Monthly Archives: November 2008

pretty mouth

The weekend is here again at last.

Had a nice start last night, IC came over for some salmon en croute (prepared by my own sweet hand) which would’ve been a little better if I’d not forgotten about it after it was placed in the oven, it wasn’t bad though. Actually it was quite good, nearly sensational but not quite.

Oddly Deliverance was on, I say ‘oddly’ because I’d been speaking about it just the other day to IC with reference to the bango scene, you know ‘blung dun dun dun dun dun dun dun bluung.’ It has dated extraordinarily well, the rape scene with Ned Beatty is fucking horrid and has lost none of its visceral power. Gave me a fucking woody as usual.

It would seem that the countdown to Christmas (and inevitably my fucking 40th) really has started. As per usual, Christmas has this revolting habit of sneaking up on a person. I was forced to undertake the merest amount of shopping yesterday and most of the stores are already piping that dreadful seasonal musak into the ether amidst a glittering, twinkling, wanking-wonderland of ballsack. I walked about the stores, my face aching from sneering, so I naturally I comforted myself by muttering obscenities at fairy lights and tinsel… but thing weird thing is, I don’t hate the Christmas hoo-har, actually, I quite like it.

What upsets me is the knowledge that in a few weeks all the bling will be withdrawn throwing us into the steel-grey teeth of a miserable January, a month so rank it should be picketed by a baying mob of scousers prior to it being caught down a backalley, severely beaten and then hanged upside down just before they realise it was June they’ve killed and it was only 15 years old.

Right Gerry’s (now quite) controversial chart and tune from it after (really good it is too, may even get the album). Yes, that can only mean it’s Friday and it’s now time to wish you all splendid weekends. Unless you’re an arsehole in which case you can sod off.

30 Metallica The Day That Never Comes 24 13
29 MGMT Kids 26 11
28 Cage The Elephant In One Ear 21 9
27 Snow Patrol Crack The Shutters 27 2
26 Trivium Down From The Sky 19 8
25 Glasvegas Please Come Back Home NE 1
24 Friendly Fires Paris 23 6
23 The Rifles Great Escape NE 1
22 The Wombats Is This Christmas? NE 1
21 AC/DC Rock n’ Roll Train 17 10
20 Bloc Party Talons 15 10
19 Elbow The Bones Of You 14 11
18 Coldplay Lost! 20 3
17 Franz Ferdinand Ulysses 22 2
16 Enter Shikari We Can Breathe In Space….. 12 6
15 Twisted Wheel Lucy The Castle 18 5
14 M.I.A Paper Planes 10 8
13 Red Light Company Scheme Eugene 7 5
12 Guns n’ Roses Chinese Democracy 11 5
11 Innerpartysystem Die Tonight Live Forever 5 9
10 Paramore Decode NE 1
9 The Verve Rather Be 4 4
8 Fightstar The English Way 8 8
7 Santogold Say A-Ha 6 3
6 Kings Of Leon Use Somebody 3 4
5 The Grammatics The Vague Archive 16 2
4 Team Waterpolo So Called Summer 1 5
3 Ladyhawke My Delerium 9 3
2 Baddies Battleships 13 2
1 Oasis I’m Outta Time 2 4


Short ‘un today, I’m already up against it.

Yesterday was dreadful too, it consisted of a dull vacuum bereft of any activity whatsoever before suddenly convulsing into a work nightmare of such epic proportions it should’ve starred Vincent Price and perhaps featured a very young David Oglivy.

On top of all of this the casual mention on yesterdays Pi that I was a month away from being 40 gained its own momentum. When it all kicked off in the office, to use the futballs vernacular, the ‘YOU’RE GOING TO BE 40 WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING’ polemic unfurled itself in my brain like a soiled flag and frantically waved in my minds eye intensifying the ridiculousness of my predicament.

I spurned my evening plans. I needed to be alone to turn all this over. I helped myself to a broccoli and bacon pie after I’d prepared it/cooked it and settled down in front of BBC4 to enjoy ‘The Art of Italy’ with a bottle of wine. This came at a price, the programme was quite excellent but the pleasure was offset by the fact that the programme virtually followed a mini grand tour I’d undertaken in my 20’s with James. In fact, the presenter virtually copied my own journey highlighting little gems that I’d taken as my own. ‘That should be you doing this show’ I concluded despite the fat chance it should be and poured another glass.

