Monthly Archives: February 2009


Looks like I’m giving him up for Lent and there on after

Bill shuffled off this mortal coil in Scarborough just after lunch yesterday. Nearly made 102, not a bad innings

He leaves a large and thoroughly pissed off family

Goodbye and thank you, Pop


I find it rather interesting that the 2000 Freedom for Information Act, the paper that (and I quote) ‘allows the right of public access held by public authorities,’ has been disregarded as one would a lice-addled Jehovah’s Witness masturbating on ones doorstep. Moreover, this blatant denial of access to publicly entitled information by those democratically elected into power, seems to have caused as much of a fuss as a small child dropping a half eaten ice cream onto a sandcastle.

In the House of Commons yesterday the perpetually ‘flued up Jack Straw, the man that makes you physically wince when you see him on the news representing this fair isle meeting foreign dignitaries, casually informed his colleagues and opposition that the minutes of the meeting leading up to the wholly illegal invasion of Iraq –resulting in the deaths of thousands of innocent men, women and children to the present- were not going to be made public. One lone Labour backbencher said the situation was ‘regretful,’ being the bunch of corrupt cunts they are the Tories had no problem with this at all and the Lim Dems unenthusiastically murmured something about the suppression of said documents was to ‘avoid embarrassment.’ And that was it.

The minutes in question took place on the eve of the invasion. Prior to the meeting Lord Goldsmith had declared any invasion ‘illegal,’ after the meeting he declared that it was ‘legal’. Bear in mind no weapons of mass destruction were ever found and that thousands of innocent men, women and children lie dead, and that the middle east has been permanently destabilised -the legacy of which is only beginning to bear its revolting fruit- I’m rather keen to see the contents of the minutes…

But no one else seems to give a fucking shit, even the news agencies mentioned it as an afterthought, it’s not even headline news this morning. I seem to recall a bit of a to-do at the time, especially when nope-no-weapons-Dr. David Kelly ‘died’ (not to mention the resignation and then passing of Robin Cook, the fiercest opponent of the invasion) and the subsequent comic book that was the Hutton Report when the nation realised he’d been bumped off. Back then the public literally took to the streets.

It’s all a bit quiet now. Has everyone forgotten? Or do we just not care anymore? The conspirators of the invasion (the public face of at least) that animal Bush and the perpetually slimy (and now very wealthy) Mr. Blair are long gone doing the after dinner / preaching thing. So why did not one single member of parliament stand up and question this flagrant disregard of the cunting law? Yes, I know of the caveats that suppressed the minutes but I refute their legal employment, a pointless activity clearly.

So what did the minutes say? I’m 99.9% sure it mentions oil, because we all know the whole Iraq thing was about oil. I, you, have a right to hear them say it because this Iraq business has affected all of our liberties, our human rights. On a final note, and I’m not a conspiracy theory type, I’m now genuinely having doubts about what we were led to have occurred on September the 11th

It’s fun in here today isn’t it, on a lighter note my back is fucked and my granddad is gravely ill. I mention the latter to account for the inevitable blackout on this page when his time comes.


Things seem to have settled in the basement but I’m still not right, I’m sure the beers with Frank last night did a great deal to help mind. And last nights tea was veggie based, I even avoided diary as I’d no intention of over egging the existing pudding as it were.

It’s gone all dead in the office which is hardly surprising under the current circumstances, but a part of me can’t help feeling that this credit recession business is being perpetuated by those that can, not doing. Take the F1 sponsorship situation, it’s not like these sponsors can’t afford to spends millions to represent their business on Lewis Hamilton’s eyelash, it’s just they don’t want to be seen frittering cash away when we’re all supposed to be in the grip of economic crisis. Then take the issue of Bankers getting obscene bonuses whilst workers are laid off in their droves, after all the prevarication and ‘ooh, it’s a disgrace’ the cunts are still getting them.

I’ve not noticed any thing different in the property market either. Houses/flats etc still seem to cost as much as they did a couple of years ago, the only difference is that a potential buyer feels justified in offering the vendor a family sized tin of Miniature Heroes instead of the 200k + asking price. To add insult to injury the potential buyer is probably a banker or some sort of investor, all the recently sold properties round my way are spiked with scaffold and shouting men in baggy jogging trousers and baseball hats.

Christ, it’s not even 10.30 and it feels like I’ve been here since Christmas, I swear to my maker (that’ll be mum and dad, then) that if it wasn’t for this facility to be able to roar (however quietly) on this ‘ere balls I’d have been on the fucking news years ago.
‘Man Chews off Own Face in Co-Op,’ that would’ve be I, Piqued.


Since Saturday night I’ve not been right ‘downstairs.’ Not ‘downstairs’ front, no, round the back. Put it this way, my stools are loose to the point of petrol; my stomach feels like the Okefenokee Swamp made of knives, though I’m not feeling ill per se, which suggests this is something I ate.

On Friday I met IC in a bar at 7.15 in Shoreditch, recently opened I was a little apprehensive that it would be heaving with twats; on the contrary the place was virtually empty. If it wasn’t for IC and I, a few members of staff (twats they were) it would’ve been shut and it was perfectly clear why. The Art Nouveauesque décor had something of a1930’s cruise ship thing going on, the faux opulence made it feel cheap and the funky/soul/jazz music was both awful and baffling causing all these shit elements to collide shitly. In short, it didn’t work. It was wrong and tasteless, so we left.

We then went to dinner, a vegetarian restaurant in a sort of oriental fusion style. The wine was pricey but the food excellent. Doubtless you’re now expecting me to report of stomach issues. On the contrary the food slipped out the following morning like whisper-propelled chipolatas. I felt fine.

