Monthly Archives: December 2008

…as prom-issed

My apologies if you’ve heard this one before. When I was 8 my dad turned 40. Following all the ‘life begins at 40’ crap he was being spoon-fed I decided, in my relatively innocent way, to turn this phrase inside out and construct a ‘joke’ that I was convinced both he and my mum would find funnier than Frank Spencer (played by Michael Crawford and who, as I was perpetually reminded, ‘did his own stunts’) slipping over in Elephant poo a la Blue Peter zookeeper.

The ‘gag’ if you will was to draw a gravestone on his card with ‘DAD RIP’ on it. ‘Ah ha!’ I thought, ‘life doesn’t begin at 40, death does! He’ll love this!’ Of course, he didn’t, in fact he was very upset and I was ushered to my room for the remainder of his 40th birthday with regular visits from mum telling me ‘dad was very upset’. And that is my first ever concept of turning 40, it’s not funny at all.

The first thing about being 40 isn’t dissimilar to the thought of leaving school at 16 when you’re a Junior. You just can’t imagine it. It’s outside the room. The first notion I had of it as a plausible event was when I was 28 after having survived the seminal ‘rockstar’ death-age. Not that I was ever a rockstar I hasten to add, it’s just the ‘I’m never going to be a dead 27 year old rockstar but I may be 40 one day’ reality were pretty much symbiotic. After that it’s merely a question of time.

Turning 30 was a pisser but not a problem, Bill Hicks and Jesus died in their early thirties so I still had a chance to achieve my fall-back goal of best ever stand-up and Messiah (these two labels are interchangeable) so when I didn’t 34 hit me hard. From that age life began to drag. My stop-gap job following my postgrad education became a permanent feature when I sort of accidentally bought my flat. Indeed, from 34 until early this year nothing really happened, I did a woefully inadequate bit of travelling, I got published a few times, I wrote a book… which despite its never having been published is an achievement of sorts, I guess.

Then for the last couple of years there has been Piqued, a sot of alter-ego in some respects but in others just ‘me,’ a forum in which to justify an existence, or not, depending on my mood, or my projected mood that may or may not exist. I wouldn’t say it’s a body of work I’m particularly proud of, at times I feel like I’ve nailed something despite my ropey command of punctuation, I simply can’t help myself but to do it… either way it’s been a reason to go to work for the past couple of years because I can lose an hour of my day doing something that I do like, which is this, writing for the sake of itself. Hearing the sound of my own type.

Now, four days off arriving in my 40th decade, on the surface, I feel very underwhelmed. Somehow I feel as if I’ve let myself down, I should’ve stuck at certain things instead of throwing them away. This applies largely to choosing money over a risky career as an art historian but I won’t go into detail, I worked hard for that university place especially after my dreadful education at secondary school. But then I realise that to look back like that is sheer bollocks for one fundamental reason. If I’d done anything different I would never had met the friends I’ve known since I was 28, in particular Den, Frank and Swineshead who in turn led to my meeting with IC. Again, I won’t go into detail because aspects of my personal relationships are forbidden on here, besides if I were to expand on the IC aspect you’d need a bucket to purge yourself of the sticky-sweet sentiment which would have no end.

I will say this though; I’m a lucky fucker. I’ve a family that I genuinely like, I have wonderful friends that really are ‘there for me’, yeah, I’m relatively healthy despite being a gifted drinker, I’ve survived numerous close shaves on the Black Bitch and, because of IC, I go into my 40’s happier than I’ve been since I discovered how to wank myself off.

That’s enough now, I’m done for 2008. Have a Merry Christmas and New Year. I’ll be back then and I’ll be 40. So fucking what, eh.

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neerly yeerlee

This is my last day in the office this year and in my 30’s. Jesus.

Have nice weekends and avoid that Iceland advert with Kerry Katona, I nearly had a heart attack when it appeared on TV last night trying to restrain myself from doing a dirty protest in my kitchen.

Gerry’s 2008 chart and a choon (no.9) already posted number one of year. Bye.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Guns n’ Roses Chinese Democrary 21 8
29 Keane Perfect Symmetry NE 1
28 Fall Out Boy America’s Sweethearts NE 1
27 Twisted Wheel Lucy The Castle 18 8
26 Portishead Magic Doors NE 1
25 Kaiser Chiefs Good Days Bad Days 27 3
24 Pendulum Showdown 24 3
23 The Verve Rather Be 17 7
22 Fightstar The English Way 14 11
21 The Prodigy Invaders Must Die 26 2
20 Bloc Party One Month Off NE 1
19 Santogold Say A-Ha 12 6
18 Raconteurs Old Enough 23 2
17 The Rifles Great Escape 13 4
16 The Asteroids Galaxy Tour Around The Bend 19 3
15 The Hold Steady Stay Positive 22 2
14 Franz Ferdinand Ulysses 16 5
13 Team Waterpolo So Called Summer 9 8
12 Ladyhawke My Delerium 7 6
11 The Wombats Is This Christmas? 11 4
10 Kings Of Leon Use Somebody 8 7
9 White Lies To Lose My Life 20 2
8 Oasis I’m Outta Time 4 7
7 Slipknot Dead Memories 10 3
6 Eagles Of Death Metal Wanna Be In LA 15 2
5 Glasvegas Please Come Back Home 6 4
4 Apocalyptica I Don’t Care 5 3
3 Grammatics The Vague Archive 2 5
2 Paramore Decode 3 4
1 Baddies Battleships 1 5


rappin’

