vitriol. ‘Scan’. I ignored it, the idea of having anything to do with, even a precursor to, back-surgery is more awful than the thought of David Cameron being immortal. During the examination (which was quite a relief) and after, she kept using the ‘s’ word. Apparently, my fucking spine is a lot more fucked up that I’d been led to believe.

If you think I sound gullible, that this was a ploy to empty more of my precious coffers she also pointed out the NHS would do the whole fucking lot for free, gladly. Apparently it was better that way because it’s cheaper than paying for a chair-bound cripple.

Ignoring all this and the pending loss of my job, flat and marbles I skipped off into town to meet Urban Woo and some chums to do a pub quiz. Chuckles and beer, just what I needed, I rounded off the night with some intellectual chit chat after discovering we’d come second (only because we didn’t know the fucking lyrics to boy/girl bands, thank god) and got back on the tube in time to arrive home for 10.30pm. For the first time in over a week I exchanged actual spoken words on the ‘phone with IC which cheered me immensely and settled down for the remainder of the evening with Family Guy and then something I couldn’t quite see unless one of my eyes was closed.

a gathering

By anyone’s standard’s, especially Oliver Reed or Dylan Thomas, I had quite a boozy weekend. So much so I decided to take Sunday off. A day of kippers, roast dinners, MotoGP and sofas. Recuperation.

My weekend started well despite the horrors of the day. Putting all that shit behind me I met Frank in the pub for a pair of ales before coming home and gorging ourselves on corned beef bubble n’ squeak and dropping tins of beer like they were fucking biscuits. In our enlightened state we found the best course of action was to view a bunch of videos on you tube of people watching Two Girls and One Finger, something I’ve no intention of doing especially after watching people physically reacting to what they were seeing by spontaneously vomiting. Frank and I could barely breathe we were laughing so much.

I woke at Saturday feeling shocking. I aided myself with bacon, eggs, sausage, mushroom and toast before setting off to the Sainsbury to pick up some essentials, I wandered about the store like I’d had a stroke but basically achieved what I’d set out to do. Mercifully by the time I met Frank at the tube by 3.30 I was on the mend.

Regular readers of this garbage will know of a chap called Napoleon Cockaparte, he has a permanent link to his blog on the right of this and is regular contributor of Watch With Mothers. Readers will also be aware that at times he and I have engaged so to speak.

Frank and I arrived at Russell Square and met NC and SH in a pub. After a few ales we slipped into NC’s hotel and spent a couple of hours jabbering on about suchwhat and then went back into the evening to collect more beer and some fucking awful Italian food. Ironically (regulars should know why) NC’s Penne all’Arrabbiata was sensational (!), but I ate one of the worst Quattro Stagioni’s I’ve ever had. In stark contrast to last weeks post when I had one of the best, this thing wouldn’t pass for ‘Italian pizza’ anymore than I would El Duce. SH’s choice seemed to be adequate as well but Frank drew the joker, it was literally inedible, a sort of jumble of fried polenta (Jesus help us) a sausage made of pigs udders and some tinned broad beans all plonked onto some shit crockery.

If nothing else it sated our appetite and enabled us to continue drinking. We arrived at some huge bar with an outdoors where we happily drank, smoked and chatted. A hen night party turned up, on my way to getting some more ales I wished the bride to be ‘good luck’ but it unintentionally came out as ‘good luck, bwarr hahahaha’, which didn’t go down at all well and I spent the rest of the night subject to steely glares from her fucking mother and coven of hens. I was beyond care, I moved on to whisky and gingers, SH and NC insisted I miss my tube and kindly promised me some cash in order to absorb the costs of getting a cab. By closing time, 1, or something, we were asked to leave but as we were going NC, pint still in hand, knocked over a bar stool which provoked the staff.

Outside now, NC was curtly asked to give back the glass, which was still half full of beer. This didn’t go down well. The staff came out of the bar to watch NC drink his pint as he spat considered objections in their direction much to the amusement of SH and I. Suddenly one of the staff exploded in rage, ‘you’re a mother fucking cunt!’ this prick yelled. Needless to say NC was les than impressed by being called a ‘mother fucking cunt’ and the staff member was bundled back into the bar by some of the staff for his own safety and door partially closed to prevent NC from entering to pull this chaps head off. Having lost their case the manger himself patiently waited for NC to finish his pint, the glass was returned in one piece and off we went.

