Monthly Archives: December 2008

smel

Fuck. Just heard Oliver Postgate had died. More on him tomorrow, fuck, though.

Yesterday was awful, in addition to having to ‘train’ two less than enthusiastic actress types to not giggle and listen to I-pods when they were supposed to be fucking working, I was under the crushing pressure of two deadlines which were being stood on by my boss wearing lead-soled shoes eating the full Ginster pasty range with a very big (heavy) hat on.

I was fucking exhausted having been woken by The Filth downstairs quite deliberately slamming the front door (3 times) at 5 am. I was going to go into one here but I don’t think my aged heart could bear the vitriol. Deep breath. Relax. Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Right. The cessation of the workday was embraced by a trip to the West End to meet up with IC and Len, we had a fucking expensive bottle of Pinot Noir in a dead posh Hotel (courtesy of Len I hasten to add) and then to Soho for Sushi, cheap and delicious it was, accompanied by much natter and wotnot before undertaking the long haul back to Hackney.

Christmas is properly looming. The festive atmosphere is tightening its grip round my throat as pound notes and appointments fly in and out like worker bees. With Christmas, along with tinsel and twinkling lights, come the fucking advertisers desperate to purloin your hard earn wage. Perhaps the most veracious genre of the advertising species are the smell merchants, purveyors of designer scent that sell their guff (and most of it smells like one) via the most absurd and incomprehensible marketing since the invention of the cathode ray tube. The pretentious format hasn’t changed in years, take this sublime (and literal) 80’s example from Fry and Laurie, you’ll despair and laugh in equal measure.


speedoz

After work on Friday most of the office went to the local pub, a most unpleasant venue that’s best avoided like one might avoid vagina dentate, which happened to be hosting an office party, a wake and enteraining a crew of pissed scaffolders. Nonetheless, after free drinks courtesy of the boss, I left feeling perfectly refreshed. I stopped off at a mates on the way home for a wine or two and was home safe and well by 10-ish with some food and a desire to sleep. My Friday was in abstract contrast to the preferred IC/Hackney option that was curtailed but the rather irksome fact that IC isn’t in the country at present. Balls.

Anyway, Saturday began with a long bath, bacon and eggs and Radio 4, I was already preparing myself for a shitty journey to Croydon on the Black Bitch, she’s not been feeling well of late, in addition to snapping her speedo cable, Bitch has been having radiator issues and she’ll require a new sprocket and chain set sometime soon. I’d pre-ordered and, I thought, pre-paid for the speedo cable and figured I’d enquire about the other matters on arrival.

It was cold but lovely and sunny and despite my having to travel through the arsehole of London the ride was perfectly acceptable even though I’d no clue how fast I was going. I’d even decided to visit James on my return as he lives fairly near my destination, the poor sod. I arrived at the bike shop and went in to collect my cable. As I assumed I’d already paid for it I was a bit annoyed to be informed I hadn’t and my protestations of the validity of this supposed transaction could well have been misconstrue as yours truly trying to pull a fast one, put it this way, they didn’t seem best pleased when I questioned their integrity. Anyway, I paid for the cable (again?) and fitted it before setting off for James’s. Ah, how lovely to witness the ferocious speeds I cover the earth…then I heard a clear ‘snap’ and my speedo died. I’d travelled barely a mile.

I went back to the shop, detached the new and I assumed broken cable and confronted the member of staff whose honesty I’d question previously. I was a bit cross and the cable was being waved about a bit. After informing the chap the cable was fucked, and him quietly informing me that it can’t be, I somehow managed to slice open the top of my finger at the end of said fucking cable just as I began to lose my temper. Dear reader, don’t try and have an argument with a person whilst bleeding heavily, when the recipient of your vitriol has quietly given you tissues after mopping up a pool of your blood as you vent spleen, you have to accept defeat. I did. I knew he was right, I just didn’t want the financial consequences.

After paying them 30 quid to be informed my radiator, chain/sprockets and, of course, my speedo clock were fucked (totaling £600 in parts/labour) I left with my tail twixt my leather clad legs vowing to return next year to get it all fixed. Despite all this I had a killer ride back home, it’s a funny old game this motorcycling.

