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)


I would’ve been dead chuffed if Barak had begun his inauguration speech with ‘where the white women at?’ in ridiculously over exaggerated African American patois. But he didn’t. Instead he spoke of peace, freedom and equality in a speech that had aspects of realism over rhetoric, the bloody wuss.

In the space of a few hours Barak (we’re on first name terms already) has done more for peace than that fucking knuckle-dragging gibbon did in 8 years. Of course, it’s way too early to start punching the air in delight that we have found gold with this one, but it’s a jolly good start.

I spent most of the evening on my ludicrously powerful PC organising my not-as-vast-a-collection-of-pics-as-I-thought. For some irritating reason when I transferred my snaps from my stone-age Vaio to my Mars-landing Toshiba, snaps had duplicated, in certain cases by 4 times. I’m not sure if this was always the case or if I’ve transferred more than one file (who cares) but it was a right cunting pain picking through them and getting rid of copies. It took over 4 hours for me to organise them into separate files.

And that was basically my evening, boring huh. I sort of watched Leaving Las Vegas (let down by the end, it sort of has nowhere to go) as I footled on the PC. I watched the latest Masterchef on i-player and hit the hay.

Rock n’ roll.

Oh okay then


So, last day of that Simian cunt, Bush. I’m getting increasing annoyed with the media portraying him as some sort of lovable bumbling prick. The man is a war criminal responsible for the death of thousands and thousands of innocent men, women and children and the inauguration of constitutional defying prisons that flaunt the Geneva Convention.

The fact that the Americans voted for this monkey (twice) should be a cause of enormous shame; it’s not a fucking joke. The Republicans have demonised the United States. The collective laughter-behind-hands at futile gestures of ‘intelligence’ i.e., invented polysyllabic words, shouldn’t take precedence over disgusting behaviour in the Middle East. His legacy is one of death, destruction and endless war, not of a man incapable of opening a fucking door.

Right up until the very end of his presidency, as he presents himself to the world as a self-effacing, avuncular sort of fellow, US sponsored Israel invades Gaza causing the deaths of thousands of innocent people. On his last day in office, this very day, they withdraw as if nothing has happened. You buying that world?

So Barak, over to you. I hope for the best but the cynic in me awaits disappointment.

On a lighter note, I’m moving. I’m going to East London; In addition to being nearer to IC I’ve had more than my fill of Tooting, of that Filth that I live over. It’s a simple equation, either I go or he dies. In addition to his armoury of human worthlessness he’s now decided to stink the place out, he’s always stunk but we’re now at eye watering levels of ammonia… And he’s now snoring louder than Dresden. Last night he actually woke me up… Every fucking dog turd in South London will be heading for his letterbox shortly…

Of course selling at this time isn’t too clever for obvious reasons but it’s all relative, well it would be if I was buying in East London. I don’t know if I will buy again for the while; don’t know if I’ll have anything left over for a deposit for a kick off. We’ll see. I just want out.

What I do know is that I’m already having my blood pressure raised to steam-train-boiler levels by Estate Agents. Actually, I’m so fucking angry about this right now I’m unable to coherently explain myself… I mean less than usual, of course.

Goodbye George, to call you ‘retard’ is an insult to David Cameron. Now fuck off.


Tony Hart, Children’s TV artist par excellence is dead for fucks sake. First Oliver Postgate and now Tone. Brian Cant, Derek Griffith and Toni Arthur (my first crush) to go and that’s the end of my Childhood. I’m particularly pissed about Tony though, he was my favourite.

The idea of watching a bloke make a picture out of crayons and shit (not actual excrement, I employed ‘shit’ there as a euphemism for ephemeral implements) probably seems an anathema to the rave generation all drugged up on pot. He’d begin and you’d be sat there thinking, ‘what the FUCK is this cunt doing? Hey, I don’t know or care but I fucking LOVE it!’ He’d make marks using relatively untraditional tools, lot of close-ups of him applying paint and shit (again, not actual excretion, I employed ‘shit’ there as a euphemism for ephemeral mark-making material) intriguing it was. I was always intrigued by Tone. And then the final shot of what it was this white-haired little fellow with a cravat -a smile dancing over his lovely face- was doing would become apparent. It was always bloody good too, usually astonishing, actually. The white wheel marker series spring to mind as the best ones ever. We’d seen Tone sped up via camera trickery on a playing field going all funny with this little barrow making lines, he was filmed from odd angles and the occasion aerial shot to tantalise, but never fully reveal what he was doing. Then right at the end, bang! The Birth of Venus, right there.

Interesting fact, before Play Away, Take Hart, Art Attack and Smart, Tone was a Ghurka. I wonder if he used to make pictures with heads? I bet he did. Bye Tony.