Saturday was the first fine day of the year. It was warm enough to wear a t-shirt in places and the sun was shining like Jack Torrance. IC and I walked up the Regent Canal from a packed Broadway market from where we had purchased a tiny over-priced ‘olive and feta’ tart (it turned out to be tasteless fucking quiche) and some German bread. An hour later as we arrived at Angel I was still bloody fine gutwise, so was IC, so it wasn’t that either.

London felt properly spring-like, winter seemed to have passed and the prospect of more light and warmth took its toll, the mood of the city responded and a sort of calmness prevailed. We shot back an Espresso at a bar and took a bus to Clerkenwell where a hair appointment had been arranged for me. IC’s flatmate Mary is a hairdressing savant and she shorn me of my locks to my exacting specs, I entered looking like I’d recently come out of psychiatric care and left like one of Depeche Mode.

Back at IC’s gaff via Tesco it was all hands to the pump. Mary was cooking dinner for 8 so I sat around on my soon to be exploding arse as activity took place around me. The guests arrived and the boozing began in earnest, then the food arrived. In addition to her skills as a hairdresser Mary is a brilliant cook. The first course of quail on a glazed pear, walnut and stilton salad is the sort of stuff one expects at fine eateries and it was superb. This was followed by mussels on a rich fish Bouibaise, tasty and clever, with a goat’s cheese chessecake for pudding topped with a sweet berry sauce. Half way through this course my stomach turned as tight as a timpani drum and I conceded defeat to the point that further drinking required effort. Despite this me, IC and a couple of guests stayed up until 4am having rather meaningful conversations about family punctuated by bouts of (careful) hysterics.

I got up at Sunday lunchtime my stomach singing like Lee Marvin after a dozen bucket bongs. IC was feeling the same. Quite honestly we concluded that we’d simply eaten too much the previous evening, I maintain this theory is correct though I feel the symptoms were perpetuated by an over indulgence of sugar. Whilst exceptional the pudding course was sweeter than Hannah Montana dipped in Tupelo honey and beaten to death (whilst the beating to death doesn’t make it sweeter it would make me feel a whole lot better) and the dressing on the starter salad would’ve given Tate and Lyle diabetes.

After things had ‘settled’ (I’d switched the Gaggia off) we took public transport back to Tooting. It took fucking hours, the Northern Line was up the spout and it was getting dusk before we even climbed on board the Black Bitch and headed out to visit my folks. We raced there, had tea and one of mums severe rock cake, was given some bad news about my Granddad before shooting back.

The weekend passed away with a tentative salmon and haddock tart and TV. A proportion of the evening took place barking on the toilet, which is precisely where I’m off to now.

Great song, awful video…


It’s been over a year since I sat down with Ted for a good chinwag, in addition to eating fine food we excelled ourselves with fine, and not so fine, wine, hence the lateness and sloppiness of today’s post.

Chart, choon (featuring the whole bloody hippie thing, but it’s right nice) and cursory birthday greetings to my sparring partner Napoleon Cocks who turns 17 today.


30 Fleet Foxes Mykonos 22 7
29 Paramore Decode 29 13
28 Bloc Party One Month Off 20 10
27 Ladyhawke Paris Is Burning NE 1
26 Hockey Too Fake NE 1
25 Grammatics The Vague Archive 18 14
24 Kings Of Leon Revelry NE 1
23 Empire Of The Sun Walking On A Dream 25 3
22 King Blues Save The World Get The Girl 16 4
21 The Ting Tings We Walk 26 3
20 Chris Cornell Part Of Me 27 2
19 Eagles Of Death Metal Wanna be In L.A. 14 11
18 Mindless Self Indulgence Evening Wear 13 6
17 Friendly Fires Skeleton Boy 23 2
16 Cage The Elephant Back Against The Wall 10 7
15 The Filthy Dukes This Rhythm 24 2
14 My Chemical Romance Desolation Row 15 3
13 The Wombats My Circuit Board City 12 4
12 Oasis Falling Down 17 2
11 White Lies To Lose My Life 5 11
10 Anthony And The Johnsons Epilepsy Is Dancing 19 2
9 Lily Allen The Fear 6 7
8 Red Light Company Arts And Crafts 9 5
7 Coldplay Life In Technicolour II 11 4
6 Glasvegas Flowers And Football Tops 8 4
5 The Airborne Toxic Event Sometime Around Midnight 4 7
4 Innerpartysystem Don’t Stop 7 6
3 Starsailor Tell Me It’s Not Over 2 5
2 The View Shock Horror 3 5
1 The Prodigy Omen 1 5


In my dream last night I noticed a young man coming towards me on the street dragging something behind him. As we got closer it looked suspiciously as if the object in question was my green canvas motorcycle cover. As we passed I stopped the little oik and made some polite but firm enquires as to the whys and wherefores of his accessory, after an examination there was no question that it was indeed my bike cover so I asked for it back…. from here on in my entire night was based on me demanding he hand over my cover and the kid in question refusing, though at some point he suggested we ‘go halves’ on the fictitious amount he reckon he’d paid for it.

It’s a bit much when your own mind takes it on itself to wind you up when it’s supposed to be resting. At least when your sleeping imaginings conspire against you to construct awful monstrosities that result in your clinging to the side of the bed in a sweaty panic, gasping, you’re so happy to be awake -away from the terrors that lurk within your brains- the woken life no longer seems so bad. Indeed, it’s almost preferable. Having a 7-hour argument with a 15-year-old boy who you’re not allowed to hit doesn’t instil this sort of joie de vivre. I’m bloody exhausted today dear reader, I feel like a gang-banged mimsy.

I had a very low key evening following a day only worth mentioning because of lunch, an above average pizza (Pollo) and letting my portly client leave with cocoa dust from the hazelnut liqueur truffle all over her philtrum and nose. In the evening I avoided the Brits –simply awful- and watched the re-make of Night of The Living dead in the kitchen sipping wine.