…and for fuck sake someone rescue Woolworths.

Henry had this at his funeral, he’ll always be 27. Not sure how I feel about that.

itz making i’s at me

I’m sorry to hear of the demise of Woolies. As a kid, growing up in a village, the nearest Woolies had a faint whiff of ‘this place has everything!’ wonderment. It seems almost absurd now but Pick n’ Mix was beyond ones comprehension, I mean not just any sweet but EVERY sweet all in one magical place all just sat there, loose.

On Saturday IC and I went in to Woolies to get some Pick n’ mix, it didn’t really sink in that I’d not done such a thing since being very young where the whole picking and mixing was overseen by a mum on a budget on rare occasions. IC only really wanted those liquorice wheels but I insisted on all sorts of tat, mainly those big squishy jelly things which surprised me. I challenge you to go to a Pick n’ Mix before Woolies goes for good and see what you end up with, bet you surprise yourself. Bet you can’t be fucked to bother in the first instance.

I’m not feeling overly cheery today; in exactly one month I’m going to be 40. Forty. Fucking hell. To celebrate this most dreadful of occasions I’m going to round the year off with an essay on this matter. I intend for it to be a really long, dull and humourless rant about why I didn’t get my own way after spending a good 20 years stoned out of my tree and hungover. I deserved everything despite doing nothing and I still can’t work out why I find this desperately unfair. The cunts.

Though it’s not all bad, God has told me that if I kill and dismember my neighbour he’ll make all the bad things go away.

for higher

Since private cabs have to have badges saying ‘I am Private Cab, yeah’ I’ve noticed that nearly every last minute Black Bitch swerve, sharp braking and jolly cries of ‘your mother shits in my garden’ (I don’t have a garden but that’s not the point, honestly, you should see their faces) the protagonist of my evasive action/vitriol bears the ‘I am Private Cab, yeah’ badge.

These badged-bastards now join the ranks of every BMW driver and farty scooter as the new turds of the road. Of course they’ve always been there but because of the propensity of the drivers to operate without a driving licence/insurance and touch-up pissed up teens they now have to make themselves known to the wider public.

As the ‘I am Private Cab, yeah’ badge is now a warning to other motorists and society at large the badge shouldn’t pull any punches and read ‘I like to touch-up pissed teens and I drive like a fucking cunt’ in 3 foot high letters on every available panel.

Piqued for Mayor.

I had a ridiculously stressed day at work yesterday; the recession is causing my bosses face to physically convulse like some contaminated hospital worker in a TV adaptation of a Stephen King horror. My attitude is simple, there isn’t much I can do so treat yourself to another fag and even if you don’t want to plop it may be worth sitting on the bog reading the paper for 10 minutes in case Mr. Brown wants to take a dip.

But yesterday this was impossible, I had to show people stuff and do things work-related. Making matters worse I have to do more today, right now in fact. Perhaps being a private cab driver isn’t that bad after all.

I mentioned today’s vid to Planet Mondo and Urban Woo on Thursday…

tea nee

Short one today, I’m training someone to sit down in front of a computer and watch their life ebb away.

Lovely weekend, IC and I went out to eat twice which was a bit reckless; between us we had Partridge, Monkfish, pizza, sea bass, crab mash, lardons (which gave me hard-ons) and drank wine, tea and rain flying horizontally into our mouths. It was ludicrously cold throughout but I’m still sad to see the back of it.

The cunts (whoever they may be).


I met up with Urban Woo and in doing so met Planet Mondo last night in a cosy wee hostelry in Clerkenwell. I liked the Mondo chap enough to add him to my blogroll where you can now access his website, along with Woo’s of course where excellence is default mode.

We spent most of the night, no, actually, all of the night talking about music. For once I was the youngest member of the party (just) and it was bloody nice to able to remember the 1970’s as a collective and to drink beer. It’s always nice to do that. Planet Mondo ‘got’ Gerry’s chart, actually he was rather fascinated by it, and I just remembered Woo didn’t drink beer. No. She had a hangover and was on the coke. But it mattered not; we could hardly get a word in we three such was our enthusiastic waffling. I’ve also remembered I talked about taking a poo in the back of my toy Land Rover when I was 3. That book, PM, is Fatty Batter by Michael Simpkins, it gets the no-quibble Piqued best buy seal of recommended approval.

