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.