I had a good weekend, actually it was splendid. Some good news and bad, sister up the duff with the same bloke that gave her my niece, her husband, but my granddad isn’t too bright. He’s nearly 102 and despite not being able to see that well has, until lately, been in remarkable health. His mind is still razor sharp which isn’t necessarily a good thing when you can see your body farting out its existence. I don’t want him to suffer; I’ve seen enough of that so I’m being pragmatic…

Weekend begun at home with IC following a brief sojourn to Sainsbury. I made this fish stew which looked like a Dockers Omlette (vomit) but tasted fucking delicious. We watched a clutch of Peep Shows and drunk a bottle of champagne that I’d ‘won’ at work, and then a few mixed spirits. On Saturday after breakfast (smoked trout, spinach and a poached egg) we nipped into town. IC needed some stuff and she took on a massage in Neal’s Yard that had been given to her by a pal for Christmas. I was happy to wonder about, it was especially pleasant in Chinatown as all the lanterns were out to celebrate the New Year. We tubed it back to Tooting and had a drink in the boozer I spent Boxing Day evening in before popping over the road for a lovely curry. At home, stuffed full of Prawns, Spinach Pakoda, Naan, etc and wine, we did another bottle of the gained Champagne and watched the re-make of Funny Games, which doesn’t hold a candle to the original. We didn’t mid though, sloshed we was, besides, outside it was all wind, rain and hail so being indoors was notably appreciated.

Sunday began slowly, after breakfast at 1-ish, making it lunchfast I guess, we fucked off to the East End. The weather was bright and cold so we walked from Old Street to Hackney passing by the remains of the Flower Market, through Broadway and cutting up London Fields which had a dwindling-weekend feeling about it. Back at IC’s the final part of the weekend was seen off with a bunch of Vegetarian Pies and more Peep Show. We’re doing the whole bloody lot of them, I’d argue it’s one of the best Sitcoms ever committed to film.

Anyway, it’s Monday now. The weekend is no more than a warm glow and I’m already eyeing up the next.

Until then I need a sharpener. Heads down…


Yesterday was so relentlessly busy I spent the morning a blur of arms; I was like a fucking octopus, squirting ink and everything.

I hate actually working, it’s bollocks, but it does make the day speed up which is splendid. I think it’s the ultimate paradox, fuck the stars, planets and their heavenly constellations; the true mystery of universe lies in the dichotomy that exists in the slovenly-paced day, sitting about on ones arse looking at tattoos on the internet, or the 8-hour zap of busting ones balls in a flurry of keyboards and envelopes.

My incentive for the latter was caused by a meeting in the afternoon and my having to ‘get shit done’ for it. Once I’d achieved my aims I set off for town and met my client at the Royal Festival Hall and did my bidding. Hanging about drinking coffee in a London landmark with a straight-laced client beats working. I unfurl my game of ‘pushing my luck’, which is simply to use my business as a way of touching on unacceptable topics within the allowed confines of culture and art. It doesn’t matter how this is achieved but I only win if I use the word ‘cunt’ via at least two ‘fucks’.

Yesterday, for example, I was able to get onto the perilous topic of the Marquis de Sade via a production at the Donmar Warehouse, this led to a justification of his work through the intellectual eyes of Andre Breton and his Surrealist movement. I could’ve played my hand right there but that would’ve been way too easy, though I did I allow myself to score my first ‘fuck’, or rather, ‘fuckers’ as they are a group named as such in 120 of Sodom which I in no way condone. From there I rationally dropped down to Dada and the political value of undoing the given via the incomprehensible. One ‘fuck’ down I sprung from these pioneers of modernity and landed at the shoeless feet of contemporary art touching on the usual bum-fodder of Brit art accidentally offing another ‘fuck’ in the course of a misplaced rant -fortunately my straight-laced client said ‘piss’ which countered my error- and I brought surrealism back into the fore, exalting their unpleasant subtleties over the clumsy and bland ‘shock’ of modernity. At this point I demonstrated an aspect of the latter’s phenomena by delivering a single (and I thought, beautiful) ‘cunt’ which hit its target which such force it passed right through without so much as a squeak. Then she left.

I’ll not know if I’ve won until next week when the meeting converts into actual business. I’ll keep you posted of course.

Following my victory (?) I met up with my bro in London Bridge for a few pints; the bugger is still unwell (that’s over a month now). IC dropped by for the briefest of moments as she was passing by from work and I left shortly after. I was home by eight, took a hot bath (completely nude I was) and ate a sausage casserole in my honour. The rest of the evening passed in front of my PC watching iplayer stuff.


The weekend is on us! I intend to spend it with IC doing fuck all. This also means its Gerry’s chart and a selected tune from it follows behind. Now do have nice weekends for fucks sake.

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


Nothing in ‘ere today. Completely busy with meetings and all sorts. I will say this though; if you want to get from the East End to fucking Wimbledon by public transport the most direct route (on paper) involves the 38 bus and the District Line. Don’t use either. Both are shitter than a Romanian Hospice.


The weekend was more or less the continuation of the week. I cleared yet more crap out, stuff seems to sprout like hair, once you’ve shaved it off, more grows in its place, but I’m confident that as of 8pm Sunday night I was shorn of shit. My main activity revolved around the PC in terms of writing and the Nano which, due to some generous donations from Rick and Harry, got over-filled. This resulted in my having to restore factory settings and deleting a swathe of material from i-tunes leaving some of the remaining material emasculated, i.e., it said it existed but it didn’t work, so I had to re-upload some of the stuff I’d already downloaded.