When I came into work this morning I couldn’t avoid the news that Duffy had won some stuff. Whilst she sounds like Lulu (a creature I despise without condition) she is further disadvantaged by looking like an amphibian. Stick her in a green waist coat and plonk her in a Type 13 Bugatti and you’d swear Toad from Toad Hall had leapt off the page.

Here is a Brits cure… Rare early footage and a conclusion to the short BS season, take it at once.


There is a killer on the loose in South London; an escaped mental patient responsible for battering to death a fellow in Battersea last year is on the run, in my manor.

I don’t see this turn of events as remotely unfortunate; indeed, this is an opportunity I intend to take full advantage of. A trail of Superkings, plastic cups of Typhoo and dubious pornography would draw the attention of even a moderate fruitcake but to a fucking raspberry on the run, this will be like every institutionalised Christmas ever since he was taken into care after fucking the neighbours cat in the eye.

The trail will end at my front door, or rather the communal front door where I’ll be waiting. I shall let the unhinged psycho into the communal hallway where he’ll find Cunts front door bedecked in choice quotes from Revelations and ‘knock for free ice cream’ written in poo. My only option is whether to watch events unfold live or leave them to it only to return a few minutes later to find my moonstruck captive wearing Cunts intestines as a turban before calling the necessary services, police, ambulance and the pizza guy to order a Quattro Stagioni and a litre of coke to mix with the Bourbon I bought in anticipation of celebration.

I had a jolly night, met up with Harry and Frank in a boozer in Clapham before returning home to make pasta, which I consumed in front of a rather interesting programme about Harold Pinter.

Awful in here today, I feel the worse for wear and totally forgot I had a lunch meeting with the boss and a client. This explains why I left my scrubbed up self at home opting instead to come in this morning looking like I’ve been begging at Old Street tube station.

What was that? More Butthole Surfers? Of course! My pleasure…


One English Idiom (I suppose it’s an idiom when you think about it) which really get my goat is the reply of ‘not bad’ to a ‘how are you?’

For some people in this cunting office it’s a daily occurrence, never an ‘alright,’ ‘fine,’ or even a sincere ‘shit.’ For me, the dour, insipid and perpetual use of ‘not bad’ is one of those key phrases that identifies a humourless moron, it’s like the over use of ‘at the end of the day’ when people don’t have the imagination to explain stuff.

Of course, there is a time and a place for both phrases, times when I genuinely feel neither good nor bad but err towards the latter, and others when I want to cut to the end (though personally I prefer ‘when push comes to shove’) without having to go through all the details in order to get home and pull myself off. But apart from the pulling myself off bit I don’t feel like this every single fucking day.

‘Not Bad’ is so pathetically resigned to the negative, of things going wrong, for me it conjures up a mental image of a grown man sat down in the middle of a selection of Tonka toys with a quivering lip, arms raised in readiness to be picked up. ‘Not Bad’ its the drawn out sigh after your finger has gone through the bum fodder, it’s spilling soup on a clean shirt, getting soap in your eye, breaking a shoelace, losing a glove, coming to fucking work to hear colleagues saying ‘not bad’ when I casually (and usually insincerely) enquire of their well being…

I’m in a foul mood this morning.

Gerry of the chart requested Sweatloaf by the Butthole Surfers but I can’t find a version clean enough to post, I’m afraid he, and you, will have to do with this. It’s not bad.


By 11.30 pm after enough sushi to sink Tokyo and two empty bottles of Champagne gasping upside down in the sink, I was down to my last bottle. IC and I had been drinking the stuff topped with Apperol –an aperitif consisting of bitter orange, gentian, rhubarb and an array of herbs and roots- which sounds fucking hideous but having a penchant for all things booze related, I took to it like a 14 year old boy finding a pile of scud mags under some rusty corrugated iron in the woods.

I wasn’t pissed, mollified perhaps, so my motor skills weren’t as dedicated as they are on days of drinking nout but PG Tips. I marched into the living room proudly displaying the final, surprise, bottle and eagerly set to work dispatching the foil and basket. I was careful as usual to try and remove the cork with as little noise as possible, etiquette dictates one should remove a champagne cork with the sound of a wet fart rather than the loud pop one would expect of a professional footballer.

By gently twisting the cork, as opposed to thumbing it out like a Bellamy, one breaks the seal and allows the 90 pounds per square inch of gas that follows to push the stopper clear of it’s bondage. The trick of a gentleman is to monitor its exit by applying a firm and deft hand to the cork as it moves towards the night. A Barton cork will explode from a bottle at over 25 mph, the likes of Leslie Phillips and I will allow it to travel no faster than the perfumed air passing over the wanton lips of a satisfied lady.

On this occasion the cork was a little agitated, the moment the seal was compromised the cork suddenly broke free of its moorings, a swift attempt to assuage its travel was the epitome of imperfection. I successfully managed to sate 50% its leaving but allowed the full force of the pent up gasses to act on the 50% left unbridled, causing the cork to spin off to my right towards IC’s eyeball.

The combination of a fumbled attempt to catch the airborne stopper and the cardiovascular lurch of a now living beast resulted in the bottle firing free from my flaying hands like a Santa Pod Hot Rod. After reaching its maximum velocity the bottle, slow motion-like, nose-dived towards my carpet, its passage predetermined by an emerging plume of pure white foam and it hit the fucking deck at 90 degrees with the neck of the bottle perfectly perpendicular to the landing zone. For the briefest moment it paused upturned before the internal gasses went completely berserk, like ignition at Cape Canaveral the bottle (now in the guise of Saturn 5) launched itself at virtually the same trajectory as its descent. After reaching a height of 4 feet it landed back in my idiotic hands as dozens of quids worth of French Nectar farted helplessly from the dying bottle like the last ejaculation of a hanged man. A poultry eggcups worth remained with the rest happily soaking into my carpet, trousers and hair.

