Monthly Archives: January 2009

no jcb

Weekend can’t come fast enough for me. It’s not been a bad week, business has been alright, I put my flat on the market and stand to do okay IF it sells at the right price, had a splendid dinner with IC, submitted an entry to the Profanisaurus which my brother agrees is frankly inspired… no, it’s not been a bad week at all. I just fucking hate having to work.

It’s not so much the work itself, when this job is going okay the only thing you have to fear is mild boredom, it’s not like some half-witted Navvy in a compact Elevator is going to drop half a ton of Calcium silicate bricks on my head after being distracted by a bit of downmarket skirt on the other side of the road. What I object to is the having to be here when I don’t actually have to be here. I could do everything from home -and not having to deal with fuse-blowing colleagues who invent the most unbelievable fucking lies in order to make themselves appear more than just the obsequious, loathsome, social outcasts that they are- and probably far more efficiently.

It was jolly nice to see my bro in the pub last night, despite it being relatively short. I was home by 8, in time to take a bath and wash off the fury of being told by a colleague he was direct descendent of JMW Turner, before watching Masterchef and a documentary on youtube about Motorhead.

I’ve a full on weekend ahead, beginning tonight with what could be called ‘clubbing,’ not really my scene to be frank but I’m happy to join in with proceedings. Beats staying in and beating off, right mum.

Before the chart (I don’t make the rules, Gerry does) I’d like to draw you attention once again to I’m mentioning this because the chap in question kindly sent me a bunch of Classic Bike DVD’s and I owe him one. After the chart a surprisingly pretty choon from within, but before all that my fervent desire that you all have wonderful, splendid weekends.

30 Apocalyptica I Don’t Care 22 9
29 Team Waterpolo So Called Summer 25 14
28 The Prodigy Invaders Must Die 20 8
27 The Hold Steady Stay Positive 18 8
26 U2 Get On Your Boots NE 1
25 Morrissey I’m Throwing My Arms……… 23 4
24 Red Light Company Arts And Crafts 30 2
23 Coldplay Life In Technicolour NE 1
22 The King Blues Save The World, Get The Girl NE 1
21 TV On The Radio Dancing Choose 16 5
20 Paramore Decode 14 10
19 The Wombats My Circuitboard City NE 1
18 Fleet Foxes Mykonos 19 4
17 Baddies Battleships 10 11
16 The Rifles Fall To Sorrow 17 3
15 Kings Of Leon Use Somebody 12 13
14 Glasvegas Flowers And Football Tops NE 1
13 Slipknot Dead Memories 7 9
12 The View Shock Horror 24 2
11 Mindless Self Indulgence Evening Wear 11 3
10 Bloc Party One Month Off 5 7
9 Starsailor Tell Me It’s Not Over 13 2
8 Grammatics The Vague Archive 4 11
7 Innerpartysystem Don’t Stop 9 3
6 The Prodigy Omen 15 2
5 The Airborne Toxic Event Sometime Around Midnight 8 4
4 Lily Allen The Fear 6 4
3 Eagles Of Death Metal Wanna Be In L.A. 2 8
2 Cage The Elephant Back Against The Wall 3 4
1 White Lies To Lose My Life 1 8


The estate agent arrived at 5.30 as arranged. A good start. He looked like the real life version of Ralph from the Simpson’s and I wasn’t altogether sure whether I wanted to give him a fat lip or a cuddle. He seemed very unlike an estate agent to be honest, sort of timid, but he seemed to know his business. It transpired that the agent had grown up within half a mile of my very flat, ‘I used to walk past this house on my way to school’ he whispered. He looked at me, Ralph transmogrified into William Macy. Pitiful creature, I thought. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to give him some change for sweets.

His valuation was identical to mine -obviously I’ve done some research on this as I stand to gain somewhat- and unlike other agents I’ve dealt with he didn’t pretend he was helping me sell my gaff for the purposes of altruism. So far so good, as I speak the place is being photographed and a contract is sitting in the kitchen ready to sign.

Had a quiet one last night, well it was quiet for most of the evening but not quiet when Cunt decided to ‘learn’ his guitar. The fucking noise and wailing dear reader, I’ve almost completely run out of adjectives to describe how deluded and, frankly, disturbed you must be to indulge in this genre of cacophony (I shit you not, timeless ‘fast’ strumming, 2 chords max, amplified, and top-of-your-voice actual wailing- all out of tune) and to carry-on fully aware that other people, a lot of other people, can hear you?