To someone who suffers from a touch of the old OCD an i-pod is an object, ultimately, of immense satisfaction; it’s just the aspect of collation that causes issues. Finally I’m no longer dithering over what should be on there and what shouldn’t be. I’m content with the stuff I’ve put on there and due to the donations of aforementioned pals a third of the content is stuff I’ve not heard of which assuages the OCD for some bizarre reason -though now it’s almost like I daren’t listen to them in case they don’t measure up to, or even exceed, my expectations of my taste. In this OCD respect my weekend was insanely busy.

I socialised a bit. I saw Harry on Friday few a few beers in a bar round the corner from my old flat in Clapham (I never should’ve moved from the area, though back in the day Clapham North wasn’t known for hip folk and lively bars, though it was great if you wanted cheap drugs and bushmeat.) I took the tube back home pissed, unconcerned I was annoying fellow travellers with Queens of the Stone Age. It was shockingly cold when alighted, minus a lot and I took care to daub 666 in the frosted windscreens of parked cars on the walk home fully aware of my age.

On Saturday I briefly saw Frank for a couple in the local. I returned home and watched In Bruges, which I enjoyed immensely. It’s a bit daft and a tad too long but has some fantastic set-pieces. The hangover on Sunday was killed with a fry-up, well almost, bacon grilled, eggs poached but the mushrooms were seen to in a pan. I then discovered that I had a cold underneath and was forced to spurn an invite to Brick Lane. I hung around the flat for a bit flopping on things before deciding that I wouldn’t be beaten! So after a large dose of Lemsip and wotnot I nipped off to my parents on the Black Bitch. I’d planned on doing this journey following its seeing-to on the Saturday but the spares didn’t arrive in time, they’ve still not arrived actually and I’m getting a bit concerned, so I had to make do with it not being 100%. It still felt great to be out there on her, nearly 10 years later and I’m still very much in love. I met dad coming round the corner from the folks on his combination (that’s a motorbike and side-car in case you didn’t know) and we all sat down for a nice cup of tea and a natter as the parents tucked into some of IC’s Christmas gift. I cleaned the Bitch and left for an awe inspiring blast home.

Sunday night lasted forever. I watched Castaway with Tom Hanks which is surprising gripping and after midnight decided to purchase Office 2007 online. I went to bed at 2 unable to sleep, reckon I had 4 hours? Monday morning IC was back, her company had decided that their staff should work until lunch despite having had no sleep and been on a plane for fifteen fucking hours.

I’d taken the day off. I got up early and spent a merry few hours abluting, eating, abluting and watching a couple of Top Gears I’d missed on the I-player thing to which I’ve became slavishly addicted. I met IC outside Borough Market at 1.15 and we went back to Hackney where IC recovered from jet lag, a harrowing morning at work and the deprivation of 36 hours worth of sleep. As you’ll know with jet lag you must get straight back into the usual routine so IC had to stay up and face the horror until she could take no more and hit the hay at 10pm.

At work yesterday I discovered the Word document I’d posted from home wouldn’t open on my PC at work, you have noticed the previous post is more bollocks than normal, this is apparently down to my Office 2007 version of Word being vastly superior to the one at work. I actually have to dumb down my version of Word so it can be read by the work system. Talk about winning the fucking prize. In your face, work, yeah.

…The previous paragraph may give some clue as to how fascinating work is at present.

Oh, the Astoria closes today. This is most awful, almost indescribably bad in terms of hitting 40 and having so many happy times there completely bonged out of my pickle as a younger incarnation of myself, the cunts…

And David Vine died yesterday. These sorts of types are irreplaceable, punditry has had its day I reckon. Believe me, you’ll miss it when it’s gone.

(btw, Rick kindly gave me a copy of the latest Verve album among 49 others which I put on Nanni. If you’ve one of these devices with this album ‘pon it scroll to ‘genres’…)


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so… clearly sent using the wrong format from my PC at home. That wasn’t just me swearing for a page. I’ll have this post translated for tomorrow, in the meantime, eat some of this.


No Piqued on Monday, IC back from far, far away and I’m taking the day off.

The printer I ordered arrived yesterday, I’ve should checked dimensions; it’s the size of Jimmy Krankie. Also, it does more ‘things’ than I expected which isn’t a good thing. Products like this are inclined to do lots of things badly as opposed to a couple of things well. This is the sort of shit one can only possible know after reaching forty.

Speaking of which, I’ve noticed that since actually accepting my age, rather, declaring myself to be a forty-year-old man, I’ve become automatically less tolerant to the inconsideration of others. Don’t get me wrong here, I’ve always been intolerant to ill manners but perhaps I was less obtuse? For example, on entering the pub last night I let two chaps out who both shoved past me without so much as a by-your-leave. In my thirties I may have said a sarcastic ‘you’re welcome’ but last evening I caught the second cunt in the ribs with my elbow and said ‘fucking doorman am I?’ right in his bloody clean-shaven moon-face.