After saying good-bye to my posse I faced the night alone. As I’d expected there wasn’t a cab in sight, after half an hour the one I managed to flag down refused me as it was ‘sarf of da rivah’, I called him a cunt and carried on. I walked over Waterloo Bridge stopping to admire the beautiful view and happened upon some illegal operator who agreed to take me home for an extortionate 40 fucking quid. It was gone 3 by the time I stumbled back. I poured myself a drink and flipped on the TV in time to watch some Olympic swimmer (two readers of this will find this ironic) make history.

Oh, NC and I were discussing this band btw. The video is priceless…


I’ve been weighing everything up realistically, trying to see this objectively with regard to the renewal of this fucking contract.

One shouldn’t of course. Worrying about something that hasn’t occurred is absurd by anyone standards, but I’m only human, born to make mistakes… so I circumnavigated the messy bits, breakdown, repossession, homeless alcoholic heterosexual rent boy and simply concluded that I’d be well fucked. I should know in the next few hours. When I know I’ll post in the comments section.

Whatever happens I’m unable to prevent that bloke Napoleon from getting on a train and coming down to London tomorrow. In some back room he, Swineshead, Frank from the pub and I have decided to meet and play ‘stuck in the mud’ and ‘it’. The fruits of this meeting will be made apparent shortly.

Last night I met up with Frank for a beer and a long-winded moan from yours truly about various grievances that have been exacerbated by the contract, of course, and I have to say the lack of IC. The fool is prepared to subject himself to more of the same, though this time it’ll be at my gaff. I’m making him Piqued’s classic bubble, squeak hash which will render him speechless with wonder just before I rape him to death.

Sorry can’t think straight. Friday list and then a tune (buy the album, it’s amazing).

I’ll be back on here later.

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whats that coming over the hill

Very short P today.

Tomorrow is D-Day and I can’t think straight. In addition to this lopsided thinking I’m fucking busy trying to sort out a bunch of worthless time-consuming shit that is only relevant to me as it feeds my wine habit.

After a fractious though eventually congenial evening with my brother last night, I was home by 9. I had a pile of Gorgonzola and walnut Tortellini (IC got it for me, if it sounds poncy don’t even fucking bother) which I rammed into my face with Savoy cabbage, shredded bacon, avocado and plenty of seasoning. It was more amazing than anything NASA have ever done in space.

I watched Once Upon a Time in the Midlands later on, it’s very disappointing. Then I went to bed.

The MD has just had a chat with me about tomorrow. He can’t handle waiting for the decision to be made so he’s off to play golf leaving me to deal with the client and the possibility of losing my fucking house next week.

I may post tomorrow, I don’t know yet.


Sorry about the lack of post yesterday. I’m sure you were gutted.

I had a meeting in town for a splendid charity event taking place shortly, would love to say more but I doubt the organisation in hand would enjoy this connection, albeit spurious. Having said that they might.

Due to the location of this fucking office I was forced to leave from and return to my flat before biking into the office after lunch. For the next 3 or so hours I was so idiotically busy I didn’t have enough time to check emails properly let alone do a piqued.

I wasn’t particularly inspired anyway, IC has gone for 3 weeks (3 of the bastards, actually, it’s now 2 and a half weeks, but whose counting eh? (me)). Still, I’m living an action packed life; well I will be starting from tonight, sort of. Seeing my Bro in Clapham for a pints, Frank the day after, Friday is unclear but Saturday, oh sweet Christ Saturday… and that’s all I shall say on the matter for now, I will say this though, Saturday.

Whilst the evening of Friday may be contentious the day is a different story. The contract that I’ve been shitting matter about for the last few weeks is to be confirmed in our favour or not as the case may be. I can’t stress this enough, if it’s the latter I’m so fucked I’ll have to seek employment elsewhere. Whilst you may be thinking ‘so what?’ or even ‘good, ah ha’ (or something) there is a very real consequence with regard to this blog. Simply, it just wont be possible to do it anymore. Yeah, think on…

Some cunts have added some additional material to How the Good Look Naked, link right, surely it’s illegal?