Right, Gerry’s chart after I’ve ensured that you all have splendid weekends, then a choon from within it black walls.

Wrap up warm; it’s going to get fucking cold. But don’t bother if you’re a cunt, I hope you freeze to death. Bye.

30 The Datsuns Human Error 25 7
29 Jack White and Alicia Keys Another Way To Die 28 7
28 Funeral For A Friend Kicking And Screaming 23 7
27 Snow Patrol Crack The Shutters NE 1
26 MGMT Kids 21 10
25 The Stereophonics You’re My Star 19 6
24 Metallica The Day That Never Comes 18 12
23 Friendly Fires Paris 25 6
22 Franz Ferdinand Ulysses NE 1
21 Cage The Elephant In One Ear 14 8
20 Coldplay Lost! 24 2
19 Trivium Down From The Sky 11 7
18 Twisted Wheel Lucy The Castle 22 4
17 AC/DC Rock n Roll Train 10 9
16 Grammatics Vague Archive NE 1
15 Bloc Party Talons 7 9
14 Elbow The Bones Of You 8 10
13 Baddies Battleships NE 1
12 Enter Shikari We Can Breathe In Space….. 15 5
11 Guns n Roses Chinese Democracy 13 4
10 M.I.A. Paper Planes 6 7
9 Ladyhawke My Delerium 17 2
8 Fightstar The English Way 12 7
7 Red Light Company Scheme Eugene 9 4
6 Santogold Say A-Ha 16 2
5 Innerpartysystem Die Tonight Live Forever 2 8
4 The Verve Rather Be 5 3
3 Kings Of Leon Use Somebody 4 3
2 Oasis I’m Outta Time 3 3
1 Team Waterpolo So Called Summer 1 4


One news story caught ol’ Piqued’s eye yesterday, well the headline was ‘Man cuts his head off with Chinsaw’ so I was immediately intrigued. The Telegraph went into particular detail, here’s what they had to say…

“An inquest at Winchester Coroner’s Court heard that Mr Phyall (50) tied the Black & Decker tool to a leg of a snooker table in his lounge, taped up the on button and plugged it into a timer. Mr Phyall, who had consumed a small quantity of alcohol but no drugs, then lay down under the snooker table face up and placed the chainsaw against his neck. A piece of the tool’s cardboard box initially cushioning the blades from his neck. The hearing heard that the timer, which is usually used to turn lights on and off, was fixed to start up the chainsaw for 15 minutes. When it activated, it sliced three-quarters through his neck and across into his right shoulder only stopping from a complete severing when his t-shirt was dragged into the blades. His elderly parents John and Jean Phyall raised the alarm when they could not contact their son on July 5 this year. Police were called and, when they arrived, found Mr Phyall in the lounge with blood spattering the walls, floor and a cabinet.”

‘Gracious!’ I said, after putting away my flaccid tool and mopping up all the spaff what I’d fired about my trousers, ‘why would a fellow do such a thing?’ Terminal disease? Bereavement? Broken heart? Debt? No. He’d been offered accommodation.

Apparently, Mr Phyall was ‘irrationally opposed to moving’ his current digs were due to be demolished and despite great efforts from his housing association, and after refusing 11 offers for alternative dwellings, he decided to cut his own fucking head off.

According to the coroner “He thought through how he was going to commit suicide very carefully. He went to a great deal of trouble. “I think he did it to draw attention to the injustice of his situation.” What a petulant, selfish arsehole. Did he think about his poor elderly parents at any point? They’ve got to spend the rest of their brief lives secure in the knowledge their son acted like an utter berk.

Before I go just a quick mention of the couple that ‘met’ in Second Life (an online game essentially) fell in love with each other avatars and got married both virtually and in reality. Weird but whatever. But there is so much more. The male protagonists wife caught him, online, with a second life hooker and they split up in second life and real life. She then employed a virtual private detective to test his fidelity with a honey-trap, which failed, but his avatar spent the evening talking to the private detective about the second life hooker who he is now seeing in real life following his real/second life wife filing for divorce who, incidentally, is now seeing some bloke she met online in World of Warcraft… for fucks sake

Oh, the male protagonists is 40, 25 stone, unemployed and on incapacity benefits, his Second Life avatar is a tall muscular nightclub owner who flies to work in a helicopter gunship.