Whilst daddy gave him his piss-stinking fucking space (described by the magnificent IC as ‘homeless hostel’) and everything he has, I worked hard for mine and any joy there once was in my flat he sapped out by the possibility and reality of sudden and prolonged exposure to the contests of his fucking head via projected, vile, noise.

I know for a fact he thinks he’s a ‘bloody good’ musician (heard him tell people, loudly of course). I think he thinks he’s putting on a free show, I really do. I hope this goes some way to giving an impression of the mental condition of Cunt because I’ve had enough. I’m exhausted trying to convey my hatred. He’ll pay for what he’s done to me.

I’ve put this on Piqued before; I’m doing so again. It’s the only conceivable solution. Sing-a-long lyrics included courtesy of Verbal Abuse just to nail it home.

You were just a waste of sperm
They way you look
Makes my stomach turn
The way you think
Is no way at all

God you really think you have balls

I hate you ain’t it true
I hate you and everything you do

You walk around like a fucking dick
And everytime you’re near
You know I get real sick

You’re so stupid
There’s nothing in your head
God how I wish that you were dead

I hate you ain’t it true
I hate you and everything you do


I went for dinner last night with IC and had Pork Belly with mash, she had this crab pie which I wish I’d ordered, bloody marvellous it was.

I had to get up early to leave Hackney, my fucking Oyster card was being a moron so when I arrived at Tooting I informed the guard in the booth who simply refused anything was wrong with it. This was most irksome. A row began with me demanding a replacement and him insisting that it was fine. Eventually the guard who’d seen me at the barriers trying to get through –he’d intervened allowing me passage- told his booth-bound colleague that it was indeed faulty. The arsehole then turned on his helpful colleague and they started having a row. At some point the useful guard handed me a form, much to the derision of the special-needs berk in the booth, and I left them to it muttering thanks to the helpful chap and giving the prick in the booth the finger.

It wasn’t even 8.30.

It’s pissing down with rain and the sky is the colour of corpses, but despite all this I’m in a cheerful frame of mind.

Short ‘un today, I’ve a lot to do.

But first, sheer excellence…


After a revolting day in the office that involved mice running about –long suffering readers of this crap will be aware that in addition to disliking them with much intent I’m also a balls out musophobe- I was more than usually relieved to get home.

In the morning I made it abundantly clear to the office that if I saw so much as one hair of the little cunts, or even heard rodent-based scuffling, I’d leave on the spot. I can’t even handle the thought of them but having co-habited in at least 3 places with the little sods I’ve learnt to adopt an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ policy for reasons of basic sanity.

Having said that the occasional yelps about the office as members of staff discovered the little bastards in various locations was extremely unnerving and I had to dig deep when a colleague found one in his trousers a few inches from his ball-sack -yes, that beggars’ belief doesn’t it, it is, however, true. While parts of Piqued have been known to contain hyperbole I don’t joke about shit like that- he whacked the lump on his thigh and a half dead mouse fell out and ran in last circles prior to its despatching. The fact it was killed was the only reason I didn’t flee my post.

I deserved the two pints with Frank in the evening and I’d intended to return home, eat/bathe and fuck the night off on Bioshock courtesy of that Napoleon Cockaparte fellow (link right) who’d posted me the game last week. But, as they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions… Mid way through the bath, I was bathing my ball-sack mindful of my colleagues near miss with the teeth of something unspeakable, and it suddenly occurred to me that I had fucking loads to do on the flat, now, right fucking now…

I leapt out of the bath, pushed food into my gob and set to work. I had to sort my flat out, the estate agent is due over for valuation as soon as I get home on Wednesday and tonight I’m not in. One of the key aspects to selling a property, I’ve been relentlessly told, is to remove those elements that remind potential purchases you live there. They don’t want to see that, you want them to imagine that they live there… Obviously the best way of doing this is to strip the place bare and make it as neutral as possible. However, if this isn’t a viable option there is one other thing you can do, that is, bring out its best features by reducing aspects of your personality whilst giving the impression that the current owner is a bloody good (normal) bloke.