But this small faux pas did nothing to diminish a disgustingly cheery evening you’ll be disappointed to hear.

Now some pop music, yes, it’s Butthole Surfers this week, all week (until Friday when it’s not).

Hello Gibby.

sarf bank

Once a year I’m entrusted with a document of such significance that if it were to fall into the hands of the press my company would be sued into penury by those that put their trust in us, more pertinently, me. On the other side of the fence I could flog it for about 10 grand. Of course I’d never do this which stands as another example of what a bloody good bloke I am…

…Oh, and this document is why I was at the South Bank yesterday afternoon while a client examined said paperwork as I sat closely by reading this gripping biography on Rimbaud (he was a right shit, a right genius shit, mind) as I sat there drinking coffee, occasionally glancing out over the Thames and checking for any inappropriate copying, I realised that if my job was always like this it would be marvellous.

I’d left the office very early as the fucking district line was playing the fool, as it happens the train arrived as soon as I stepped on the platform. From Wimbledon I took the overland to Waterloo –I like trains these days, so much cleaner and quieter- it was a sunny day and I watched the world slip past accompanied by Pornography by The Cure. I had lunch at a café at Waterloo Station, a tuna salad sandwich, which I munched as I read of the young Rimbaud ejaculating into the milk of his consumption-riddled pal.

After the congenial meeting I had a pair of hours to kill before meeting my brother. As I walked towards Waterloo Bridge on the South Bank I toyed with the idea of visiting the London Aquarium. This was spurned by the sight of dozens of German schoolchildren buggering about outside so I fled along Whitehall and to Trafalgar Square where I found myself in The National Portrait gallery.

When I was in my 20’s I was commissioned to make a model of a shop by an Aquarian book dealer. She had a portrait made of her holding the model I had made and I wanted to see it. After enquiring I discovered the painting wasn’t currently on display but I spent a happy hour examining various works from the 20th century right up to the present (one of which featured the lady that owns the Georgian café at the top of Broadway Market oddly.)

By the time I left it was dusk and the weather had turned, I walked back up Whitehall in the freezing rain and took the tube from Westminster to London Bridge where I met by brother in the boozer by Broadway market. We discussed shit and matters of the day and arrived on that harridan Carol Thatcher, then her mother. I said to my brother, ‘we don’t see much of her these days,’ then I had a fucking brainwave.

Thatchercam. 24 hour rolling coverage of Mrs. Thatcher, the bastard that shafted ordinary folk along with education, health, transport and the arts, whilst pandering to the slobbering greed of bankers and landowners, as she goes about her senile-demented business. It’d feature hours of her staring at Daytime TV punctuated with the inevitable explosions of frustrated rage alongside humiliating and disturbing footage of her as she’s bathed and cleaned following another ‘accident’ leading to her having her ablution privileges removed and replaced with first a catheter and then a colostomy bag.

Unfortunately, unlike most of the old folk I nursed in her crumbing hospitals and care home she’d be treated to silver spoon service, but this would be mere tish and fipsy in order to watch her all confused and afraid.

I’ve a busy weekend lined up, though tonight I intend to have a quiet one. I need it.

Gerry’s chart next and then something (right pretty it is) from it. Good weekends all.

30 Kings Of Leon Use Somebody 21 15
29 Paramore Decode 25 12
28 U2 Get On Your Boots 23 3
27 Chris Cornell Part Of Me NE 1
26 Slipknot Dead Memories 20 11
25 Empire Of The Sun Walking On A Dream 27 2
24 The Filthy Dukes This Rhythm NE 1
23 Friendly Fires Skeleton Boy NE 1
22 Fleet Foxes Mykonos 16 6
21 The Ting Tings We Walk 26 2
20 Bloc Party One Month Off 15 9
19 Anthony And The Johnsons Epilepsy Is Dancing NE 1
18 Grammatics The Vague Archive 13 13
17 Oasis Falling Down NE 1
16 King Blues Save The World, Get The Girl 17 3
15 My Chemical Romance Desolation Row 22 2
14 Eagles Of Death Metal Wanna Be In L.A. 8 10
13 Mindless Self Indulgence Evening Wear 11 5
12 The Wombats My Circuit Board City 12 3
11 Coldplay Life In Technicolour II 18 3
10 Cage The Elephant Back Against The Wall 5 6
9 Red Light Company Arts And Crafts 14 4
8 Glasvegas Flowers And Football Tops 10 3
7 Innerpartysystem Don’t Stop 9 5
6 Lily Allen The Fear 2 6
5 White Lies To Lose My Life 1 10
4 The Airborne Toxic Event Sometime Around Midnight 3 6
3 The View Shock Horror 7 4
2 Starsailor Tell Me It’s Not Over 6 4
1 The Prodigy Omen 4 4


Due to an out of office meeting this afternoon I had to come in by bus this morning. It’s a beautiful day so passing by the Black Bitch dressed suit-like was harder than usual. I say suit-like, I’ve no objection to suits per say but on my terms. I point-blank refuse to wear them in anything related to work, it’s the last spike of ‘stick it to the man’ though I’ve forgotten what for. Something to do with conformity.

So to compromise I’m wearing a long coat over winkle pickers, black jeans, grey shirt and waistcoat. I look smart but still engage with ‘other, ’ whatever ‘other’ was. Anyway, yeah!

