Monthly Archives: October 2008


My ears are still ringing as I type this, that, dear reader, is a result. In fact, my ears haven’t rung this good since 2006 when I last saw Slayer at Brixton and I’d completely forgotten about the phenomenon of ‘magic trousers’ when the bass and kick drum are so intense they cause ones clothes to physically vibrate.

Jamie and I met at the flat and popped to the local for a quick sharpener for the awful journey ahead, a bus and the perpetual district line with one change and we were there an hour after leaving the pub. We’d already decided that the support acts Masterdon and Trivium would have to be sacrificed in favour of beer and tabs and by the time we’d faffed about it was time for the main act.

Hammersmith Apollo is a bloody good venue, it’s not to big and maybe because it was Thursday it wasn’t too rammed, indeed, Jamie and I were comfortably stood a few metres from the front surrounded by what was a very multicultural middle aged audience with kids flying ahead.

Slayer happened, from the outset the sound quality was exceptional, whilst being incredibly loud it was crystal clear and the band themselves were tighter than a virgins daughter. They played a very mixed set too, because it wasn’t an album tour they indulged themselves in some really old, fast stuff and displayed a ferocity for gentlemen half their age. The drummer must have hidden limbs and how Kerry King’s head didn’t fall off his neck will remain an enigma until the grave.

On a final feedingback note, I don’t think I’ve ever seen them so cheery, for a band that sing about war, death, religion, death and death again they seemed very happy chaps. Marvellous.

After purchasing a tee shirt (I’d vowed not too) Jamie decided he wanted to inhale a Big Mac and a cheeseburger with fries, of course I abstained, and we trundled back home with our ears singing songs of terror, it took nearly an hour and a half for fucks sake. A can each, a joint, which resulted in hysterical laughter following a conversation about car crashes, then bed.

I’ve a perfectly lazy weekend lined up in Hackney with a party on Saturday night to celebrate my bro’s b’day (which is today). I would also like to extend the happy returns to Swineshead, many of them.

Have splendid weekends, chart first then a tune from it….

30 The View 5 Rebeccas NE 1
29 White Lies Death 23 9
28 Guns N Roses Chinese Democracy NE 1
27 Twisted Wheel Lucy The Castle NE 1
26 Jack White & Alicia Keys Another Way To Die 26 4
25 The Ting Tings Be The One 18 5
24 Pendulum Granite 17 6
23 Red Light Company Scheme Eugene NE 1
22 Kings Of Leon Sex On Fire 14 12
21 Enter Shikari We Can Breathe In Space…… 27 2
20 Kaiser Chiefs Never Miss A Beat 13 9
19 Keane The Lovers Are Losing 21 3
18 Disturbed Indestructible 11 7
17 The Datsuns Human Error 20 4
16 Friendly Fires Paris 22 2
15 The Kooks Sway 8 7
14 The Stereophonics You’re My Star 19 3
13 Pigeon Detectives Say It Like You Mean It 15 4
12 Funeral For A Friend Kicking And Screaming 10 5
11 MGMT Kids 7 7
10 Cage The Elephant In One Ear 12 5
9 Fightstar The English Way 9 4
8 M.I.A. Paper Planes 16 4
7 Metallica The Day That Never Comes 4 9
6 Trivium Down From The Sky 5 4
5 AC/DC Rock N Roll Train 2 6
4 Innerpartysystem Die Tonight Live Forever 6 5
3 Team Waterpolo So Called Summer NE 1
2 Bloc Party Talons 3 6
1 Elbow The Bones Of You 1 7

slay ‘er

I’m orf to see popular beat combo The Slayers this evening. This is all well and good but the fucking venue is in Hammersmith, a most dreadful place to get to from here, it takes ages and I have to suffer the district line, the most despicable bit of railroad since the Krakow trip.

Had a rather dull day in the office yesterday, spent a large part of commenting on this storm in a teacup at the BBC, you’d have to be dead not to know what happened but in a nutshell, a libertine comedian made a joke to an elderly actor about how accommodating his dissolute granddaughter is and the twin set and pearls brigade reacted as if the pope had converted to Islam. As a subsequence the BBC have lost a very talented broadcaster and the unique way the BBC is funded is in jeopardy potentially ending the 90 year history of the biggest and most respected news broadcaster in the fucking world. Still the granddaughter in question, a burlesque performer and one of many notches on said comedian’s bed stands to make a fortune on the back of it so it’s not all bad…

After day of knuckle biting disbelief I arrived back home and readied myself for an impromptu meeting with Frank in the local. We had a pair of ales amidst a lot of shouting men who were watching more shouting men chasing a ball about as more men shouted and I got home for supper which involved an entire head of broccoli, deliciously.