Spent some time at home cleaning some more stuff out and arranging the remaining ephemera into spaces I’d created. I’m done now. I also installed the carbuncle of a printer and watched documentary on i-player on the holocaust, I’m loving that new PC, it’s amazing to have proper technology finally.

Right, weekend looms, Gerry’s chart then a tune from within. Enjoy all of it. Bye.

30 Morrissey Throwing My Arms Around Paris NE 1
29 The Rifles Great Escape 22 7
28 The Wombats Is This Christmas? 18 7
27 Ladyhawke My Delerium 20 9
26 Fleet Foxes Mykonos NE 1
25 Cage The Elephant Back Against The Wall NE 1
24 The Asteroids Galaxy Tour Around The Bend 17 6
23 Pendulum Showdown 23 6
22 The Raconteurs Old Enough 15 5
21 Katy Perry Hot n’ Cold 21 3
20 Lily Allen The Fear NE 1
19 Portishead Magic Doors 19 4
18 Frank Turner Reasons Not To Be An Idiot 24 2
17 TV On The Radio Dancing Choose 27 2
16 The Airborne Toxic Event Sometime Around Midnight NE 1
15 Oasis I’m Outta Time 13 10
14 Kings Of Leon Use Somebody 11 10
13 Team Waterpolo So Called Summer 16 11
12 Glasvegas Please Come Back Home 9 7
11 The Prodigy Invaders Must Die 14 5
10 Apocalyptica I Don’t Care 8 6
9 The Hold Steady Stay Positive 12 5
8 Franz Ferdinand Ulysses 10 8
7 Paramore Decode 6 7
6 Baddies Battleships 4 8
5 Slipknot Dead Memories 7 6
4 Bloc Party One Month Off 5 4
3 Eagles Of Death Metal Wanna Be In L.A. 3 5
2 White Lies To Lose My Life 2 5
1 Grammatics The Vague Archive 1 8


I’ve been a busy little fucker. I decided after Christmas that I had too much crap lurking about the gaff and need a tidy up. As of 9pm yesterday every nook and cranny has been purged of unwanted tripe, the only caveat is the loft. I’m not going in there, whatever I possess that exists in the loft can be passed on to whoever takes over my gaff. Annually I reach in for the plastic fibre optic Christmas tree, then a week or so later it gets thrown back. Apart from when I actually moved in that’s the only relationship I have with that place. It’s black in there, black.

Spurning this part of the flat I emptied out a large cupboard in the kitchen and within 10 minutes had two bin liners full of complete rubbish, how I’d come to posses such ephemera is anyone’s guess but after it had been ejected from the premises it rather felt as if I’d had a bloody big shit. Following this I took to my PC, I made it wireless (soon I’ll will fulfil my ambition of emailing mum as I hang a rat) and was up until 3am injecting it with music which in turn was stuffed in my Nanni. I’m exhausted today but feel all 21st century, like Buck Rogers but with a better haircut.

This morning the printer (a birthday gift from my colleagues) arrived. It does everything, which is marvellous, though it’s the size of a fucking mini, which isn’t so marvellous. I’m also waiting for the part for my Black Bitch to show up, I’m fairly sure that they too will give me grief in terms of transporting them home but it has to be done. Come Monday I’ll be the most sorted man in town.

Has David Mitchell been moonlighting as two musicians?

as u wer

It’s beyond contempt being back at work. I’m just not used to it, I feel as if was being airlifted to hospital with a head injury and was dropped into my fucking chair by accident. I’m sat here blinking at my monitor like it’s an apparition, monitors shouldn’t be in offices, they should be in my lounge with all porn on them.

I’ve spent the past couple of evenings locked safely away. Apart from a brief meeting with Frank on Monday the only person I’ve conversed with is myself. Most of this conversation has revolved around the new PC as I stuff information into it. I’ve successfully uploaded all my writing (for what it’s fucking worth, frankly) and all my pics using one of those magic stick devices, though, of course, the lovingly organised files of the latter now exist as some sort of single entity life-flash, it’s going to take an age to arrange.

Mercifully my i-tunes file only consisted of a Ramones album and Motorheads Killed by Death as the whole ‘i’ business was an anathema to me until IC presented me with an i-nano thingy, or a nanni. Tonight I’m going to cram it with so much metal and punk that it’s going to grow studs and vomit on my carpet.

But of course, when it comes to me and computers there will always be issues. For a kick off it refuses to register Windows, despite my having the code, the wireless internet wotsit wants some sort of secret information from me and I don’t have a clue what the fuck it’s on about, not that I need a wireless connection I hasten to add, though emailing and taking shit may be a boon. On top of all this my cunting phone refuses to release its cornucopia of New Years Eve imagery despite my taking to the time to install and uninstall the fucking software 4 times.