sorry about the vid, music is great…

fuk ’em

I’m rather baffled by the Home Secretary’s new legislation; simply, anyone who knowingly pays illegally trafficked women for sex could face rape charges. This is all well and good as a fairyland lardee dar cuckoo beep beep theory but in reality surely the consequences of such legislation will push the trade further underground and make the most vulnerable woman even more at risk from the cunts that control them? Perhaps a better way of protecting these women would be to legislate the world’s oldest profession, this way prostitutes could operate their own businesses rather than being beholden to some greasy turd or an outfit of worm food. Of course there would still be underground trade but there would be an incentive for legal operators to ensure these sorts of outfits didn’t nick their customers, they could even work along side the vice squad, the legalised side of the business would have a far better understanding of who is doing what…

How on earth did this bill go through? I’ve never paid for sex and I’ve no intention of doing so so maybe I’m talking out of my arse but I think it’s a fairly safe bet that Jacqui Smith hasn’t paid for cock which validates my objection somewhat. Also, this new legislation comes a matter of days after the Home Office withdrew its £2.3m Human Trafficking funding. Coincidence? Is it fuck, simply wash your hands of the problem by banning it and spend the money saved on the cunting Olympics. Fuck the vulnerable, literally.

My dwindling readership will know that in spite of my propensity to swear and pour bile over things I’m a pretty liberal kind of guy, I believe in free speech, a democracy. Kids, I believe in freedom, yeah. So imagine how ‘disgusted’ I was to hear that an entire list of British National Party members (names, addresses and phone numbers) has been leaked and posted on that there interwebs. Just think of all those poor policemen, teachers, doctors and a vicar, apparently, publicly humiliated for being associated with a bunch of fucking Nazis, my bleeding heart liberalism is pissing blood all over this very keyboard in which I punch type. Boo fucking hoo.

leaf alone

The trees down my road have been subject to the sword and saw of the Pollard. Between March and yesterday all leaves grow off them making a right nice canopy under which children and sweet old ladies die for the toilet ambling home, dog walkers collect steaming stones of dog liquorice as they bask in their shade, I, yes, I look up, spinning and dizzy under my dappled green shelf shutting and opening sunlight shafts and opportunities of azure… ha ha ha,I laugh, ha ha ha…Delirious with the joy of tree, of branch, of leaf. Of twig? But no more now, the council have cut off the leaves. The cunts. The road looks forlorn, shorn of its locks, make-up removed and laid out to rest. Bollocks.

I had a low-key evening, a pint with Frank from up the road, a bath (much needed, not because I was all dirty but because I was fucking cold, yesterday was fucking cold, all of it) and food in the form of gorgonzola and walnut tortellini with a tomato sauce –the proper shit, yeah- featuring among other fellows fresh garlic, basil and parmesan.

I accidentally watched School of Rock again despite my now psychotic hatred for that dwarf-child with the stage-school singing voice who winds up as one of backing singers (this little git actually spoils the film, every time she appears on screen I feel like digging a hole) but I couldn’t help myself. Despite my ‘despite’ it’s a great film, there, I said it.

So here I am, another day in the recession. It’s very quiet in here, too quiet. My boss is running about the office with this plastered-on grin, his eyes burning with fear as the credit crunch crunches his bones. There is nothing any of us can do about it, but we can still rock. We can still do that.

This band have just released a bunch of stuff on CD for the first time. I was first in the cyber queue… This is new to youtube too, turn it up, I mean really turn it up.

(Drink something first.)


Reg Varney, unlikely stud from On The Buses, has punched his last ticket at 92. Reg played Stan Butler the busdriver alongside Jack his lascivious toothsome conductor and Blakely the ‘special’ Hitlet-lite inspector who was always one ting from the stop.

On The Buses was a pretty typical downmarket sitcom from 70’s ITV, racist and sexist to the point of actual rape but somehow managed to get a film franchise despite the original ropey TV offing. The films aren’t that bad if only to peep into a slice of the 1970’s that seems as far away now as Nebuchadnezzar, despite being in his 50’s and living with his mum watching Stan shamelessly getting ready with his mate Jack (red cardigan and Brylcreemed to his clockweights) in order to pick up ‘birds’ (17 year old tit models with skirts just about covering their navels) remains as fond a memory of the 70’s as I can conjure at this time of the fucking morning.