This prequeled the latest instalment of Dead Set which was marginally better than the first two I have to say (I really wish they’d not bothered with that fucking filter, it’s like watching TV with cataracts) and then settled down in front of the vastly superior Wire, season 4 episode 4 for those of you who know.

Hang on… Someone’s shouting… Satanic Sluts? Oh yes. That’s the name of the troupe that the aforementioned granddaughter is in, you know, the one splashed all over the tabloids before being paid a fortune for her story in Heat, Closer, Grazia et al and then appearing on I’m a Celebrity Big Brother Island Swap and to be seen falling out of the Funky Buddha, Groucho club and fucking Lidl… you want to see some of her work, her burlesque troop in action?

My pleasure, always happy to profile raw talent such as this for the love of all that is decent kind and precious.

The crowd go wild…


Short one today, up to my balls in work

Saw Frank for a pint last night and got back in time to watch the first and second part of Dead Set. I’m not going to go into massive detail as I believe it will be reviewed in detail on Watch With Mothers but I have to say I’m a bit disappointed. The camera work is awful, ‘knowingly’ shaky, and I hate that fucking filter they’re using making things all dark. The bit with the car breaking down and that bloke trying to fix the engine was ridiculous, they were there for hours and there was a house a few metres away…

Still, it’s alright.

Not entirely sure what to say about today’s link save the fact the guy in question is a fucking looney…

bus lane bastard

It’s proper winter-cold this morning but it looks right lovely, all the twigs and leaves are brushed with frost where the low sunshine hasn’t reached, it’s blue-clear and the umberorange autumnal colours are at their most vibrant intensity. The roads are fucking slippery too, fucking.

Someone mention roads? That reminds me of something that the nazi in bumbling-blonde-buffoon guise we call ‘Mayor’ has decided to augment (and this may come as a surprise to those of you that know me only as the he-who-rides-alone-hero on his black bitch) that will result in the deaths of, well, let me put a figure on it now and see how close we get, 26 people in the first 9 months, the time it takes for the gestation of an ickle baby.

In addition to being a black streak of fucking lightening bitch, I’m also a cyclist and a bus user. Boris, I hasten to add, also rides a bicycle but I’m now 100% convinced he’s a Cameron Cyclist (i.e., one who cycles about between two blacked-out Mercedes stuffed with armed policemen) and has less idea of the workings of London’s roads than Robert Mugabe.

Allow me to indulge. For a start bikers have been surreptitiously using bus lanes since they became commonplace in the early 70’s, they don’t take the piss, they’re gingerly employed as a last resort to cut through traffic, I say ‘last resort’ because a bus lane is a diesel catalyst so one is very aware by stepping into them your risk of sliding to your doom under the wheels of a bendy is greatly increased.

To allow bikers to use them as a matter of course is fucking insane. Bikers don’t need them as they can overtake traffic, cyclist do need them because they can’t (safely) overtake traffic, and if they do so they’ll find some hairy-arsed Despatch Rider up their bracket quite rightly pissed off for slowing them down when they can, after all, use the fucking bus lane.

But really, bikers aren’t this issue here. Whilst I accept you get the odd twat, perhaps a few more of them that despatch for a living (I used to be one so I’m speaking from experience) those that ride bikes in excess of 50cc have to take a very rigorous test to allow them to ride on the road. Indeed, it’s widely recognised that motorcyclists are the most skilled of all motorists for a cornucopia of reasons, one of which is an empathetic use of the road (it’s very useful in determining potential life extinguishing actions of a young cunt in souped up Hyundai) and in this respect have a certain degree of sympathy for the humble cyclist.

That said, this mantra doesn’t apply to the mopeds, and here is the real problem and the core of my issue with that blonde bastard in City Hall. Any cunt can get on a moped, get a provisional licence from the Post Office, nip to Halfords and get some L plates and a helmet and you’re good to go. Within a matter of minutes you’ll be nipping in and out of traffic like a wasp with an inverted sting, and of course, having no experience at all, the whole ‘looking out for cyclists, bikers, old dears, cars, busses’ etc won’t even enter into the equation, not to mention the state of the road. Of course, since the congestion charge there’s been an explosion of these fucksicles.