I’ve partially solved one problem though. The BB hasn’t been well of late, I mentioned the issues a few weeks ago… anyway, I’ve managed to source a second hand clock unit, rad fan, front and rear brake levers all for under £150 which is nothing short of a miracle. New and I’d be looking at the wrong side of £600. It’s booked in for an overhaul on Saturday and it’s quite impossible to describe to the non-rider how much better one feels when ones Bitch is all set up nice and working as it should…

Anyway, back to the fucking coal-face. But first more of Gerry’s 2008 chart from one of the best bands in the world…


After a wait for what seemed like an age IC’s train finally rolled in sometime past 1am, thank fuck. We went back to Hackney and caught up over wine and some of utterly sublime cheeses procured from foreign. The following day was lost in sea of sleep and unpacking until I left at 4-ish on order to allow IC and her flatmate some time to do the whole Christmas, and in the case of the latter, another birthday celebration. I spent the evening in front of Top Gear sampling some of the festive booze and food at my disposal whilst packing a bag for the short break to the New Forest.

On the Tuesday at midday we took the train from Waterloo to Brockenhurst. We’d visited the area late in summer by car, the easy (and cheap) train journey was by comparison a piece of piss as they say on the streets and an hour an a half after departing we arrived in the freezing cold and took a cab to our hotel, well, what we thought was our hotel. After walking to the right hotel (my fault) we settled in for a while. IC presented me with my birthday present, one of those new fangled I-Pod Nanos, which came as a complete surprise. As I typed this bit I was injecting all sorts of wonderful shit into it, currently The Ramones anthology.

Tinkled pink we headed off for supper down the beautiful and completely isolated street, which has a ring of Hammer Horror quaintness to it, a sort of quinessentially English aspect virtually lost in the mists of our modern times. The Restaurant had just been opened by some friends, one of which originates from the same European country as IC, and it’s been refurbished to a very high yet unobtrusive spec. The food was a sensation, I had a roasted shoulder of lamb that fell apart as soon as one so much as looked at it and IC opted for pumpkin tortellini. This was washed down with Proscecco, the second bottle that day as we had one in the hotel room as a sharpener, and only the booze showed up on the bill after we’d enjoyed a long, lazy dinner whilst conversing with our friends who were serving other diners.

Back at the hotel we had a glass of Port before retiring to our room, which was very nice, save the bed, which felt as if it had been used by Johnny Vegas and Dawn French as a fuck pad. Breakfast too wasn’t really much to write home about, the sausage tasted of dead pig’s cock (one imagines, I’ve never indulged) and the congealing bacon the latter creatures foreskin. Still, it provided enough fodder for our journey home and set the base for New Years Eve.

This had been planned in advance, the intention was to have a few pals over to IC’s and Mary’s gaff in Hackney then pop out to a cub near Shoreditch, but after a few glasses of Cava and the company of some pals, including the redoubtable Swineshead who’d excelled himself by giving me a birthday present of Zombie literature, we decided to stay in, besides it was literally freezing outside and we had a bloody fantastic spread of food and enough booze to shut up George Best for a year. In all it was a very civilised evening, a marvellous way to see in the New Year but due to our hectic schedule in the previous 24 hours, by 3am IC and I were done.

New Years day didn’t begin until lunchtime, we had a late breakfast and spent the entire day watching Hitchcock movies, though we briefly slipped out for some food late in the afternoon. I even put in a booze free evening, which wasn’t a problem, though a snifter to crush what appeared to be the beginnings of a cold may have been useful.

On the Friday IC had to work –a completely pointless venture I hasten to add- so we got the 48 bus through a deserted London to Borough which was sort of pretending to be open. I went off home whilst IC did nothing at work and sorted out the post Christmas comings and goings which included writing some of this, deleting emails, and washing my penis very fast. At 3 I went back into town to meet IC and check out the Rothko exhibition which deserves no more publicity than that. I will say this though, I’m all for carefully lighting the objects, sensitive to the permanent damage caused by the migration of pigments, but not so paranoid that it prevents the viewing public from fucking well seeing the pieces on display. The place was full of wankers self consciously blinking in the half-light at millions of ponds worth of pointlessness; of course, Rothko is anything but pointless, unless his works are in twilight, then it is… I think we were out after 5 minutes. My review? Abhorrent. Oh and cunts for good measure. I’m going to write to demand a refund; it was 12 fucking quid to get in! That’s 4 pints, or 12 if you drink at a Weatherspoons, which I don’t. Yet.

IC and I went back to my gaff and ate. I’d made this anchovy sauce inspired by a Swedish dish Mary had made for New Years Eve (called Jansson’s Temptation –a sort of potato, anchovy and cream pie, it’s beyond sensational, I’d even veer towards magnifique) which I’d served with Salmon and leek. I’d a bottle of Champagne left over from the office which was dispatched with the food and we flopped on the couch for the rest of evening watching shit on the telly.