Jamie arrived on time and we set off on the tube to meet Gerry and Jim at The Royal George, a cosy little place on the Charing Cross Road right by the Astoria. Already the place was swarming with Hawkwind fans, essentially, fat old men and the odd punk. The road reeked.

We had a few sharpeners and made our way in almost as soon as the band came on. They opened with one of my favourites (Master of the Universe to those of you who give a flying fuck) and launched into a mixed bag of ancient classics drawing heavily from the Calvert period which is a little more ‘punk’ than the earlier swirls of psychedelic heaviness. It was fantastic, so good in fact that Jamie dragged me to the front where a load of large men were slamming into each other. From my new vantage point the band were only a few feet away and I was somewhat stage struck. I’ve been a fan since I was 14, it was a big deal. They ended with a frenetic version of Silver Machine, to the layman this was probably to be expected but in the 20 or so times I’ve seen them this is only the second time I’ve heard them play what has been regarded by John Lydon as the inspiration for the Sex Pistols.

It was also the end of an era, The Astoria is due to close in a couple of weeks which is a crying shame, it is/was one of the best venues in town and I’m very sorry to see it go. Balls. Nonetheless, full of joy, booze and as deaf as posts we were forced onto the tube as the pubs were no longer serving (us?) and Jamie and I arrived back in Tooting in the freezing rain determined to have a Shawarma before we called it a day.

I woke in the morning with a headache feeling awful. Jamie slipped off and I lolled in bed for a while trying to sleep but decided instead to get up and take a much needed bath. After a brunch of Tortellini and this tomato sauce I’d knocked up on Monday evening (fry off some onions and garlic in olive oil add a tin of tomato and grate in some parmesan, sensational, yeah) I was feeling able to face the fucking shopping. I was wrong.

As soon as I entered the vast Sainsbury my head began to swim, I almost lost my balance by the Crackers and bending down to retrieve some Christmas Pudding nearly saw yours truly sprawled on the floor all fainted and shit. I abandoned the desire to run out and maintained the task in hand largely by concluding that whilst the place wasn’t rammed now it would be later and the dreadful experience would be a thousand times worse. I left with a rucksack on my back stuffed full of Christmas based cack that was heavier than cement.

When I got home I had to undertake what I consider to be the most awful festive fuck in the whole of the seasons gitterings. Wrapping. I hate wrapping more than puddles of sick, I just don’t understand it. Why for fucks sake? It took over 3 hours to wrap 9 things, I nearly cried twice, I screamed once and narrowly avoided quite deliberately stabbing myself in the hand. It was only because ‘Ice Cold in Alex’ was on the box that I remained sane. After all this effort the 9 items of varying sizes resembled a MacDonald’s bin. The rest of my non-family presents will be thrown to their intended recipients, unwrapped, I can’t be fucked. It’s the thought that counts right?

IC and I had been invited to a party in town but due to work on the part of the former we were forced to veto the plan. No bother, I rustled up a semi-sort of Christmas dinner and dug out some crackers and when IC arrived we had supper consisting of a nut roast (bought from Marks, it was bloody nice much to my surprise) peas, carrots and this roasted onion and tomato sauce I made on auto-pilot that IC said was marvellous. We had Christmas Pudding for afters (marks bought again, fucking lovely) then played chess. I lost. Blast.

So, that’s about it for 2008, there will be a chart tomoz and not much else and at some point between now and next weekend a long moan about turning fucking 40. Eat that.


goolag

It’s so cunting busy in here today that if that Gulag aficionado Solzhenitsyn was in here he’d break down on the spot with all tinkle trickling down his legs and yelling for his mummy and everything. Twenty-five years working twenty back breaking hours a day living on porridge made from horses hooves is fucking nothing in comparison to what I’m under I can tell you. It’s so bad that I’m taking a day off tomorrow. Christ the stress.

Seeing Hawkwind tonight. There won’t be a mention of it in tomorrows Piqued due my day orf and the fact that I probably won’t be able to sit up without dribbling rainbows let alone face a keypad. So I’ll leave you with one of their offings, I’ve probably posted it before, tell someone who gives a shit, yeah


werfsz

My weekend began with a pint and a fucking curry, just like a real man might. I met up with Frank from up the road and we had a pint in another local, one full of local people but not the same ones from the local one we normally frequent because it wasn’t local to them. The place was rammed full of locals but we managed to find a spot in which to imbibe without interruption from locals before moving onto the curry house with was, thankfully, virtually local-free.

