Monthly Archives: March 2009


Sorry this is late. And short.

My back was being a twat, I woke up on my front (kiss of death that is) and was forced to take painkillers and undertake restorative exercise to loosen the sod up when they’d kicked in. How fucking dull eh?

I was absurdly busy yesterday, none of it remotely interesting but it felt good to get the decks cleared as it were. Met up with Frank in the evening forra pint and gorged my face with bubble and squeak and hummus, the spoils of the weekend, essentially

I can’t be arsed to locate a youtube video either, you hear me mum? I CAN’T BE PISSED.

(in case you didn’t see I wrote something on WWM yesterday about that German cannibal, link right if you please)

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During the Deutsch-Amerikanische Freundschaft (DAF) gig on Saturday, someone was farting the most awful clouds of brown air. After a while the whole of The Carling Academy resembled a Navvies Portaloo, though, despite this, I remained an active participant of proceedings, despite the duo’s blend of Electro-punk not being my default position when it comes to my taste in music.

The crowd, a mixture of punks, goths and the sorts of people that like Soft Cell were pleasant enough. I managed to pass from the back of the tightly packed venue to the front bearing 3 drinks with a succession of ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘thank you’s,’ which says a lot about the crowd. Having said that I’ve noticed the English have a natural respect for someone’s desire to imbibe and would no more disrupt a determined drink-bearing colleague than they would spurn an invitation to meet with Stephen Fry, indeed, I was being actively aided in my passage, which is possibly what would happen if I were to meet Stephen Fry.

IC and I had already exhausted ourselves the previous evening with too much booze and a club, in which her flatmate Mary was operating buttons to make congenial pumping noises. There seemed to be vast numbers of ‘us.’ I say ‘us’ because quite a few if IC’s and Mary’s friends were down for the weekend, most of which I’m happily familiar with and it was jolly nice to move about a place bumping, inebriated, into familiar and similarly inebriated faces. Despite sticking to either rum/coke or whisky/ginger, the hangover on Saturday was revolting; we’d gone to bed at around 3 or something and were forced to get up early to make the sizable sojourn to my parents place to celebrate dad’s birthday with a family lunch.

The bus took fucking ages to get to Waterloo and when we did get there were no trains going anywhere near my parents due to planned engineering works we’d not planned on. Already late we had to take the train to my sisters so she could drive us back to my parents, this involved going right out of London. To make things even more skin-ripping, the usual 25 journey was to be an hour and a half in order to circumnavigate the so-called planned engineering works, which we discovered later, hadn’t been planned at all the lying cunts.

We arrived for lunch almost an hour and half late. It was a case of arrive, eat (roast beef and all the delicious traditional accompaniments) and leave, though the short time we did spend there was quite lovely and my niece was being perfectly alright with my being there despite my feeling like cock spittle. I think IC’s presence helped as the neice one rather likes her and I was defaulted into her fastidious affections.

The journey back to the East End was equally as ludicrous. My parents kindly drove us to a station out of town to catch a train which arrived quite promptly. This bit of good fortune was short lived. The train set off a snails pace, a pace is sustained for about ¾ of an hour before stopping at a station and then, no shit, reversing the way it had come. I could’ve screamed, I think I yelped instead as IC sat silenced by the fact her jaw was resting on her lap and her fist was half way down her throat.

We abandoned the fucking train at Richmond and suffered the hour-long trek overland to Hackney. By the time we arrived home the flat was already full of pals tanking up for DAF. We joined in of course and all was once again well with the world.

After the gig we took a bus to a venue near Dalston for a party that required a ridiculous password, ‘Batwings.’ IC was nearly refused entry on getting it wrong, and I was nearly thrown out the door by discovering the password and yelling it to IC in earshot of dozens of punters not invited. After a bit of wrangling (swearing and lying) I gained access, but we were not all so lucky.