So, on the bus, taking the most miserable route through the arsehole of south London when a bus of the same number passes from the other direction and this noise akin to R2D2 having an episode arrives in my shell-like ear. At first I thought the buses were having some sort of a conversation before realising that this was impossible and I was therefore experiencing 21st century Tinnitus. Then I decided that the Tinnitus thing was ridiculous and the buses were indeed communicating with each other a bit like mechanical red whales. Or the drivers were because a honk and a friendly wave aren’t trendy anymore. Either way it’s pointless.

Had a boring evening in my soon to be sold (I hope) flat. Cunt was in deluded full-volume music mode again (he has been since hearing news of my imminent departure). The last time the gaff was on the market he did the same thing, I complained the following day. After I’d suggested to him that it might be prudent to practice playing his fucking guitar without it plugged in and saying ‘1,2,1,2, thank you’ to no one save his contorted and ludicrous grasp on reality before strumming out of time in chords that exist only in the imaginings of Ian Brady, he replied with ‘what do you care, you’re moving’ as if the concept of leaving my flat somehow rendered my hearing useless. I want to identify his body dressed as a clown.

Ladies and Gentlemen…


There is a small green column in The Metro, which I’ve decided is more appalling and disgusting than Heat, Okay, Hello, Alright etc., combined, called ‘The Green Room’ and features a tiny (named) photo of some fait man-about-town on whose tool I’d happily and painstakingly glue angry wasps. This reprehensible face/green-box appears without any context in sections reserved for ‘news’ (the latest things that give you cancer, it was fizzy drinks this morning) and a considerable distance from the vein bursting and easily avoided ‘Guilty Pleasures’ section in the middle.

Contained within this aberration are a handful of two line heart attacks like, ‘Cheryl Cole can’t watch early Girls Aloud videos because she thinks ‘it makes her look fat’, she blushes,’ ‘Pink hates her giant fat arsehole, ‘it looks like a still born piglet after repeated attempts to revive it with a spiked flail,’ she confides,’ ‘Seal poos.’ You get the gist. It’s the most pointless, pointless fucking thing since the human appendix and this morning’s edition, which genuinely featured the Cheryl Cole hiss of absolutely nout, resulted in me flinging the paper across a reasonably crowded carriage and saying ‘Jesus’ with enough volume and malice to suitably embarrass myself which included going red and shit (though I didn’t actually defecate of course, I was using ‘shit’ as a metaphor). I really couldn’t help myself; it was a spontaneous act of self-loathing for allowing such filthy nothingness into my waking mind and the sheer exasperation of trying to understand what this fucking green cunt was for.

There are plenty of people that read this balls who work for a living as journalists, some have been made recently redundant, others are staring into a black void following best-selling success, yet this insult to journalists, writers and human beings across the globe sits in his little pontificating green-snot of a column laughing at you, us and I.

Something should be done. I’m going out for a fag.

bushez screem

It seems like it’s been pissing it down since the beginning of 2009. Cold and rain, the worst sort of English weather. It’s so relentlessly depressing and predictably awful, the combination of the two as an equation always results in ‘gloom.’ I bloody well fucking hate it. The snow was pretty and allowed me to take time off and play fast and loose with office hours, I don’t mind if it’s bright and freezing either, one knows where one is with ice and blue skies, but water and wind? Not in my name.

I got loads done yesterday, stuff of such irrelevance to your eyes we’ll leave it there. Unfortunately this ‘getting loads done’ gesture doesn’t extend to the office. It’s gone all dead again. It’s as if someone has turned the pipeline of commerce off. This means I’m having to try and ‘generate business’, i.e., doing actual work, which is fucking horrific, especially when I’ve 3 Scrabble games on for fucks sake. I have to say the situation is so dire that I’m going to have to cut this short to attend a ‘oooh, we’re all going to hell in a handcart’ meeting.

On a positive note I had a nice fat pint with Frank last night as IC made her descent to Stanstead. Marvellous.

Right, enjoy.

bitch cramps

If you caught up with last week’s Friday episode you left our hero (that’s me, that is) with what he thought was a flat battery charging in the office. At 3pm I fitted it and, lo and behold… nothing. The Bitch was quite dead. I internally collapsed, it was due at the bike shop the following day for a massive load of work, the fitting of clocks, a fan, a rear light unit, two levers -all painstakingly acquired from second-hand Triumph spares dealers- a vital oil and filter change and, perhaps of paramount importance, new chain and sprockets. Before I turned into a blubbering heap of tears I suddenly remembered that I had free breakdown cover with my insurance. In the 10 years the BB and I have been in a relationship I’ve never had to use this facility so it wasn’t surprising I’d forgotten about it. I called them up and a van was despatched. At 5pm it arrived, the bike shop shut at 6pm. It was at least an hour from my location and the Friday rush hour was very much in swing. Oh the stress.

The mechanic that arrived with the van wasn’t too chuffed about having to escort me there either, but I forbade him from trying to fix the problem on the spot. Electrical problems can take hours and days to locate and I figured it was better to risk arriving after the bike shop was shut (and the bill for a mechanic to try and tried to find out what the issue was) and save myself a trip the following morning. We set off in haste, right into the jaws of gridlock. I was beside myself. This was worse than finding blood in ones stool.

The breakdown fellow was a biker too and by default a bloody good bloke. We chatted about motorcycles that both relieved and increased my maybe-lack-of-bike predicament. Occasional periods of clear-ish road tantalised my optimism, then it started to snow, heavily, making visibility a problem. Great. I began to give up hope and gazed into my weekend as it stood, no IC, no Black Bitch, just me and the cunting flat which I mentally vacated weeks ago.