The weekend was jolly, Friday at IC’s watching movies and eating smoked fishes, Saturday drifting slowly about town for haircuts and sushi made for a lazy prequel to the evening. A gathering had been arranged in Clerkenwell for IC’s birthday and 8 of us spent a happy few hours in a boozer near the ‘green’ before departing back to IC’s for more of the same. IC’s flatmate Mary acted as impromptu DJ (she’s good enough to be playing a set in a club in a few weeks) causing yours truly to actually ‘dance,’ though I daresay the rum and coke landing on top of Bombardier might have had a role to play in all of this. Swineshead and his missus were witness to my groovy moves and I partially recall laughing myself weak and losing a £50 bet to IC over the age of Vivien Westwood. The upshot of all of this was that I didn’t get up until 1.30pm on Sunday and my head hurt. And I needed a plop.

The day was a process of recovery, smoked cod and spinach for breakfast/lunch a hot bath, Woody Allen and a spot of shopping at dusk all made up the cure. By the evening we were feeling much better, I was even fit enough to stomach a Ben Stiller film that had me a-chuckling twice.

So there we are, another weekend consigned to history and almost instantly I’m looking ahead to the next one. I’ve a busy week mind, Frank tonight and tomorrow, my bro on Wednesday (probably) and Louche and Woo on Thursday. Oh, I have to do some work in here as well.

Here’s a tune to keep your pecker up. The footage comes from a brilliant German film called Christiana F and the music speaks for itself.

gr8 scot

Just looking at the BBC weather forecast which features a black cloud with a rain warning. Outside it’s sunny and a bit warm.

Jack Scott, the weatherman, died yesterday. I’m sure his family and friends are upset but let’s face it, the man was as pointless as a third armpit. I’m not singling him out; all weathermen are surplus to requirement. Imagine being a fucking fisherman relying on the shipping forecast? I bet you a few sea dogs were right relieved when Scott turned up his toes, the arsehole.

The reader grimly clinging onto this blog by their teeth may recall a certain Cunt, who of late has given the impression that he may have evolved. Oh, how fucking wrong I was when at 3am this morning I was suddenly woken by the sort of music enjoyed by partially deaf men with baseball hats and all-weather tracksuits. Of course, middle of the night gig-volume ‘music’ isn’t enough for Cunt, no, he has to top it up by shouting aggressively at people, it doesn’t matter what, you’d need to hit your head on the pavement for an hour to get a look in but imagine someone very special trying to describe a dirty protest and you’re near the mark.

The subsequence of his unemployed so-help-me-god-I’m-grassing-him-up-to-the-DSS-today behaviour is that all of his acquaintances (he really doesn’t have any friends) instantly left, albeit noisily but the point is that they fucked off and I resumed sleep after burning some chicken bones and feathers in my ritual bowl with my semen uttering his name backwards and summoning Belphegor to do my bidding.

It’s the Gerry chart right now, a tune to follow and my desire that you all have nice weekends.

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

b’day bacon

I was up on Wednesday bright and a bit late, ‘ablutions I cried!’ and did some plops, brushed my face and went off into the sunshine. I had to pass via a shop to undo an impetuous purchase and then I took the overground train quite wilfully so I may gaze upon the city and I rumbled to Waterloo faster than faeries faster than witches [past] bridges house hedges and ditches. I walked a bit after alighting at my destination and met IC in Southwark at lunch to invite her onboard a boat that would take us to Millbank where lies the Tate and Francis Bacon’s outpourings of horror.

Knowing a vast amount about this fellow I was surprised by how much stuff they’d managed to acquire, indeed, there was one or two pieces I’d never seen innit. The early stuff is very mediocre but when he gets into this stride the fellow can’t be beaten for conveying visceral horror via a sort of realist expressionism. It’s overwhelmingly sickening in parts, this creeps up on one, you just sort of realise you face has contorted to that of a fellow smelling somebody else’s lingering fart. It’s a must-see despite the £12.50 entry fee and displays of his drawings which he expressly forbid in his lifetime. Naughty curator, you should have some more fucking respect…

After Bacon we needed sushi, just to fill the gap before dinner, and we went to the Japan Centre and ate Salmon rolls as the day disintegrated to dusk. The fucking bus took an age to get us back to the East, on arrival IC’s flatmate had made a cake and we had some fizz and we three readied ourselves for the restaurant which was arrived at quite late. We were joined by another pal and ordered cocktails, wine and food. I had pheasant en croute which was heavy but stunning and we nattered away like little monkeys. Despite the booze and food the bill was most congenial and we vacated after eleven feeling sated and stuffed. IC’s birthday. Done.