I’ve no time to search for no pussy ass clip y’all.



(I’m black and proud btw)


I’m not sure what the matter is with the people in here. Half of them seem incapable of grasping the very fundamentals of hygiene. Outside of the occasional floater, there is a bloke in here who must have an arsehole like The Kingsway, the single utility that bears the brunt of these unsanitary devils is the fridge. Within lies packets of silver-foiled matter, Tupperware filled with organic cement, discarded clingfilm lumps of render and endless bits of snack, half consumed, half dead.

The last thing one wishes to see with a mild hangover on the filth that is a Monday morning is the fucking fridge, every time I go to get the milk out for my coffee I run the risk of botulism, plague and Ebola. It’s like the Eastend circa 1660.

This depressing metaphor for ‘work’ is in stark contrast to the sublime activities of the weekend. Take last night, for example, when IC and I had dressed crab and smoked fish-pie for supper, we drank Prosecco and Amaretto and smoked roll-ups in my spotless kitchen. A single candle burned on the table and we discussed our little heads off until the world fell silent about us. Then this morning reality vomits in my face when the office fridge is breached.

Friday. Frank and I met up for a jar at the local. After recounting various holiday tales I returned home and got deliciously mashed which struck a nail in the coffin of Saturday morning. No bother. I pottered about tidying and re-arranging aspects of my dwelling and walked to fucking Sainsbury to get some shopping. Not having the van anymore I was surprised to discover that with the aid of a rucksack I could shop with weight/bulk impunity and by the time I returned home, despite the cashier looking at me as if I’d just fallen from the moon, I was normal again.

I unpacked and set off for Hackney, the journey was swift and pleasantly aided with bits of Guardian and a book. I arrived at IC’s exactly at 7 and met her sister, ICS. Before heading out for dinner we three along with a mutual friend, Mira, drank wine and nattered in the kitchen. I was feeling right nice when we sat down in the bustling restaurant to eat. IC, ICS and I ordered food and spent the next 2 hours giggling manically and gorging our gobs with fine and reasonably priced Italian fare (bottle of wine, starter and 3 mains for 35 quid). Once again I opted for the pizza, once again the standard of this much fucked-about dish was beyond expectation.

I was home by midnight and went to bed exhausted. On Sunday, following a kipper the size of a sperm whale, I jumped on the black bitch to visit my family at my sisters in the brooding Surrey countryside. The ride was fast and clean, the long left hand corner just past Tolworth on the A3 can be taken at 120 with a tight lean angle and balls, I discovered. The adrenaline kick was long lasting had me physically shaking. It’s better than Morphine, really.

My niece is now one. Zoning in and out of an awareness that everyone was there for her, we spent a pleasant afternoon watching her explore her new toys. The star was a new trampoline, which she quickly conquered before gracelessly bouncing off backwards, causing yours truly to explode with laughter.

I hope her arm grows back.


I’ve discovered that we get the decision on the contract next Friday; it’s a bit like knowing the test results for some terminal penis disorder, will it come off or will it stay on? Actually, it’s worse than that, I don’t need my penis, I need money. Man doesn’t live on penis alone, that’s in the bible that is.

In the interim things at work couldn’t be more desperate. It’s quieter than Jill Dando in here, a strange sense of dumb acceptance to the decline in business has settled into the office like some sort of regressive dust, before the day is out all the female staff will be playing with dollies and the blokes will be seeing how high they can wee without getting piss in their fringes, or someone else’s. Perhaps I need that penis after all.

To make things considerably worse IC is going on holiday until fucking September from Monday, whilst I accept with good grace that she deserves it and what have you I’m destined to face August, essentially, the rest of the bastard summer, moaning about it. In fact I’ve started already, I was already cheerlessly winging about it when we were away last weekend, I did a good job of harping on about it last night and when I see her this weekend I fully expect to reduce any conversation to a series of belligerent grunts.

I spent Wednesday evening with the post holiday blues (and pre IC holiday whining) slouched in front of the end of season one of The Wire drinking Claret. Despite my malaise it did a good job of absorbing me into it’s netherworld bosom, with this in mind I feel that a combination of The Wire, wine and lashings of pornography are the only way I’ll survive the rest of the summer.