But then the traffic suddenly vanished, this was possibly due to the snow, either way at 6 on the dot, just as the shop was shutting, we arrived. Unmitigated joy! I hastily passed all the spares over to the manager with babbled instructions and skipped off into the night with my weekend opening up like something rude and not for here. I caught the train from the conveniently located station, it’s literally across the road from the bike shop, and instantly stepped onto a train bound for Victoria.

The evening plans became reality. I was due to meet Bee and The Scotch in a boozer near Bond Street at 7pm, and at exactly 7pm I arrived just as the protagonists in question were ordering at the bar. Marvellous. I’m rather embarrassed to inform you that I met these two online along with Swineshead 7 odd years ago but I’d never actually met The Scotch until now. Nice chap, of course. We three discussed our dubious means of coming together but in the real world got on as famously as we did all those years ago berating fundamentalist Christians.

I left at a sensible hour and took the tube home feeling rather pleased with myself. I’d got out of having to arise at the crack of dawn to take the BB to the shop, met some pals, drunk ale and had a viewing booked on my gaff the following morning.

On Saturday I fucked off to Sainsbury 15 mins before the viewing was due to take place and did some shopping. I was home by lunch and finally able to eat and relax before setting off again to pick up the BB by 5. I set off at 3; the Northern Line was up the spout so I had to take a bus to Clapham Junction. I’d completely underestimated the time for this journey and an hour and fifteen minutes later I was still on the fucker trying not to cry. I had 45 mins to get to the bike shop before it shut, even though the train journey from Clapham Junction to Croydon was only 20 mins (I’d lazily noted the previous evening) only two trains an hour stopped at the particular station by the bike shop and I’d not checked the timetable assuming I’d have been there in plenty of time drinking coffee on the platform and looking forward to getting my leg over my mechanical girl.

When the bus finally arrived I’d 30 mins before the shop was to close but before that I had to locate the platform, needle in a haystack stuff (I was literally yelling at staff demanding they informed me like I wasn’t very well in the head) and hope the bloody train would just sort of ‘be there’ or I’d be fucked (again). Platform 13! I raced there swinging my crash helmet at the throngs shuffling through the concourse in order to hasten my passage. As I rushed up the stairs to the platform my train was drawing in. I almost threw-up with relief, or was that merely the exertion of getting there. It didn’t matter, I’d made it and with 2 mins to spare gasped into the bike shop grinning like the village idiot. There she was, all done and as a final hurrah the bill was about £100 less than I’d estimated.

Despite the rain and the soggy Saturday evening traffic not one remotely piqued, Piqued giggled all the way home. As I came in Cunt went out, if only IC were here and it would’ve been the best fucking day since leaving school. I made myself a huge supper that consisted of roasted onions, fried shredded sprouts with bacon and roasted chicken and potato, poured myself a glass of wine and settled down to watch the full series of Classic Bikes on DVD kindly donated by Nick Tann ( last week. Fucking marvellous, my joie de vivre all aided and abetted by the prospect of a Sunday blast.

After kippers and tea at midday I set off. It was cold but sunny. The engine burbled cheerily, the fresh thick oil contained the clatter of tappets and gears and my slippery chain ran silently over sharp greased sprockets. It actually felt like a new machine, it’s never had any problem with speed but now it was it supersonic. I screamed out of London and onto the A3 hitting a naughty 135 before informing myself to calm the fuck down. I visited my parents, made some minor non-essential adjustments -more for the hell of it than anything- and flew off to my sisters in deepest darkest Surrey where my niece received me without any fuss whatsoever.

It was pissing down with rain on the way home and extremely cold. I couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss, I arrived home with adrenaline fizzing in my veins and settled down for a night of Top Gear companioned by a roast dinner feeling all smug and shit.

Before I go I must mention the passing of Lux Interior of Horror-Punk and original psychobilly outfit, The Cramps. I posted footage of them playing at California State Mental Hospital in Napa some time ago and this gives a fairly good insight into their polemic. Lux was married to Poison Ivy, the glamorous chic who played a mean, mean guitar and between them they quietly influenced acts as varied as The Butthole Surfers, The Birthday Party, The Dwarves, The Fuzztones, The Gun Club, Spacemen 3, The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, Reverend Horton Heat, My Bloody Valentine and The White Stripes.

As is the case I expect their true status as pioneers will became more apparent by their departure and the benefit of considered hindsight. It’s well deserved.

It’s only fitting, then, that we end today’s Piqued with them in happier days.

Lux Interior (Erick Purkhiser) October 21, 1946 – February 4, 2009 RIP

eyeless in buza

The sodding Black Bitch refused to start last night, I think (and I hope it’s this and not the starter motor) that I inadvertently left my parking lights on and drained the battery. As a subsequence I had to take the fucking bus home, which took an age and finally saw me back at chez piqued feeling, frankly, livid.

After I’d fixed myself, calmed down, I took another bloody bus to meet up with Rosh for a couple of pints and a catch up, I was back home by 10-ish, took a bath and watched the past few days Masterchef on I-player. I have to say the standard this time round isn’t anything as high as in previous series (one of my pals has been on it twice in the past few years, in one instance getting into the semi finals, and without any prejudice she was miles ahead of the current crop) leading me to consider the possibility of applying myself. I’d dazzle them with my fagioli su pane tostato con le fritture for a kick off.

I was up earlier than usual this morning in order to catch yet another cunting bus into work. Despite the impression I give on ‘ere, I like buses. They is something quite magical about being ferried about in something so vast and powerful, I also find them rather comforting as the experience of riding on a bus connects me immediately to my childhood, which, despite the impression I give on ’ere (again) was a happy one. The only issue I have with buses, apart from the whole ‘waiting for them’ factor is how they affect my glasses.