Mitch Mitchell has died at 61. One of the best drummers to have breathed and probably the most underrated to boot. I can understand how his talent was belittled by Jimi Hendrix but it’s worth listening to today’s clip to hear how he could follow and compliment the erratic genius of his master. I’ve never forgotten reading about how his drum kit was auctioned off a few years ago for £200 (the very same kit he used in The Experience) because the auctioneers didn’t know who the fuck he was and made little or no effort to market the sale. If that’s not a kick in the teeth I don’t know what is.

It’s remembrance day today. When I was younger I viewed such an occasion with a certain degree of cynicism, I didn’t believe in war (I still don’t, ‘war is stupid and people are stupid’ as some confused cross-dressing smackhead once said) and in my naivety treated all conflict with the same contempt despite being aware of fundamental facts as to why such things occurred.

Today, though, I will remember them. The thousands of boys that lay over France and Belgium died for their children, it does matter that they were victims of savage propaganda and incompetent generals, but it matters more that they suffered in the most obscene unimaginable circumstances for good of their country, for the freedom of their citizens, and they should be thanked…

But this gesture doesn’t extend my accepting the fact that modern warfare is based on the business of corporations, it doesn’t have anything to do with freedom anymore, on the contrary, it’s not soldiers who die but the innocent under the pretence we’re freeing them from tyranny.

Normal Piqued service will be resumed on Thursday, I’ve not even had time to mention my weekend which involved IC, writing, sushi, another car crash, wind n’ rain, hooded tops, health food shops and abstinence.

There will be no Piqued tomorrow as it’s IC’s birthday and we’re having the day off to cavort about London and shit. It’s also Harry’s birthday tomorrow and I would like to wish them both the merriest of happys.

last post (not)

I was in Hackney yesterday in time to watch the Remembrance Day parade. I rather surprised myself as I wasn’t expecting to be so moved by it. It was all the old fellas marching at the front that did it. I thought to myself, these old boys fought for our freedom and liberty, and then some modern army chaps marched by and I couldn’t help thinking about Bush and Blair and their lies that propagated a phoney war in the Middle East and all the subsequent deaths. They seemed at odds with the old boys at the front somehow.

Really short one today, up to my pills in it.

pee pee c

I don’t have time to do a big one today. Work seems to have popped its head over the trench and I’m using my Lewis gun to shoot it in the bloody face.

Did nothing last night, well obviously I did some ‘things’, ate, washed my nude penis and soft sack, watched The Wire and tried to make wondrous things happen on my PC. I failed of course.

All I was trying to do was upload some photos from my phone, something I’ve done plenty of times before I hasten to add. The photos uploaded via the phone software I installed, sure, but where had they uploaded to? The equivalent of desperately riffling through a mountain of identical files for a docket in a small Bombay office at midday with a hangover happened. They’d fucking vanished. By the time I’d fixed the problem I was almost in tears.

I’d like to watch the chap that invented the computer get fucked to death by a shrewdness of severely disturbed apes. With dirty bits.

It’s Gerry’s chart!! Calm down for fucks sake. After that a tune from within its charms (great vid!) and a fond wish that your weekends will be as blessed as mine, god willing.

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


Work seems to have evaporated. On the one hand not working at work appeals to my natural sense of laziness and complacency affording me quality online-time with some of the blobs that read this, engage in a spot of light banter about genital mutilation or indulge in a balls out row about sausages, but not having any work to do makes a chap feel, well, like a bit of a tit.

I mean what is the point of being here? I could be at home relaxing with a nice wank, or seething in the kitchen over the injustice of thoughtful glass-recyclers being accused of drinking too much as I drain my second 35cl bottle of Grant’s Premium Vodka.

Following a day of sweet fanny adams I trundled up to Hackney and alighted at the Empire in order to meet IC in the bar. By contrast she’d had a day of balls out industry, I wasn’t sure to be envious or relieved that I’d done fuck all and we headed upstairs to the dress circle and waited for the show to begin. Via contacts at work I’d managed to wangle a pair of complimentary tickets for the Shaolin Monks and after a while, my bladder slowly responding to the whisky and ginger I’d gobbled down in the bar, the show started.