The venue was great, a huge stark room over a pub decorated with black balloons and candles and small bar in the adjoining box room. Initially it was just a handful of some of the DAF fans but as the place filled up the crowd became worryingly ‘beautiful’ (in a trustafarian/media sense) and progressively stuck up. I spent most of the night chatting to Indy who was carrying off a look that, with one false move, may indicate he supported extreme right-wing politics. I have to say we all looked rather bloody cool under the circumstances as it was getting increasingly clear that this party was one of those places to be seen in, so IC and I left. (Just in time too, apparently 10 mins after we went Mary’s friend was physically attacked by some drugged up homosexual for thinking she said ‘Depeche Mode are cunts, ’ unbelievable.)

The expected hangover on Sunday was a non-starter; we got up late and headed to Clapham for a very, very late breakfast (eggs benedict, delicious) after dropping into the Up Market in Shoreditch so IC could get her sister a gift for next weekend and nipping into Tesco in the city to get some stuff for supper. I was looking forward to seeing the F1 highlights later. I wasn’t expecting to walk into a fucking supermarket and have the results of the race broadcast to me from 20 or so behemoth flat screen TV’s hanging from the ceiling prompting me to yell, ‘what the fuck are TV’s doing in here!’ as IC sensibly removed herself from the side of her screaming, thoroughly pissed off partner in the fresh fish isle on the other side of the store. Suitably recovered we got back to my gaff at 4-ish and unwound from the previous evenings indulgencies: bath, food, Curb Your Enthusiasm… you get the picture.

Just before I leave you with some DAF (splendid video) I’m glad not be in the shoes of Jackie Smiths husband. It’s bad enough, one would imagine, to be caught by ones wife for secretly viewing hard-core pornography and having to explain yourself. He’s had to stand in front the world’s media and publicly apologise for being a wanker, in addition, the subsequence of his masturbatory proclivities has caused irreparable damage to his high profile wife’s career in government, and the government who employ her. I almost feel sorry for him, as if being married to her (for the time being at least) isn’t bad enough.

5 F 1

My weekend is completely rammed full, stuffed to the point of sickness. I’ll have no time to draw breath. In it are pubs, clubs, gigs and birthdays, throw visiting friends into the mix and that makes for a weekend so completely bloated that if one were to prick it with a pin it would go off ‘bang’ before catching fire like the Hindenburg and slowly descend to earth with all on board screaming ‘aargh, aargh’ and crashing violently in an all consuming ball of flame. Oh the humanity.

Obviously the prospect of so much activity thrills me, but a part of me is also quite happy to sit on a sofa watching crap on the box with IC. God I’m complicated.

Balanced on top of all this is the start of British summer time (hurrah) and the F1 season. I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to be able to shoehorn this into my schedule. I certainly won’t be able to watch it live which means a concerted effort to avoid all news from 7am onwards from Sunday morning. This in itself is a full time job.

The 2009 season looks as if the McLaren/Ferrari dominance will be threatened other, traditionally, less competitive teams, which is dead exciting really.

Where has everyone gone?

At least stay for Gerry’s chart, a song from within (metaltastic it is) and the chance for me to wish you splendid weekends. At least let me do that… Please.

30 Kings Of Leon Revelry 28 6
29 Royksopp Happy Up Here 29 4
28 Red Light Company Arts And Crafts 20 10
27 Just Jack Embers NE 1
26 Innerpartysystem Don’t Stop 18 11
25 Chris Cornell Part Of Me 21 7
24 Bat For Lashes Daniel NE 1
23 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Zero NE 1
22 The Enemy No Time For Tears NE 1
21 The View Shock Horror 12 10
20 La Roux In For The Kill 23 3
19 The Ting Tings We Walk 16 8
18 Fightstar Mercury Summer 25 2
17 Snow Patrol If There’s A Rocket……. 11 5
16 Five Finger Death Punch The Bleeding NE 1
15 The Prodigy Omen 8 10
14 Lady Gaga Poker Face 19 3
13 Funeral For A Friend Rules And Games 15 4
12 In Case Of Fire The Cleansing 17 4
11 You Me At Six Save It For The Bedroom 14 3
10 The Walkmen In The New Year 7 5
9 Hockey Too Fake 6 6
8 The Hot Melts Edith 9 4
7 Oasis Falling Down 4 7
6 Sparks Lighten Up Morrissey 13 2
5 Shinedown Sound Of Madness 5 3
4 Starsailor Tell Me It’s Not Over 3 10
3 Doves Kingdom Of Rust 2 5
2 Depeche Mode Wrong 10 2
1 White Lies Farewell To The Fairground 1 5


Well I should’ve thought it through before opening the champagne. I was too busy wrapped up in that euphoric moment, the blood, the black, the blue, the pathetic nauseating, whining little face all sad and worried because a nasty man had planted a fucking ham in his socket.