In this rather inclement weather, in short, freezing fucking cold, my bins, like my barnet and balls, are inclined are follow suit. This means that on entering a warm bus the sudden increase in temperature causes my glasses to fog up. In the space of about the same time it takes to swipe my Oyster card, shove past the passengers on the lower deck and reach the top of the bus, my bins have gone from ‘clear’ to ‘Christ, I can’t see a fucking thing.’ Mix in the addled confusion of an early morning and this meteorological phenomenon doesn’t always translate to the semi-functioning brain that happily defaults to ‘My retinas have detached,’ ‘I’m having a stroke’ or ‘Gas, Gas, quick boys’ resulting in the latter’s ‘ecstasy of fumbling’ as you try and work out why you are suddenly unable to see your shoes. The visage of horror one presumably presents is only apparent when the glasses demist of their own volition or when one realises what has happened and removes them. The sight of seventy odd passengers flinging their disgusted faces towards the nearest window and wriggle in their seats praying that the floundering lunatic who has just boarded doesn’t sit near them isn’t what I’d call an ego boost, rather, one feels like a floating turd whose just re-surfaced at precisely the same moment a potential lover pops into the offending bathroom for a pre-fuck giggle-wash.

When I finally made it into work I became embroiled in a row with NatWest -this is an ongoing matter which has to be resolved in court, I’ve been informed- before sitting down to write this pile of crap.

Annoyingly IC is away in foreign lands this weekend so I’ve lined up a busy one that will revolve around the black bitch and my getting her fixed. Tomorrow I’ve got to get up early in order to take her to the bike-shop in bloody Croydon and leave her with strangers before collecting her late afternoon. I’m rather hoping Sunday will be clear and bright enough to allow me to wring the mother-loving fuck out of her.

But before all this, Gerry’s chart, a popular song from within and a fervent, nay, histrionic desire you have weekends from Eden.

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

nailz hard

I couldn’t take it anymore, fuck the bus, the tube, the train, I wanted my Black Bitch, I wanted her so bad that last night I made the decision that even if the fucking sheet ice on my road survived the night, I was going out there. I was going to ride; I was going to ride come what may so help me gad.

This morning I was a little less enthusiastic. The decision made the previous evening was born from a sober mind; indeed, it was born from watching Bourne with IC (particularly a motorcycle chase scene in Tangiers) causing me to wriggle with jealously. I was sat watching Jason thinking this guy can really get on with business, he displayed all manner of rough and tumble in order to stay one step ahead of the pigs, to survive, ‘he can really kick arses,’ I thought. Would a bit of ice put Jase off? Would it ruddy, he’d probably eat the road, fart the ice out of his pores before excreting the road back in place minus the restricted parking and that fucking disabled space that occupies half the bloody street.

So this morning I decided to give it a shot. I put on my gear and went outside. As I approached the bike I slipped arse over tit. Undaunted, though with my enthusiasm dwindling to one, I mounted the Bitch and fired her up. As I set off the rear wheel spun sliding the bike straight, I gently laid on the power until I’d gained enough momentum to retrieve my feet from the road and place them on the pegs. The following minute was harrowfying. I focussed on the front wheel and allowed the rear to snake over the solid ice ridge that undulated under me, gingerly correcting adverse changes in direction with alacrity –this may seemed paradoxical but it’s the only way to deal with the matter in hand- before arriving at the T junction at end of my road. The ice continued in either direction, to my right I could see a sliver of black tarmac. I aimed for it and remained on a strand that took me safely to the main road, which was free of ice, snow and certain death (sort of). I was finally free.

Unmitigated joy! I bounded into work spurning the traffic and emptying my engine of the past few days’ accumulation of cold and damp on the way. It was only as I approached my office I realised that the road to my desk could be fraught with the same muck resting on my road. I wasn’t to be disappointed, in fact, it was worse.

Obviously I made it in or you wouldn’t be reading this but it’s only just occurred to me that I have to do the whole bastard journey in reverse. It’s not getting any warmer either. If it gets any more icy I’m going to have to leave the bike here and get home by public transport…

Will I fuck! Not in my name, not in my name.

(I’m rather hoping this isn’t the last Piqued or I’m going to look more of berk than usual, talk about having egg on my face! (and a bit of brain, half an ear and a shard of broken rib))

ice, ice piquey

The laughter of the snow, if there was any in the first instance (there was) has genuinely passed. In addition to claiming the life of some poor nitwit on a metal tray the stuff has gone through the soft white stage and after a few minor transformations now lies in undulating sheets of solid ice on the road. It’s fucking lethal, I’m walking about as if I’ve shat myself in order not to slip on the muck and allow my perforated disc to flop out of my vertebrae like a glory-hole cock.

Nothing much to report today, saw Frank last night, IC over tonight before she jets off to foreign which already casts a dark shadow over the impending weekend. On the plus side, assuming the rest of the spares I’ve ordered arrive on time, the BB is due to be given a right seeing to on Saturday. She’s been booked into a motorcycle shop to allow men to fondle her for a few hours and make her all better.

I’d like to point out that I’m more than capable of undertaking all the work myself but, in addition to affecting my service history (buyers like to see that any work has been undertaken by an authorised workshop) a lack of garage (I could use dad’s but it’s full of vehicles already) and necessary tools (these days a lot of manufacturers lock parts of the engine with specialised fasteners that require special tools in order to gain access to certain areas) I’m prevent from doing so. Bit annoying that, about 500 quids worth of ‘bit annoying’, which is how much it’s going to cost to put everything in order.

So, I’m focussing my minds eye on Sunday where, god willing, the weather will allow me and the BB to fly over the South East with scant regard for our safety. Something Jeremy Clarkson said the other day should be flagged up right now. He turned to camera and asked when was the last time ‘you just got in your car and drove?’ After indicating the answer was ‘can’t remember,’ or more pertinently ‘never’ he said nonchalantly, ‘…Motorcyclists do it all the time.’