This is easier said than done if one has a penchant for screaming rock, motorcycles, a mild drink and drug habit and other things not for here. It’s not that these aspects of ones personality are necessarily overt, they sort of bleed into one’s surroundings. Pentagram coasters, black nail polish, dangling chains, offensive literature, dubious ointments, illegal objects… the bric-a-brac of Ptolemy.

As I stripped away my essence I established a more feminine persona, IC’s stuff was brought into the fray, I alluded to the fact that a girl regularly came into my lair and I didn’t spend all day masturbating and playing on the ps2, note ps2 and not ps3, a poverty stricken friendless wanker who likes heavy metal doesn’t live here, basically.

Took me until 2 am to give the impression that at least I don’t like heavy metal that much.

Aaah, the rat catcher is here. How fucking Victorian is that.


Christ, reading The Metro into work this morning on the tube (well trying to, I think they’ve got Peaches Geldof chained to the wall in some basement, it’s appallingly written, hard to glean any sense out of it and the random placing of trivia is enough to make you sink your teeth into the fat bastard who sat next to me when she had the whole fucking carriage to park her Plaxton Ltd.) and one would think that the entire world is no more than a hell-infected blob of excrement clutching a one way ticket to Gaza. Relentless waves of misery and pain punctuated with depressing bomblets of vacuous celeb ‘goss’ in a futile attempt to divert our attentions from Armageddon by lauding their milk and honey lifestyles over our credit-cracked and ruined existence as we tirelessly work to rid ourselves of the shackles of ignominy and perhaps begin to claw towards to the surface for a glimpse of the sunshine in which They, the chosen ones, bathe…

So how about a positive story from your ol’ mucca Piqued? Eh, bathe in this one. Ridley Road market 3.13pm on Saturday. I bumped into a big black dude, he stepped back and I lurched forwards and we crunched into each other with some force. I apologised, he apologised profusely, I apologised again and gave him a friendly pat on the back, he apologised vehemently insisting that I shouldn’t be apologising then shook my hand. We both laughed, ah ha ha ha. Marvellous.

So there you are, its not all doom and gloom and not one Paris Hilton in sight.

I met IC on Friday in a pub by London Bridge and we took a Train to Surrey where my newly pregnant sister had kindly arranged to pick us up. Unfortunately I had taken IC and I to the wrong station, my sister, some 30 mins away at the right station, wasn’t best pleased on hearing the news especially as we were late in the first instance. We waited for half an hour in the freezing cold in the middle of nowhere. Mercifully by the time she’s arrived and called me a cunt a few times she’d calmed down which was a relief, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of her, she’ll have your pills off.

My bro-in-Law had made Nachos and fishcakes, we drank wine and nattered with my sis looking a bit green in the corner occasionally nipping upstairs to bark out some early pregnant detritus. As is the case on a Friday, the evening –the most hallowed time of the week- raced by and before we knew it we were back on the train home.

Saturday got off to a slow start, after lunch we took the train east, did some shopping and relaxed before the evening. Saturday night we took a trip to a Vietnamese restaurant in Dalston with Swineshead, his missus and a couple of friends. IC and I opted for fish based delights that were lost in a glorious sea of starters, side dishes, noodles and rice that all seemed to arrive at once. We 6 gorged and left after queuing for 20 mins by the door to pay. Doing a chew n’ screw couldn’t have been easier.

We all piled into Andrews car and went back to IC’s and rounded the evening off with a few wines and a bit of smoke before calling it a day in the wee hours. I didn’t rise ‘til lunchtime on Sunday, it was a dour day but we managed to make it to Columbia Road where IC purchased an enormous cactus, size of Mike Tyson’s head it was, which we transported home by foot very, very carefully.

Weekend was seen off with a sort of table picnic and a couple of movies, a dreadful though entertaining load of tosh with Kevin Bacon called ‘Death Sentence’ which we followed up with the sublime Zelig.

There you go, not all that bad, no one got stabbed, mugged, raped, beaten or impeached. Fuck you Metro.


Kasugai Hot Green Peas probably rate as my all time favourite snack, maybe… Maybe it’s just because they were there at the right time and to see them just sat there all coy in my cupboard after being recently purchased… well something just took hold of me. I ripped off their foil clothes and emptied them into a bowl…

After a day mucking about on WWM and playing Scrabble, and working of course, I met Woo and Louche in a boozer near Covent Garden for a good old bloody chinwag. I’d not seen either for a while and we supped Abbot Ale as we caught up. Marvellous.