No hangover on Saturday, which was just as well as I was due one on Sunday following a little Birthday party at preferred pub in Hackney. But first IC and I had to get back from my gaff taking in some shopping along the way and arriving at hers in time to prepare our selves for the evening. I passed some time reading a zombie comic book Swineshead got me for my birthday (it’s bloody acers) and then IC, Mary, Paul and I set off. It was fucking freezing and for most of my friends the venue was some way away. I wasn’t expecting 25 so people to show up.

The venue was the boozer I’d met IC and Pru in the day I finished work. IC and I know some of the staff there, a table was reserved for me and the barman (a mate) had thrown in a bottle of champagne and some decent snacks for good measure. Over the course of an hour all manner of friends appeared, some had travelled from up of the North to be there but most had just put themselves totally out by arriving from the sticks. I have to say it was all rather overwhelming, I even felt a bit guilty for dragging them all out.

After a few beers and catch-ups I returned from a pee to my place at the table, everything had gone sort of quiet. At my place was a package. I opened it suddenly aware that everyone was looking over in my direction. Inside was brand new Laptop.

I have to say I’m as speechless now about this as I was then. Apparently IC had organised some sort of whip-round… I tried to say something along the lines of ‘thank you’ but I was utterly flabbergasted. Still am. It took me a long time to compose myself after the delighted shock of the gift but I managed to get completely pissed all the same. By the time the evening drew to a close many of my friends had been forced to leave due to trains and shit but those of us that left were treated to a lock in. A cab took us home at some point and after that, I’m not too sure…

…the hangover on Sunday was the worst one of the holidays. IC and I spent the day lolling about after getting up late. Breakfast helped but following the initial novelty of food changing the nature of the malaise a peculiar discomfort remained in place until late afternoon. Nonetheless, we were determined to wave off the festive period with dinner out. We ate in a deserted pub in Hackney, what one might label a ‘gastropub’ but the fare far exceeded the standard implied by such eateries. I had roast bacon clad pigeon with spinach and roast potato, the bird was so fresh it even came free with two pellets of shot, a cause for celebration rather than complaint. IC opted for this potato tart, rich it was but enough to question the point of eating meat in the first instance. Of course, we had to have some wine with it and the hangover magically disappeared.

And that was it. Holiday over. On Monday I went to work and IC went to Thailand with hers. Fucking Thailand if you please… the nearest I’ve got to some sort of travel via work is walking down to the local fucking pub.

Piqued should be back to normal tomorrow but one last hurrah, Gerry’s end-of-year chart (and an explanation of how it works) and a choon from it. Happy New Year by the way.

“A points total is worked out for every song that enters the chart throughout the year. This is done by attributing a value of 30 points for a week at number 1, 29 for number 2…………down to 1 point for a week at number 30. These are then added up to provide a total for that song’s run in the chart. Should 2 or more songs have the same total then the track that achieved the higher chart position is given priority.”

100 Radiohead Jigsaw Falling Into Place 103
99 Emigrate Temptation 106
98 Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds Dig Lazarus Dig! 106
97 The Courteeners What Took You So Long? 106
96 Red Light Company Scheme Eugene 107
95 Funeral For A Friend Kicking And Screaming 107
94 British Sea Power Waving Flags 107
93 The Ting Tings That’s Not My Name 108
92 Pigeon Detectives Everybody Wants Me 110
91 Parka Disco Dancer 116
90 Editors Push Your Head Towards The Air 116
89 Dave Gahan Saw Something 118
88 Cage The Elephant In One Ear 119
87 Elliot Minor Parallel Worlds 119
86 Dizzee Rascal Ft Calvin Harris Dance Wiv Me 120
85 Disturbed Indestructible 121
84 Chemical Brothers Midnight Madness 124
83 The Cribs I’m A Realist 126
82 The Subways Alright 126
81 Santogold Say A-Ha 126
80 The Music The Spike 127
79 Avenged Sevenfold Dear God 129
78 Keane Spiralling 130
77 The Subways I Won’t Let You Down 130
76 Paramore Decode 131
75 CSS Left Behind 132
74 The Delays Keep It Simple 133
73 MGMT Time To Pretend 135
72 Foxboro Hot Tubs Mother Mary 136
71 Weezer Pork And Beans 138
70 Supergrass Bad Blood 139
69 M.I.A. Paper Planes 139
68 The Verve Rather Be 140
67 Katy Perry I Kissed A Girl 142
66 The Raconteurs Salute Your Solution 144
65 Oasis The Shock Of The Lightning 146
64 Glasvegas Geraldine 147
63 Trivium Down From The Sky 147
62 Ladyhawke My Delerium 148
61 Primal Scream Can’t Go Back 152
60 Biffy Clyro Mountains 152
59 Foals Cassius 154
58 The Futureheads The Beginning Of The Twist 155
57 Young Knives Up All Night 156
56 Against Me Stop 156
55 Grammatics The Vague Archive 157
54 Kooks Sway 158
53 White Lies Death 159
52 Young Knives Turn Tail 164
51 Bloc Party Mercury 164
50 Amy MacGonald This Is The Life 165
49 Slipknot All Hope Is Gone 166
48 Baddies Battleships 166
47 Santogold Lights Out 167
46 Death Cab For Cutie I Will Possess Your Heart 169
45 Elbow One Day Like This 170
44 Kaiser Chiefs Never Miss A Beat 174
43 Cajun Dance Party The Race 174
42 Red Light Company Meccano 179
41 Gnarls Barkley Run 180
40 We Are Scientists After Hours 181
39 Portishead The Rip 184
38 The Last Shadow Puppets Standing Next To Me 186
37 MGMT Kids 188
36 We Are Scientists Impatience 192
35 Kings Of Leon Use Somebody 193
34 Bloc Party Talons 194
33 Serj Tankian Sky Is Over 196
32 Hot Chip Ready For The Floor 197
31 Bullet For My Valentine Scream Aim Fire 197
30 Unkle Ft Josh Homme Restless 200
29 The Mars Volta Wax Simulacra 201
28 British Sea Power No Lucifer 202
27 The Automatic Steve McQueen 203
26 Supergrass Diamond Hoo Ha Man 204
25 Oasis I’m Outta Time 204
24 The Music Strength In Numbers 205
23 Madina Lake House Of Cards 208
22 Fightstar The English Way 210
21 Biffy Clyro Who’s Got A Match? 214
20 The Wombats Moving To New York 214
19 Team Waterpolo So Called Summer 226
18 Innerpartysystem Live Tonight Die Forever 228
17 Pendulum Propane Nightmares 230
16 REM Supernatural Superserious 231
15 AC/DC Rock n’ Roll Train 236
14 Avenged Sevenfold Afterlife 240
13 The Subways Girls And Boys 247
12 Bullet For My Valentine Hearts Burst Into Fire 249
11 We Are Scientists Chick Lit 251
10 Elbow Grounds For Divorce 259
9 Slipknot Psychosocial 272
8 Metallica The Day That Never Comes 276
7 The Last Shadow Puppets The Age Of The Understatement 276
6 Santogold L.E.S Artistes 284
5 Elbow The Bones Of You 285
4 Joe Lean + The Jing Jang Jong Where Do You Go? 299
3 Kings Of Leon Sex On Fire 308
2 Scars On Broadway They Say 355
1 The Verve Love Is Noise 377