It’s bad enough having the little cunts overtaking vehicles (or trying to overtake me as I’m overtaking vehicles!) so by giving them the legal right (and this applies to bikers too) to UNDERTAKE is madder than eating dog poo for heartburn. And the cunt banned drinking on the fucking tube.

Despite the previous rant I had a good day yesterday and I’m in a jolly good frame of mind. IC and I met in Oxford Street to check out some gear before heading down to fucking Tooting (via a wee cocktail in Soho) and dinner in a bells and titties Japanese restaurant. The food was excellent though we took a few chances that didn’t always yield air-punching joy. It was as we were leaving that we concluded it was the beginnings of the really cold few months we’ll have to endure until next September, or something. Despite this I’d forgotten how splendid it is to return home and get all-warm with liqueurs and cigarettes.

Right, special youtube today that Swineshead brought to my pedantic attention. Rather than just bunging it up I asked the author, Swedemason, for permission, which he granted.

wowie bowie

If I’m to be honest I was initially quite disappointed. The Business Design Centre, which doesn’t inspire bacchanalian hedonism in both name or venue, was packed solid. Lots of little stalls set over 3 floors with hundreds of people crowded round tables reaching in and out in order to gain miniscule servings of wine. Dan, Iko, IC and I moved in and joined the throngs. After 10 mins we were all feeling a little more comfortable and 30 minutes later it all became rather more fun.

The deal was quite simple, ask for a wine-sample and it would be administered. This was usually accompanied by a verbal description of its nose, flavours and finishing notes etc., but I couldn’t really care less. If I liked it I’d acknowledge its origin, indeed, I discovered I liked a German white number and something from Hastings (believe it or not) and if I didn’t I’d swiftly move on. After an hour or so the crowds were superfluous to the job in hand, giggling happened, especially when I spotted a young fellow with wine all over his white t-shirt unable to walk. Some of the vendors were pissed silly too, the lady at a Merlot stand announce that her wine was ‘completely shit’ before charging my glass to the brim. When we did finally leave there were at least 2 completely horizontal ‘wine-tasters’ outside one requiring the assistance of an ambulance crew and the other being poked at by the London Constabulary.

We four popped back to IC’s gaff after purchasing some picnic food and carried on, Swineshead and his missus joined us too and an impromptu gathering sort of materialised. By now IC and I were a little worse for wear and the party we’d been invited to had to be iced, this was probably a sensible course of action. The previous evening we’d been out in Hoxton at a club and managed to burn off most of the night, in hindsight by the time we arrived at the wine-tasting wotnot I think we were still suffering from the after effects of the night before. In addition IC and I had been invited to my brothers gaff for lunch with the family on Sunday.

We woke up late Sunday morning both of us feeling strangely well, it was only after breakfast and the journey to my brothers via Shorditch to get some food and check some shops that the hangover kicked in. At London Bridge I stared at a family on platform 15 for about 10 seconds thinking ‘that looks like my sister, brother in law and niece,’ which of course it was.

We all took the train to Peckham and were greeted by my bro, his missus and mum and dad. The afternoon passed by with food and wine and plenty of nattering. My niece still thinks I’m the devil incarnate but she managed to look at me without howling, most of time anyway. She gets on great with everyone else though, her loss yeah.

After everyone had gone IC and I stayed for a bit longer with my bro and his missus before deciding to head back early evening. By the time we arrived home we were so knackered we only just managed to eat before we fell asleep.

I’m exhausted this morning it’s cold but bright and sunny and I’m feeling pretty, pretty good.

(per voi bella)


Does anyone know how to fix my fucking media fucking player? I mean it used to work, it was quite happy ripping and burning, ripping and burning… but for some fucking reason it burns the first track of an album/playlist and just fucking quits –and it’s not the CD’s, so don’t come that old shit with me, I’ve tried about 4 different flavours and none of the cunts work. Oh, oh, oh why don’t you use i-tunes, Piqued? I can’t use i-tunes because, apparently, media player files are wpl files and i-player uses mp3…. Oh,oh, why don’t you convert your wpl files into mp3 files, Piqued, you can use Switch or some other compatible software what you can down fucking load from the cunting intrawebbo… none of them will work for free, they want me to pay for this christing service because (as I’m learning ) wpl files are exclusive to Microsoft.

I’m at my wits end, I spent half of last night fucking about on my PC trying to resolve this issue (and believe me, I’ve tried EVERTHING) and the other half miming how I’d pull Bill Gates cock off in front of his screaming face before I exchanged his testicles with his eyes.