It was a remarkable affair, men leaping up and down and shouting ‘hoi!’ and ‘aieee!’a lot as they performed super-human feats of derring-do. According to the vaguely comedic voiceover (which reminded me of something David Schnieder and Steve Coogan parodied in Alan Partridge) their Buddhist philosophy, in addition to incorporating hoi’s and aiee’s, literally revolves around the Wheel of Life (the name of the show) and to demonstrate this we were taken back over 1,500 years ago when the monks fell out with the Emperor, or something. I needed a piss.

This aspect led to the more ponderous elements of the show, blokes in extravagant costumes miming displeasure as two birds with really groovy hats played the erhu and pipa, but all was forgiven when the men came belting out doing the equivalent of human wheelies and skids. They employed sticks, swords, poles and good old fashioned limbs and engaged in staggering choreographic routines that had the audience quite literally gasping, this may have been enhanced by the perpetual burning of hundreds of joss-sticks, by the time we left my clothes smelt like Aixinjueluo Puyi’s socks. (I had a 3 minutes piss during the interval, thank god.)

But the clear highlight of proceedings were the kids, tiny little fellows (I think they were kids by the way) doing back flips on their fucking heads and undertaking most of the more extraordinary moves as previously demonstrated by their masters. Indeed, the only the only stuff they didn’t do were the pointy stick and head-as-a-hammer caper which was more of a relief than anything.

Ironically my back is being a bit of a twat again. Thing is, when it’s okay one can’t imagine it as a crumpled bag of crisps so the exercises I’m supposed to do everyday sort of fall by the wayside. I really need to get it sorted before I fly off to Henan Province in China to learn how to snap a spear with my throat. Way cool, HAaai-CHArrr!



Lewis Hamilton is now PRESIDENT! First the youngest F1 champion in the history of the sport and now first black ruler of the free world!! I can’t beli… what? Oh.

Well, Obama looks like an older Lewis… he does, have a look…Go on…

This mornings post nearly didn’t happen on account of a staggering altercation with a fucking lorry. Quick moan, I’ve noticed in the past few years the standard of HGV driving has substantially fallen to such an extent I’m going to have a look after posting this to see if anything has changed/been noted. I regularly see them using mobiles, texting and generally not fucking looking where they are going… I suppose this answers my question to some degree.

Hot on the heels of some lorry driver caught watching a DVD travelling at 80mph on the M1 and the joker who wiped out an entire family last month (not to mention the amount of hookers they kill in hammer sex frenzy’s) I found myself a little too close to the red tops this morning. Please allow me because, as they say on the fucking telly, you couldn’t make this one up.

Picture the scene, high street, one lane in each direction, one lane clear, in my lane there is a bus approaching a bus stop, following the bus is an HGV and slowly overtaking the HGV is our hero, that’s me on my BB refracting dull light to dazzle and filling the air with sound like angel perfume. I have an erection.

As I’m slowly over taking the HGV for some reason, known only to the type of fellow who likes to pulverise in the skull of a 19-year-old Hungarian sex worker in a Little Chef car park with a tyre iron, decides it wants to overtake the bus at it nears the bus stop.

But hey, why indicate? Why not just fucking pull out forcing me to take terrifying evasive action in the once clear opposite side of the road which now has a fucking bus in it, and then indicate after noticing that the fellow on the motorcycle has just described, via a complicated combination of gestures and screams, how he’d like to shit on your beating heart as he flounders in the gutter on the wrong side of the road. How on earth I managed to slot the bike in the space between the approaching bus and the HGV is an enigma wrapped in a mystery but I will say this, it was one of the moments that makes one think of ones loved ones. And I lost my erection.

Before I nip off to throw my guts out and visit the local church here is a little tune.

Obama, if you’re reading this. Well done, yeah.


Due to someone selfishly allowing themselves to be murdered a few miles from here my journey into work this morning took half an hour longer than usual. I arrived late like most of my colleagues, including my boss, who on seeing me took on an expression akin to dysentery. It was perfectly okay for the car drivers to be late but as I was in charge of blackus bitchus the whole ‘gridlock’ aspect of traffic was, I presume, negated. My boss implied as much by pointing at my steed and saying, ‘what’s your excuse then…?’ Of course, a motorcycle is better equipped at dealing with traffic but if you’re walled-in by four wheeled cunts as I was for 20 minutes in one instance there isn’t much one can do is there. I lifted my visor as I passed him, ‘…this is quite an early Speed Triple, I think the 2009 model is capable of flight though.’