Yesterday I trundled east to see IC who was looking all fucking lovely having had her haircut and she’s still very tanned from last weekend; this did nothing to assist my mood. She could at least have the decency going away looking all ill and pale. I never should’ve allowed her to go into the sunshine last weekend. Think I might bring a pair of scissors and a dose of herpes with me on Saturday.

Next time you read this crap I’ll be in a foul mood, worse than the bloke in the wheelchair in today’s jolly tune. Have nice weekends, mine is going to be shit. Oh, hurray, the Friday list. Hurray.

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B&B’s are funny places. Even when you get a good one you can’t help that feeling of being in a stranger’s home. Unlike a hotel the whole concept of carrying on like a louche rockstar is automatically exchanged for a sort of middle England stand-off. The overtly personal hospitability is unsettling enough, when you add-on the fact that these people are total strangers it all gets a bit odd.

IC and I set off for the New Forest after lunch on Friday. My sister had kindly loaned us her car and there we were, the last of the hangover fading on the M3 before being plunged into otherworldly woodland. London far behind we allowed ourselves to relax in our new environment. We arrived at our first destination in the pretty harbour town of Lymington just after 5, the hosts were a weird middle-aged couple, polite but wary of their two reasonably alternatively-presented guests, and after being shown around we unpacked, showered and hit the town as it were.

That evening we drank and ate in a splendid little boozer on the quay facing out to the Isle of Wight (even bumping into friends briefly) and the following morning had breakfast that was presented to us by the B&B bloke like some sort of gourmet masterpiece, the fucking milk was off to start with and the table was dressed like something out of Abigail’s Party. Still it was a damn site better than the dead pig sandwiches I had to suffer in the second place.

The landlady in a seaside place just down the road from Lymington had hungry childless eyes. She was a wrinkly old blonde who took great delight in telling us she’d had ‘lovely gays’ staying there in the past, in hindsight I think she was showing off her self-perceived liberalism which was negated by the copies of the Daily fucking Mail and disgusting tastes in pictures, two of which were mauve and gold fabric bows glued into a picture frame. IC, being a vegetarian, ordered a breakfast of eggs mushrooms and toast that was refused on the grounds that ‘eggs and mushrooms don’t go’ bafflingly. Still, she did give us a lift to the pub so she wasn’t all bad.

The pub in question was lovely. IC and I had spent the day on the Isle of Wight in the burning sunshine and only eaten two modest (though fucking lovely) crab sandwiches. We’d ferried there and back and wandered on the beach to the fort as the yachts from Cowes swarmed in the East. The day tricked past in a most congenial manner despite our being attacked by wasps in a secluded café. By the time we arrived at the cosy boozer we were hungry and thirsty, the beer was cheap and delicious and the atmosphere local and civilised. We were rather taken with whole set-up actually even if I made the mistake of not ordering the haddock.

After the dreadful breakfast we set off on a little tour. The weather wasn’t being very helpful so we visited Bath to check the Cathedral stopping at Stonehenge for a while along the way. Late in the afternoon we pootled down to the coast and made an unfortunate decision.

Seaton is in Devon. It’s between the bum cheeks of Sidmouth and Lyme Regis; it’s the arsehole in the middle. IC and I landed there through a combination of acute desperation and mirthless bad luck. After heroically deciding we’d book the first two B&B’s we’d, like, leave the third and fourth nights to, like, fate, yeah. After passing through some of the most beautiful countryside and coastal villages known to planet Earth it became increasingly clear there was more chance of securing accommodation that there was of my having sex with the original cast of Dad’s Army.

It was getting late, after a behemoth drive I was in severe need of a pint. The endless ‘no vacancies’ and ‘full’ signs outside picturesque little cottages had become more mundane than David Cameron, the fact that IC and I paid scant attention to the locale of the only available B&B for almost a day is a testament to this. We only knew it was near the sea and there was a pub around.

I don’t think the landlady had seen people since the 50’s. Past middle age with smoker’s teeth and cough she was pleasant enough but on sight began talking at great fucking length finishing virtually every sentence with ‘well, I’m keeping you’ and doing her best to stop us from doing anything save fixing watery grins and nodding like public loo wankers. It seemed like the Jurassic age before we saw one of the six vacant rooms. Once in I closed the door so fast behind me I nearly slammed it into my face.