The days leading up to my leaving the office for the Christmas break were productive, lazy and slightly fraught. On the Friday following a spell at the office Christmas party, which involved me shoving Chinese food and Champagne down my throat and a generous birthday gift from my colleagues, I fled. I was due to meet IC in a pub in Hackney and time wasn’t on my side. The journey was horrific, trains cancelled requiring replacement bus services, swarms of partygoers and angry commuters pushing and shoving resulted in my being 30 minutes late. It took half a bottle of wine to glue my shredded nerves.

After I’d relaxed IC, Pru and I chatted merrily away despite IC being bushed and yours truly feeling a certain degree of trepidation of the inevitable. IC was leaving on the early flight the following morning, in addition to not wishing to see her leave we had to get up at 3.30 in order to make the necessary connections. At 4.15 in the morning on Liverpool Street station I watched her train snake out of sight. ‘Fuck,’ I said after it had gone, and then I said it again loudly.

My first tube was leaving at 5am, I had a coffee shuffling about the dregs of London feeling tired and confused, when the gates to the underground opened I had the walkways and escalators to myself. It felt like Armageddon. There was only one person on the platform and I noticed to my chagrin that I had an hours wait before the tube would actually arrive. I said ‘Fuck’ again.

The time passed so inconceivable slowly I went back outside for a couple of cigarettes, when the fucking train finally arrived it decided to terminate midway home and I was chucked out into Stockwell which was heaving with scum. Fights broke out, people threw up and for the first time in a while I began to get a tad concerned for my safety. The bus took over half an hour to show up and when it arrived it was solid with humans. By now it was nearly 7am and I was fighting the urge to sleep whilst stood, sardined, on the 57 home. At almost 7.45 I finally arrived home and, by now, wide awake.

I got up at 4pm that afternoon and made my way to my brothers gaff in Peckham where we ate pie and mash with some wine. He, Aly and I watched TV and played on the PS3 but I wasn’t really there, my mind was on the departing train and my time-node was completely fucked.

The following lunchtime I left to meet Swineshead and his missus in Hackney. We were joined by a chap called Tea-Towel and spent a happy afternoon getting wasted on Black. By 8 pm, stoned and under the influence of sleep deprivation I made my way home passing IC’s gaff in the process, which wasn’t particularly helpful.

From there on in the countdown to the actuality of my being 40 seemed to take over. My recollection of the days leading to Christmas eve are straightforward enough. Days are blurred into a lump of lazy eating, hot baths and TV and evenings of beers with Friends, Harry and O on Monday, Frank on Tuesday, both followed by late wines and music as I attempted to stop time from continuing via inebriation whilst trying to shift the days until IC came home. I can tell you from experience that’s impossible to do one of these things let alone both.