Okay, this is what happens. You have your list of items to burn, whack in a blank CD, the list goes through the ‘pending’ stage prior to ‘writing to disc’, it’ll happily burn the first track and then ‘finalizing disc’ (it’s FINALISING!) appears on the screen and the CD pops out, I’m then informed that my CD may be damaged or incompatible aaaarrghhhh! –actually fuck it, I really do want to know what Gates would look like with bollocks in his eye sockets as he smokes his shrivelled member.

I’ve a packed weekend lined up, no doubt I’ll expand on Monday, but first the Gerry list and a tune from it will follow. Have nice weekends.

30. The Courteeners That Kiss 29
29. The Killers Human 30
28. Oasis The Shock Of The Lightning 19
27. Enter Shikari We Can Breathe In Space……. NE
26. Jack White and Alicia Keys Another Way To Die 24
25. The Last Shadow Puppets My Mistakes Were Made For You 16
24. Fall Out Boy I Don’t Care 21
23. White Lies Death 14
22. Friendly Fires Paris NE
21. Keane The Lovers Are Losing 22
20. The Datsuns Human Error 25
19. The Stereophonics You’re My Star 26
18. The Ting Tings Be The One 18
17. Pendulum Granite 15
16. M.I.A. Paper Planes RE
15. Pigeon Detectives Say It Like You Mean It 20
14. Kings Of Leon Sex On Fire 10
13. Kaiser Chiefs Never Miss A Beat 8
12. Cage The Elephant In One Ear 17
11. Disturbed Indestructible 7
10. Funeral For A Friend Kicking And Screaming 11
9. Fightstar The English Way 13
8. The Kooks Sway 4
7. MGMT Kids 5
6. Innerpartysystem Die Tonight Live Forever 6
5. Trivium Down From The Sky 9
4. Metallica The Day That Never Comes 3
3. Bloc Party Talons 12
2. AC/DC Rock n Roll Train 2
1. Elbow The Bones Of You 1


On a particular radio station this morning a certain a Welsh journalist known, for his aggressive interview technique, was responsible for an item titled thus: Is Blogging Dead?

The snag, it transpires, isn’t the amateur blogger such as myself (and my pals listed to the right) its that people like us have been (arguably) drowned out by a “tsunami of paid bilge.” Well this is just typical really, everything creative, precious, at some point will be exploited -be it art, music, writing- by those keen to make money/publicity at the expense of the artist/musician/writer.

In terms of art, sponsorship and by default, exploitation, by the rich and powerful has largely been the norm. The Italian renaissance was funded by the Medici family for example (they even paid their artists advances) but plenty of artists die in penury at which point shrewd collectors make vast fortunes at their expense. More recently Charles Saatchi did a pretty good job of buying up mediocre works and giving publicity (and therefore value) to individuals who themselves went on to amass enormous incomes by exploiting themselves. Again, this isn’t new. Art has always been egocentric; ‘the starving artist in the garret’ could always have got a job after all…

Music is a little more complicated, the corporate exploitation of the musician is much more recent and technology-driven, for example, a troupe of travelling Wilburys in the 17the century would’ve found it hard for to fall foul to some nob in the city slapping on of their choons it on a commercial for the latest pony and trap.

Like the artist and the musician the creative writer is prepared to work for free, after all, being ‘creative’ isn’t a life-choice, it’s more of something ‘one can’t help’ but there is a slight difference in that any fucker can write -not everyone can paint or play an instrument- and if they can’t (Katie Price, you cunt) there will be someone prepared to do it for them.

In the blog sense the issue here is more about the exploitation of the line that exists between writing as a means of communication (‘tsunami of paid bilge’) and as a form of creativity (me?). It’s particularly irksome when the former is dressed up as the latter but hasn’t this always been the case? Take ‘documentary’ style advertising on television, Advertorial in magazines, fake tits.

Blogging is here to stay as is the exploitation of creativity, as my old dad says, ‘there ain’t nothing new under the sun’.

Here’s Rory Cellan-Jones a regular on said show (widely regarded as the best news show in the whole fucking world) “as I was walking the dog this morning, I checked Twitter on my phone and saw that it was alive with comments about “the death of blogging.” According to an article in Wired Magazine, Twitter, Flickr and Facebook make blogs look “so 2004”. Oh dear. My response was to go straight home – and write a blog post.”