That evening I met up with Frank for a few ales; we sat outside in a heated tent of sorts and quaffed Bombardier over conversation that inevitably arrived at childcare what with last weeks news and all. At home I ate and watched guff on TV before rocking the fuck out until a bed appeared under my face.

Sunday, sister’s birthday. There had been a frost overnight and my road looked like Greenland. I had crumpets for breakfast and held out as long as possible before leaving for the folks but the road maintained its coat of ice. I’m not a fan of riding on ice but it can be done if one is careful, the basic rule is back brake only (applied gingerly) and to use the clutch to feed the power off so the rear wheel doesn’t snap during de-acceleration, but despite this knowledge and experience I had two heart stopping moments on my road and indeed on my parents road, which was in much the same condition.

The family sat down to lunch amid the usual volley of bad language, wind and hysterics. For once my niece had decided I was okay and didn’t scream the fucking place down when I so much as looked at her. It was a splendid afternoon, highlight of the weekend. I know how lucky I am in this respect. Being a Sunday I’d already accepted that when I left my weekend wasn’t going to improve, I wobbled up the road on the ice at 5-ish and headed back home, the roads were lethal, the traffic rich and I was freezing cold, frozen when I finally got back home.

Oh, this caught my ear this morning. The original album artwork for Virgin Killer by The Scorpions has been banned 32 years after it’s release by The Internet Watchdog foundation. I have to say, the artwork itself is at best tasteless and at worse dubious but why now has this image suddenly become so contentious that it’s been categorized as ch1ld p0rn? It’s not the sort of thing I’d have hanging on my wall I hasten to add, it’s a little iffy to say the least, but this image isn’t the problem, this new wave of neo-conservatism is.

It seems to me that these people project their horror onto the benignly sensational, I’ll go one step further, if you see the image as ch1ld p0rn you need to go see a doctor because it’s your head that’s responsible from converting ‘mmm’ to ‘Aaaaarrgggggghh!’

News just in, under their clothes all children are completely naked! Someone call The Daily Mail.


maffyouz

Oh the media! You have to love ‘em. Karen Matthews, apparently, is ‘pure evil.’

Oh dear. I could supply a list as long as my longest arm of acts that constitute ‘pure evil,’ acts that have taken place in the last week, mercifully most of them overseas, but to compare a revolting unintelligent slag and her not-firing-on-all-cylinders partner to Robert Mugabe, for example, is absurdity bordering on the obscene. I mean, if that’s your benchmark for ‘pure evil,’ what can be applied to the likes of Hitler, Pinochet, Cunt? Don’t misconstrue me here, Karen Matthews and Lurch are a couple of fucking wankers and what they did was a bloody disgrace but Shannon wasn’t hurt or fondled or injured, yes she was afraid and giving her some drugs and holding her against her will is simply disgusting, but evil? No.

The weekend has landed again. Low key one for me, save my sisters b’day on Sunday. But first I have to get through today. I discovered yesterday that I’m not getting a Christmas bonus -which is horrific news- so morale, with regard to the office, is flatter than a witches tit. Add to that deadline pressure and an all round air of fucking despair it may not be of great surprise that I’m feeling shite.