When Christmas eve finally arrived I was good for a detox. I met up with James to meet his new son near Croydon and glumly dismounted my Black Bitch for the last time in my 30’s when I got home. I met my bro and Aly on the train at Wimbledon after a quick drink with Rosh at Wandsworth and by 9pm we were all at the folks’.

We ate Ham sandwiches and watched Brooker’s TV round up. Mum was most amused much to my surprise. I felt as Christmassy as the Summer Solstice, my stupid brain was in perpetual despair, the last Christmas in my 30’s, the last time I… the final occasion I… it wouldn’t stop and would regularly reduce me to narcoleptic silence.

I woke up on Christmas morning in the bedroom I’d known since I was 10, the hum of mum and dad’s congenial conversation, punctuated with the odd whistle from dad, unchanged after all the years. The fucking irony. I was 10 when dad was 40. I said ‘Fuck’ into my pillow and got up. Unusually mum and dad were about Christmas morning having fulfilled their Christian duties the previous evening. Whilst waiting for my sister, bro-in-law and niece we watched National Lampoons Christmas Vacation that reduced mum to hysterics. That was rather nice I thought before thinking ‘Fuck, I’m 40 tomorrow’. I peeled some sprouts to take my mind off it.

When the family were gathering the present opening happened (the last time I… the final occasion I…etc.,) and we had lunch, the usual peculiar combination of not-quite-right veg and dry Turkey but, and I don’t know how this works, my favourite meal of the year. My niece is a greedy little bugger, incidentally, she manages to get food into her little mouth the size of her own head which seems to instantly vanish. I reckon she must be breathing through her ears. She and I are on much better terms these days, she won’t interact with me but at least she doesn’t scream the place down when I’m within a hundred yards of her.

Christmas afternoon passed quickly, mum tiddly washing and dad snoozing (traditional roles here, folks) with rest of the family fussing over my niece as she wandered about poking at various toys suspiciously observing her uncle who sat rigid in an armchair watching the last light of his 30’s fade over the rooftops.

That evening my sis and bro-in-law drove us back to their gaff in Surrey and the boozing begun in earnest. We watched Michael Macintyre Live (it’s bloody good even if not my usual bitter sort of humour) and played Trivial Pursuit, me against my siblings and their partners, which I won by the skin of my teeth. At 11.30 I began to physically shake, I wandered helplessly between the lounge and dining room drinking and smoking. I tried to sit, stand. It was fucking awful. I thought of Pierrepoint waiting by the noose for his victims. I actually nearly wept, dear reader. When the godforsaken hour occurred it was bro-in-law who was there to firmly shake my hand and muse on the inevitable. I felt wretched, like I’d done something irreversibly incorrect. I was, as I am now, forty. ‘Fuck,’ I said, but this time there was a hollow ring to it.

When I woke up it was sunny. The day seemed so innocent and irrelevant, suddenly my phone went off and I was treated to a chorus of Happy Birthday by IC and her family from somewhere foreign, I was completely delighted. We had breakfast, a fry-up, and left to go to my Bro and Aly’s gaff. Mum, dad and my niece joined us and I was given the spoils of age. To my genuine surprise the family had chipped in and got me a personalised number plate. Initially perplexed by the gesture I realised that it was an act of quite remarkable thoughtfulness. The number is relevant and personal. Turned out that IC had a hand in proceedings too adding an even greater degree of poignancy to my gift.

Throughout all of these festivities my brother was suffering from ‘flu. Not a cold but full on bastard ‘flu. He did a bloody good job of entertaining us all, the spread of food wasn’t dissimilar to the splendid buffet laid on at my mate Chas 40th last year, but come 4pm the poor sod was out of it. To make matters worse my phone had died and I need to go back home to grab my charger. My parents drove me back to Tooting where I took an hour or too to shower and shave before popping down to a local pub to meet Rob, James, Frank and, news in that very day, fiancée. Frank even asked me to perform best man duties. Three celebrations in one, then, and drinking happened.

It must have been about 3am shortly after the happy couple had left my flat following a few glasses of cheer that James fell of the chair in my kitchen. Even now I’ve no idea how he managed to do as he fell off the side landing heavily on my dustbin which was crushed like a plastic cup. Rob and I spent the final hour laughing our heads off, some time later they left and I presumably went to bed.

When I woke the following day, I had a hangover of vast proportions and it wasn’t until the afternoon that my memory returned. Yes, I’d had a good one, my bin however, hadn’t. After cleaning up I spent the day in my dressing gown eating what I could find in the cupboard and fridge and soothing myself with Top Gears on Dave. I did a bit of what you’re reading and went to bed early.

Finally the day of IC’s return was upon me. Hangover free I had a boiled egg with soldiers (dementia has already set in, it’ll be mashed up banana soon) and set off to do some shopping magnificently failing in purchasing a single item on my list. Of course, I could’ve bought everything at Woolworths if it wasn’t sat there like a carbuncle of crunched credit. I came home and packed a bag in readiness for Tuesday, took a bath, ate and at 11.00pm, set off for Liverpool street.