But this is all mere tish and fipsy in comparison to what happens in the USA today. I hope to fuck the majority see sense. As I type this it’s looking good but four years ago the situation was the same and the Republicans still managed to get in, by devious means, of course.

Short ‘un today, busy…


Lewis Hamilton World Champion. Fucking hell. I wasn’t expecting that. During the last lap IC (who had been paying no attention to it previously outside of questioning the occasional whimper) hurriedly left the room when she realised that Lewis was fucked. This was fortuitous because when he secured his championship I unexpectedly burst into a cough of tears.

I‘ve never actually cried in my entire life, mother says that even as I baby I never shed a tear. Apparently if I needed something I’d merely point at it, indeed, I was able to inform the local GP that I was suffering from colic and not simply wind at 1 via a series of delicate gestures and facial indicators, don’t you know.

On Friday, after a quick trip to Sainsbury to procure some fish, I shot up to the East End to meet IC, we had a lazy evening of risotto, wine and film before Saturday happened all raining and cold. We took a late breakfast and headed out to do some shopping round Stoke Newington after passing by an exhibition. With the genuine exception of an artist we know the work was the standard of pre O level art (or whatever the fuck it’s called these days). It even featured a bunch of photos some double-barrelled auteur has taken of their turds for fucks sake. Literally shite.

By the time we arrived home it was virtually dark, we readied ourselves for the evening and set off. After getting aboard the 48 the initial pace of the journey became increasing compromised around Liverpool Street. The bus then fucking stopped entirely and we were deposited into a seething street. Shortly after we boarded another bus and just sat in traffic for about 20 minutes, after deciding it would be quicker to crawl on our hands and knees with the bus on our backs we were allowed off to discover that some clown had managed to overturn his car on London Bridge which was consequently shut to traffic.

We were allowed to pass over the bridge on foot and examine the scene first hand, I’m fairly sure the driver would’ve walked away, possibly prior to being handcuffed and frog marched to the cop-shop. I reckon the car must have been travelling in excess of 70 mph before the driver lost control, hit the central reservation and flipping the car onto its roof. On the plus side we managed to miss the fucking train when we finally arrived at the station nearly and hour and half after setting off (journey usually takes 20 mins).

Half an hour later we arrived at my bros gaff in Peckham, he and his missus were throwing a housewarming / birthday party and within seconds of arriving IC and I were tucking into a much needed glass of wine shoving the stresses of our getting there far, far away. It was a pleasant affair, we chatted and drunk but were forced to keep an eye on the time so we didn’t miss the last train. Fortunately a couple in car offered us a lift to Dalston on their way to North London, fate kindly paying us back for our dreadful trip earlier.

By the time we arrived home we were a bit tipsy, we attempted another glass and fell asleep on the sofa watching Curb Your Enthusiasm. Sunday began with a hangover and a single-minded need for eggs benedict, hangover cure par excellence and the best breakfast known to man. Only snag was is where to go to get ‘em?

We set off at midday and checked out a few local cafés, we knew there was a place a bus ride away but in addition to being expensive we’d not booked a table. There was another place a bit further away but we couldn’t be arsed to make the trip so instead we settled on having something un eggs benedicty. We found a café, sat down and were about to order when IC and I decided that, no, we MUST have eggs benedict and we grabbed a bus after making our ‘excuse me’s.’

IC and I didn’t have much luck with busses this weekend, we were on the right bus, sure, but we stayed on the cunt way to long, by the time we realised our mistake we were miles away. But the wind of serendipity found us in a lovely park just as the sun hazily sighed love beams all over our dehydrated heads, we walked for an hour or so but it was well nice and eventually we finally found the holy eggs benedict grail. We had ours with smoked salmon btw, they cost a fiver per portion and were so good I nearly burst into song. Even sat here now thinking about them I’m a hard as marble.

We floated home all sated and were back in time for the Grand Prix. The weekend was seen off with the Monkfish I’d bought on Friday and some Prosecco lifted our dwindling Sunday spirits. Revived, we did some more Curbs… all in all, the weekend was marvellous.

It’s fucking Monday now –what a load of bollocks.

Thoughts turn to last Thursday…no vid, just sound