Driven by hunger and the need to drink something we managed to escape to the pub at dusk. The pub was dreadful, it was empty and vaguely threatening but in comparison to the other booze-choices, a skinhead kicking and Ebola, it was the best of a bad bunch. The food was so rank I don’t even remember eating it; my mind has simply shut it out like sexual abuse. But we were saved by the beach late at night, even having spent time in the desert I’ve never seen so many stars with so much clarity. As the sea chewed at the pebbles the vast expanse of water beamed the sky back into the heavens: a velvet black fibre optic canopy. It was fucking awesome, our heads blown we snuck back into our hovel and woke up with the good weather already fading into the South.

It took us an age to leave, Gobshite just wouldn’t let us go and we found ourselves reversing out the door to a chorus of ‘don’t let me stop you’ and lamenting the fact we didn’t take her up on the breakfast. I reckon if we had we’d still be there having hanged ourselves from the ceiling with her still prattling on.

Seaton during the day was grubby but had an English seaside quaintness, of sorts. It wouldn’t have been too bad if it was for the fact that four fifths of the population are over eighty and the rest are cunts -which means by default the old ones are a sort of hybrid-cunt born of Murray Mints and Parkinson’s. One in two of the residents have one of those electric spannercars; they were everywhere, parked outside bakeries by the dozen as gangs of pre-cadavers rigidly filed past with scant regard of pedestrians. There was even a garage arrangement that sold them (they’re over a grand each) with slick suited salesmen pitching the slowly passing stiffs. It brings to mind The Idler’s Crap Towns, Hull won it hands down but the author should check this place out, it was fucking hideous.

We left the place shortly after as if we were on fire. During the night a squadron of seagulls had taken it on themselves to shit all over my car which just seems about a perfect metaphor for the place. Seaton, I wonder who slipped the ‘e’ into that name…

On the road again, we were now unsure as to what to do. We even discussed the possibility of going home. Don’t get me wrong, we were in excellent cheer but neither of us wanted to encounter such negative serendipity for a second night in a row and have to pay for it. We headed East and stopped off at Lyme Regis which re-ignited our joy. The weather was mainly hot and sunny but the beach, whilst bustling, wasn’t overcrowded. The small town was busy and friendly and in total opposition to the gawping little graveyard from where we had come from, we decided that if we could find accommodation we’d like to stay.

I must pause briefly to celebrate the lunch we had looking over the bay. Thinking about it now I’m genuinely drooling, it was a sandwich of such subtle magnificence that I’m fairly sure it will one of things that flash before my eyes as I shuffle off this mortal coil. The bread was white and fresher than the North wind it was lightly buttered and crammed full of fresh crabmeat with a touch of lettuce to give it some crunch. Sweet baby Christ, it’s worth going there just for that.

After failing to secure a place to stay, we got close mind you, IC and I drove out of the town and skimmed Bournemouth which was shit, frankly, and stopped off at Christchurch for a cup of tea. Christchurch should be re-named Kensington-on-the-Whartar, it’s a pretty place of that there’s no doubt but the residence are more stuck-up than Hyacinth Bouquet with a broom up her arsehole, which spoils it to death. This wasn’t paramount in our minds, by now our thoughts were occupied with what to do.

So we decided that we’d like to go back home via little seaside place near Lymington. If we found somewhere to stay near the splendid pub at the right price we’d stay, if not, we’d go. We arrived at six and parked the car by the village green, IC suggested we walk to the pub and ask if they knew of anywhere and it was as we were approaching it serendipity paid us back for Seaton.

A few yards from the pub was a pretty B&B by a small river, not only did the rather well-to-do landlady have a room it was reasonably priced with a sumptuous bedroom and a huge bathroom containing a shower so immensely powerful I was lucky to come out with my hair. Five star stuff.

We ended our little vacation with food and beer in the pub and indulging in my new found liking for Amaretto. After a stunning cooked breakfast in the morning (IC got her egg and mushrooms), which was as good as the room, we hopped into the car and headed back to London in the pissing rain. We weren’t fussed, we were done.

We heard this song driving through the New Forest, not my usual fare but it’s as pretty as the little seaside village near Lymington, which I’ve been careful to not name, I hasten to add. We own it.