So, I’ll cheer myself with Gerry’s chart and a tune from within its bowels and delight in wishing you all marvellous weekends. Now there altruism for you, right there.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Pendulum Showdown NE 1
29 Friendly Fires Paris 24 7
28 Coldplay Lost! 18 4
27 Kaiser Chiefs Good Days Bad Days NE 1
26 The Asteroids Galaxy Tour Around The Bend NE 1
25 Bloc Party Talons 20 11
24 Elbow The Bones Of You 19 12
23 AC/DC Rock n’ Roll Train 21 11
22 Enter Shikari We Can Breathe In Space…. 16 7
21 M.I.A. Paper Planes 14 9
20 Slipknot Dead Memories NE 1
19 Red Light Company Scheme Eugene 13 6
18 Innerpartysystem Die Tonight Live Forever 11 10
17 The Rifles Great Escape 23 2
16 Franz Ferdinand Ulysses 17 3
15 Twisted Wheel Lucy The Castle 15 6
14 Guns n’ Roses Chinese Democracy 12 6
13 The Wombats Is This Christmas? 22 2
12 The Verve Rather Be 9 5
11 Glasvegas Please Come Back Home 25 2
10 Fightstar The English Way 8 9
9 Apocalyptica I Don’t Care NE 1
8 Santogold Say A-Ha 7 4
7 Kings Of Leon Use Somebody 6 5
6 Team Waterpolo So Called Summer 4 6
5 Paramore Decode 10 2
4 Ladyhawke My Delirium 3 4
3 Oasis I’m Outta Time 1 5
2 The Grammatics The Vague Archive 5 3
1 Baddies Battleships 2 3

(btw, no1 was last weeks vid, it’s fantastic)


meatro

If you want your blood to boil first thing, try reading the Metro. For those of you not based in London, it’s a free morning newspaper and it’s utter fucking shit.

Before we even get into this Metro is part of the Associated Group, them of the Evening Standard and much more disturbingly the perpetually disgusting Daily Mail. The bastard Metro somehow manages to combine the political sensibilities of its reactionary Victorian father and every single tea-break tart-mag that appeals to half-witted non-emancipated woman of a certain fuck-wittedness.

Let’s take today for example if we must. It featured Britney on the front cover with her miserable septuagenarian tits half hanging out and something about her vile hooters that I didn’t read because it’s of no consequence to anyone or anything with a pulse. Page 3 was taken up with some retarded shit about ‘a game’… I was going to explain it but really it’s of less importance than Blake Fielder-Civil’s foreskin though it did feature a picture of a grinning ‘player’ eating a sandwich with his name printed underneath for no reason at all causing me to nearly assault the bloke next to me just to vent myself.

Page after page of trite cunting fuck, nothing, NOTHING, page 12348000, 3 lines on 35 children (in Africa) being poisoning to death by some deadly chemical in a teething syrup before a glut of whoremonging celeb shit and finally endless pictures of zillionaire footballers, most of whom could be seen enjoying a pissed night out on previous pages, with some vacuous plastic-titted blonde clone with the brains of a rocking horse and a cunt like a chicken donar.

I’m not in the best of moods today. After suffering at the hands of the media I passed by Cunt looking alive and unharmed. Fucking hell.

Right, this sketch was made circa 1990 but it’s of more worth today than ever before, if only eh?


pig

Sorry about the lack of post yesterday. I meant to say on Monday that I wouldn’t be writing.

Dad and I went to Birmingham for the International Bike Show. I’ve been virtually every year since I was 4, and apart from the change that has taken place with technology/design and the coming and going of various marques, the same pathetic excitement of sitting on a brand-new fuck-the-world machine has lost none of its immature thrill for both of us. It was a marvellous day.

Despite feeling exhausted from the trip I still managed to make it over to Wandsworth to meet Rosh, Merve and Wilhelm for a bowl of pasta, glass of wine and a protracted conversation about Heavy Metal. Despite such jollity I wasn’t able to stay out long, I was knackered from the day and by midnight was sound asleep.

So, Monday night. I nipped out for a jar with Frank and Harry, got home, ate and bathed my balls and had just settled down with The Wire at about 10.30 when there was a firm knock on the communal front door. Obviously I spurned it, there are two flats in the house and being upstairs I have my own doorbell. No doorbell, no answer.