It was only when I got home I realised I’d not eaten. Fortunately I’d saved a prawn and potato cake -which was as good cold as it had been hot. But this wasn’t enough to sate my appetite.

…I didn’t mean to eat all the fucking peas. I was watching Masterchef on iplayer and they were just despatched into mine gut before I knew what was happening. I didn’t think twice about it, save to acknowledge their hot-deliciousness, and I went to bed.

This morning I woke myself up. I thought I was involved in an air raid; well I was of sorts… quite unbelievable, it would’ve brought a tear of pride to my dad’s eye who prizes a good fart as an amateur gardener does a marrow. It certainly brought tears to mine.

Even as I type this I’ve yet to rid myself of the hot green little bastards, I’ve had 5 visits to the loo already and the atmosphere round my desk is one of an Irish pigsty.

I sincerely hope I’ll be sufficiently evacuated by then, I’ve a weekend’s ass to kick and at the moment I daren’t lift my leg.

Right, music time, before Gerry’s chart and a choon something else. Before someone yelled ‘Judas’ at Bob Dylan when he plugged in his electric guitar all his music was acoustic. Similarly, all this blokes’ music is acoustic. But not all of it is. Clueless as to what I’m harping on about? CUT AND PASTE the links and find out.

…and have good weekends (mum).

30 Red Light Company Arts And Crafts NE 1
29 Frank Turner Reasons Not To Be An Idiot 22 4
28 Glasvegas Please Come Back Home 18 9
27 All American Rejects Gives You Hell 29 2
26 Oasis I’m Outta Time 21 12
25 Team Waterpolo So Called Summer 19 13
24 The View Shock Horror NE 1
23 Morrissey I’m Throwing My Arms……. 25 3
22 Apocalyptica I Don’t Care 15 8
21 Franz Ferdinand Ulysses 13 10
20 The Prodigy Invaders Must Die 12 7
19 Fleet Foxes Mykonos 23 3
18 The Hold Steady Stay Positive 11 7
17 The Rifles Fall To Sorrow 24 2
16 TV On The Radio Dancing Choose 16 4
15 The Prodigy Omen NE 1
14 Paramore Decode 9 9
13 Starsailor Tell Me It’s Not Over NE 1
12 Kings Of Leon Use Somebody 14 12
11 Mindless Self Indulgence Evening Wear 17 2
10 Baddies Battleships 7 10
9 Innerpartysystem Don’t Stop 20 2
8 The Airborne Toxic Event Sometime Around Midnight 10 3
7 Slipknot Dead Memories 5 8
6 Lily Allen The Fear 8 3
5 Bloc Party One Month Off 3 6
4 Grammatics The Vague Archive 2 10
3 Cage The Elephant Back Against The Wall 6 3
2 Eagles Of Death Metal Wanna Be In L.A. 4 7
1 White Lies To Lose My Life 1 7


Apparently, the last thing Bush said to Barak when handing over his presidency was, ‘it’s all yours now, good luck,’ as if handing the last soldier in the platoon the only regiment prophylactic -overflowing with sperms, besmirched by hair, shit and a sizable tear- before gesturing towards an exhausted prostitute with face like an Easter Island megalith and one on her like Gregg Wallace’s regurgitated trifle.

I know Bush wasn’t being sarcastic; he’s incapable of such a lofty forms of wit. The fucker actually meant it because he knows what a total and utter mess he’s left the place in. If I may be allowed to indulge in another simile, and I think I can, ‘it’s all yours now, good luck,’ is akin to the sheepish visage of a man whose just left a public lavatory with his Ketosteroid riddled shit up the walls, bum fodder drenched with infected piss and his daughters foetus floating in the chod bin.

I had a fucking nice night by the way. IC came over for some prawn and potato cakes, with a side of roast tomato sauce, and a film, The Woodsman, which is brave, flawed, gripping and thoroughly cheerless. This may not sound like the ingredients of a fucking nice night but it was.

The weekend is on the horizon, already plans are being mooted and it looks as if it’s going to be sensational.

Rare footage folks… (mum)