We ate ourselves solid, a vast quantity of delicious matter went in and stayed down, before we left for home we went back to the pub and did some whisky. Sensibly, when I returned home I had some wine. Actually this wasn’t sensible, I woke on Saturday with a magnificent hangover that I had to kill before setting off to the East End to meet IC. Using the holy trinity of bath, tea and crumpets (the latter with marmalade and butter) the malaise was compromised sufficiently for me to travel the hour-long journey without vomiting Lamb Jalfrezi/vinegar, bursting into to tears or farting mustard gas over my travel companions. By the time I arrived at Hackney I was as right as rain.

IC and I did some light shopping; this was my last weekend with her before Christmas and therefore my birthday (indeed, this was my last weekend with her in my 30’s. I thought about bursting into tears again as this realisation punched me in the face as we passed by drunk men). She needed to finish up her purchases before she nips off to foreign this weekend but despite what I said about weeping on the pavement it was rather jolly and festive. When we returned home we watched two Hitchcock movies taking us through dinnertime and the evening, a sedentary quantity of Processco was enjoyed as Saturday kicked off its shoes and dressed for Sunday.

We got up late and went out after espresso to finish off the Christmas stuff. This meant a protracted visit to Woolies to get toys for IC’s cousins which caused my mind to recall such visits with mum round Christmas when I was no bigger than sperm. It became apparent that I’ve maintained the same idiotic delight when surrounded by toys, indeed, I was on the verge of wandering about the place swinging a light sabre with a Dalek on my head. I resisted maintaining both my dignity and a day in court.

We got back and ate a late lunch of smoked salmon and poached eggs, watched a couple of Curbs and popped out for a drink early evening. A lovely warm night of food and TV saw the weekend off, sadly. Now the jaws of Christmas are wide open with all manner of delights ahead, alas, this also means sporadic posts. Alas indeed, here, have some E6…


big jobz

Sorry for lack of post yesterday, you may have supposed I was busy, if so, well done. I was.

It’s going to be a bit hit and miss on here until the New Year but there’ll be a bumper post before Christmas involving my whinging about turning 40, something to look forward to right there.

News in. The Filth (aka Cunt) has a job. I know this because he’s got a fucking gob like the Blackwall Tunnel and was informing someone at ear splitting volume on the mobile phone Daddy bought him in the communal hallway yesterday. I heard, ‘yeah, I gots a jobs, yeah, its alright, I ain’t worked for a bit…’ I so nearly screamed out ‘FOR 7 FUCKING YEARS YOU COCKBAG’ that I almost smashed all the teeth out of my head clapping my hand over my mouth.

This development explains the door slamming at 7 am (at least 3 times in succession as he remembers varies items, like his fucking trousers) to let the whole world know that he’s all growed up now. I’ve not idea what he does I hasten to add, working on the bins? Whacking off tramps? Trafficking Romanian orphans? Whatever it is I hope he gets killed before he gets inevitably fired. I wouldn’t trust the freak with shoelaces.

Right, chart, choon and weekend wishes of wonder. Bye.

NO ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 AC/DC Rock n Roll Train 23 12
29 Innerpartysystem Die Tonight Live Forever 18 11
28 Elbow The Bones Of You 24 13
27 Kaiser Chiefs Good Days Bad Days 27 2
26 The Prodigy Invaders Must Die NE 1
25 Red Light Company Scheme Eugene 19 7
24 Pendulum Showdown 30 2
23 Raconteurs Old Enough NE 1
22 The Hold Steady Stay Positive NE 1
21 Guns n Roses Chinese Democracy 14 7
20 White Lies To Lose My Life NE 1
19 The Asteroids Galaxy Tour Around The Bend 26 2
18 Twisted Wheel Lucy The Castle 15 7
17 The Verve Rather Be 12 6
16 Franz Ferdinand Ulysses 16 4
15 Eagles Of Death Metal Wannabe in L.A. NE 1
14 Fightstar The English Way 10 10
13 The Rifles Great Escape 17 3
12 Santogold Say A-Ha 8 5
11 The Wombats Is This Christmas? 13 3
10 Slipknot Dead Memories 20 2
9 Team Waterpolo So Called Summer 6 7
8 Kings Of Leon Use Somebody 7 6
7 Ladyhawke My Delirium 4 5
6 Glasvegas Please Come Back Home 11 3
5 Apocalyptica I Don’t Care 9 2
4 Oasis I’m Outta Time 3 6
3 Paramore Decode 5 3
2 Grammatics The Vague Archive 2 4
1 Baddies Battleships 1 4


soad

It’s always good when hard work and effort is rewarded. But what when it’s not rewarded and instead you get a kick in the fucking balls? The two little bastards I spent training all day Monday and most of Tuesday have fucked off.

Up to my balls in it today, here have some System