But the knocking persisted, it morphed into banging. I angrily got up and went to the window and it was then I discovered the flashing blue light wasn’t from the TV. Two cops glared up at me from the pavement. Never a good thing that, really. I went down stairs and opened the door, they moved towards me with a certain degree of intent. ‘You Cunt?’ one of them muttered. I replied ‘no’ with some aggression furious at being mistaken for a creature viler than Ebola.
‘You know where he is?’ I contained myself; one of them was already sizing me up despite looking as if he’d just failed his GCSE’s. In patronising tone I explained the fact that I live an entirely separate existence ‘up there’ (I pointed dramatically to my staircase) and have no idea where he is, what he’s doing or done, ‘…nor did I give a flying fuck,’ which wasn’t greeted very well by teen-cop still giving me hairy eyeballs. They began pounding on his inner door. I closed mine and carried on watching TV. For over 5mins they pounded, calling his name, clearly convinced he was hiding in there. He wasn’t, of course. I know when that dribbling cake is in and I’m delighted to report that since Sunday lunchtime, after I heard him grapple with the physics of closing a front door quietly, I’d not heard so much as a honk from his graveyard maw.

His post is gathering, golden silence prevails. It’s too much to dream that he’s in there swollen, fetid and gently inflating. Sadly, no. Cunt has done a runner and I hope, unless it’s on the fucking news, I never see him again. (…though I’m still holding out for a strong smell from downstairs and just one bluebottle, just one…)


uber alas

I used to be quite good at chess. In fact, I used to rate myself based on my canny knack of levelling legions of pawns and knights and usurping the monarchy. So good I considered myself to be that it gave way to boasting last week, I boasted in front of IC and her flatmate Mary, I opened and shut my cavernous gob and words of triumph and victory came out, I even smirked. A match was arranged and after arising on Sunday, battle commenced. After 5 games I finally won one at about 10 pm, and I reckon that was only because IC was a bit pissed and, frankly, let me win after ‘confusing’ the rook with what she referred to as the ‘diagonal man.’

This massive humiliation at the hands of my friend did nothing to upset what was a marvellous weekend. It began like it does so often with a tube journey following a day at the fucking coalface. I arrived at Hackney later than planned due to buses being shit and after settling in IC and I ate and prepared or the club type thing.

At 10-ish we met up with Paul and took the bus to Shoreditch. Mary was already there as she had a guest spot as DJ. I may have already explained that this clubbing business is something relatively new, I used to frequent a psychedelic club decades ago but since then it’s only lately I’ve been doing this sort of thing. The music played at this venue lies on the boundaries of my taste, it’s electronic (guitar free) but is still delightfully heavy. Mary, though, plays stuff that I rather like, largely German and fairly nasty (a sample will appear following this drivel). The venue itself is quite friendly and having been a few times I know a few faces to talk at, the drinks are reasonable and it’s free to get in. I suppose I’m trying to convey to my reader that I’m not a Shoreditch twat and if you were to see my attempts at busting a move on the dance floor this would become overtly apparent.

Time passed by quickly, drinks appeared left right and centre and Mary played a jolly good set. We hung around for a while after she’d finished but IC and I were shattered so we toddled off home following a freezing wait for the bus.

Saturday I made scrambled egg and smoked salmon for brunch after a short visit to the shops, in hindsight I can barely recall undertaking the task which suggests I may have still been enjoying Fridays drinks. Mid afternoon and feeling much more lively IC and I travelled back to Tooting. Before arriving home we did a spot of shopping and had a serendipitous encounter in a flea market that felt all foreign and exciting. We watched a movie and at 8 were out on the street heading for a sushi place near Balham sensibly punctuating the journey with a sharpener which was fortunate because we wound up walking the whole way there and it was fucking cold (again).

The restaurant was empty, in fact, for most of the evening we were alone with the pedantic staff. The food was fantastic but let down somewhat by discovering a small amount of fucking plastic in the California Rolls. IC has had experience in the restaurant business and suggested I deal with the matter without being a berk (i.e., refusing to pay and doing toilet all over the manager) besides the rest of the fare was so good we’ve every intention of returning. Hey, we all make mistakes, yeah.

We got back and continued nattering with some music and wine, so engaged were we that we didn’t actually go to bed until about 5… actually, that’s why my chess playing was so dreadful, it’s because I was ill. Yes, ill.

Oh good, it’s cunting Monday. It’s fucking cold.

Right, today’s offing, awful video and the fact the lead singer looks like a young homosexual Charlie Brooker doesn’t help much either.