I wouldn’t expect non-riders to understand why bikers like to go for a spin anymore than I do understand why car drivers don’t.

This is truly fucking awful.


I had an impromptu day off yesterday so no Piqued for obvious reasons. The snow that caused this rather happy accident began in flurries as IC and I returned from Brick Lane on the number 55 bus ten minutes from home. It was cold and sunny and the blue skies that contained our sojourn gave no indication as to where the fucking it was coming from. It was just there.

As the evening took hold it began snowing in earnest and more pertinently, it settled. By late evening it was obvious that there would be some disruption to my early morning travel to work, I tried to be a bit annoyed but the childish delight of seeing the world getting progressively whiter and memories of sleds and snowmen, cold little hands, rosy cheeks, wet shoes, frozen socks, freezing fucking cold, shivering, slipping on ice shivering and smacking my shivering fucking spine… I was livid.

The weekend began at IC’s with Justine. After a couple of glasses of wine and some snacks we took a bus to Old Street and, believe it or not, Cargo. Yes, me, a metal punk fan in Cargo, a place for rave types. Entry was free and the bar prices reasonable but our primary reason for being in such a place was to see Max Tundra, one of IC’s pals. The little fella before him was okay, lots of beeps and beats, but Tundra was actually quite good. A few drinks down now I have to say I was rather impressed; I’m not going to try and describe it generically as I’ve not the required knowledge but it wasn’t a straightforward ‘boom, boom, boom’ affair, it was more of an exploration of sound punctuated with irregular beats occasionally breaking into a more traditional crowd-pleasing ‘dance’ structure, the weirdness easily usurped the mundane.

After the set we tried to leave, the manners of the crowd left a lot to be desired and the worse culprits were the girls. They had the disposition of Nazi’s; I was actually shocked at their self-important carry-on. You wouldn’t get that sort of behaviour at a Slayer gig I can tell you, probably because you don’t get many girls at Slayer gigs but that’s not the point.

Back at home IC and I rounded off the evening with wine, not too much, not enough to cause a hangover anyway. I didn’t want to get up on Saturday though, I was bloody shattered. IC’s pal, Claire, popped over after breakfast (lunch) and those two went off and did coffee or something, leaving me to flop about. I spent a few hours reading the paper, listening to radio four and undertook a smidgen of cleaning.

In the evening, after a spot of dinner and a moderate session of drinking with some of IC’s pals at her flat, we went back to Old Street to attend a party for three mates in a nearby club. On the way in the doorman, much to my horror, asked IC for I.D. which she didn’t have. Whilst she looks young for her age (as do I, I hasten to add) she doesn’t look 16, and I don’t have a predilection for underage girls. I made this abundantly clear to the doorman; I went so far to say that by not letting IC in he was inferring I was a P3do… Luckily a combination of my protestations and IC waving various credit cards in his face finally allowed us access.

The music in the club was much more to my taste and it was marvellous to catch up with Den, Harry and the chaps whose birthday party we’d come to celebrate. The club was packed by the time we left, we could’ve stayed much longer but we had to get back to meet the friends we’d began the night with.

Saturday ended at some point and Sunday occurred. Once again I’d managed to circumvent a hangover and we decided to visit Brick Lane for nothing in particular though, as usual, I had my eye open for a leather jacket.

This requires some explanation. From the age of 14 until I was 24 I lived in what is referred to as a leather ‘biker’ jacket, the black fellow with all zips and what have you, I lost one, sold one to a girl on the spot and the last one died after a rainstorm in a tumble drier when I’d drunkenly concluded that it was a good idea to do such a fucking silly thing. Since then I’d failed to find one that matched my taste, size and price range. Reluctant to purchase one from new for various reasons, some cited above, I felt as if I’d done my time looking like a cunt breaking them in so second hand one was my only option.

Until 3.08pm on Sunday this had been an impossible mission, but as we were in the Up Market I noticed a little punk stand and spied the merest sliver of a jacket hanging in the racks with all the tee-shirts. Instinct took over, I walked into the stall, reached in and pulled out a genuine 70’s split embossed biker leather with red quilt lining, it was in bloody good nick and had all of the desired accoutrements. It even had a zip pocket on the bloody sleeve. I slipped in on; it fitted like the eyes in my sockets, ‘how much?’ I enquired trying not to scream. £45. I’d have paid £100+ for this specimen. I nearly uncoiled my sack with joy. IC and I rushed to the nearest cash machine after telling the guy to hold it for me, it was empty, we rushed to another which wasn’t -I was actually petrified he might sell it to someone else- and I exploded with delight when I returned to have him hand it over to me.

As the snow blew in flurries as IC and I travelled back on the bus I was already planning its future. The leather was dry and would need much dubbing but apart from that it was perfect, even more so than the 3 jackets I’d had almost 2 decades previously, I knew that the jacket (he’s called Alan) and I were to become inseparable. When Swineshead and his missus popped by for a cup of Tea at IC’s yesterday morning (all of us enjoying a day from the toils of labour because Boris Johnson couldn’t be pissed to spend a few quid on a couple of lousy snowploughs (thank god)) you could hear the shrieks of protest to his better half (‘Help, he’s showing me clothes!’) all the way to the Ace Cafe as I paraded about in my new smother.

We spent yesterday indoors; IC and I did some work from home, IC having to work quite hard in the end, but we took time to relax with a movie or too. In the evening IC, Alan and I childishly went out to London Fields to feel that creak of fresh snow underfoot, see London decorated in pure white crystal and chuck the odd snowball. After a quick pint we walked home for dinner and a movie aware that the following day, today, we’d be sat taciturn in our respective offices.