I accepted that he’d not be working for a while, but despite mentioning it, even with regard to my experience, I foolishly curtailed the thought that he may well be too afraid to leave the fucking flat. Being the hateful bag of fetid guts he is (you can’t have enough adjectives really can you) he’s no friends so he imposes himself on poor bastards in bars (I’ve been on the receiving end of this I hasten to add, it’s disgusting.)

Well he won’t be doing that for a while will he. He’ll be on full paranoia mode for at least 6 months. To make matters worse he’s decided to aid his recovery with what he calls ‘music,’ and performing imaginary amped-up gigs to no one (this includes ‘1,2,1,2 thank you’ THE FUCKING STUPID COCKLESS FREAK. THERE. IS. NO. ONE. THERE.)

I’m at my wits end.


I’m up to my neck in bloody work following a day of sustained bloody work yesterday. When I did get home not much happened, I bathed, shat and ate, did some rudimentary exercise (sit-ups, a few, I’ve been enjoying my food a little to much lately) ate some more and continued with the new tattoo design which is coming along a treat, I’m looking at June for touchdown, a year after the last one. The last one was supposed to be the last one.

Those of you silly enough to want to put little pictures onto your body will know that one isn’t enough, nor is two for the matter. The reason I’ve a compunction to do such a thing is in my grasp, tattoos are a way of ‘uniquifying’ the self whilst ironically (and usually negatively) grouping you in with those that have tattoos and separating you from those that don’t.

For me, tattoos appeal to the whole metal/punk/biker thing going on in my system (indeed, the tattoos reflect these in elements in certain respects) which is terribly honest of me as I do genuinely love these things. I took a lot of time and care designing them and, pleased with the tattooist recommended to me by a mate, always go to the same place. But still, by wearing my tattoos I’m still making a statement to a certain designated ‘type’ to which I either aspire or inspire, and to everyone else I’ve a couple of nice or rubbish tattoos depending on your taste, or lack of it.

This is a world away from the lazy ‘for the sake of it’ tattoos common today. In my scene the ‘the sleeve’ is currently doing the rounds, one colourful armful of pre-designated tattoo from a book. There is no sense of it having evolved; it’s just slapped on, bang, done. In Shoreditch the ‘old skool’ tattoo is back in vogue. Heart, banner, dagger. Done.

A few years back the Celtic Band was all the thing, one of the first not a bulldog, swallow or heart designs that appealed to ordinary people looking to make ‘a statement,’ though they clearly had no idea what to say, whatever it was it was probably bollocks. Then came the smaller and less effective version of heavy black sabre-like-streaks (Kerry King of Slayer has the original version as aped by George Clooney in Dusk ‘Til Dawn) usually compressed into redundant symmetrical shapings. If the Celtic band appealed to the average berk the sort of fellows that pimp up their Civic’s or ride Superbikes only on Sundays desired the compact Clooney/King slash (btw it’s not just men that wind up with an ‘I’ll have that one’ from a book of tattoos. You see an awful lot of girls sporting Panthers or Tigers, usually sat next to some bullnecked fellow in a pimped up Civic, or on a Sunday on Box Hill.)

And therein lies the biggest snag with tattoos, it’s easy to make judgements whether you sport one or not. The very fact you’ve taken time out of your day and paid a stranger money to permanently injure you is baffling to those that don’t subscribe (and to those that do to a certain extent) and if you do have one you’ll cast a critical or envious eye on the ink on display by others. For this reason I look at BMEzine (link right) most days. I can’t help myself.

Tattoos are a personal in a public way, they’re a paradox, an oxymoron and I’m both wary and delighted at the prospect of more.

Did someone mention Slayer? Oh dear.


There is a very important meeting in here this morning so everyone has been shoehorned into suits. I’m sort of wearing a sort-of-suit, dark jeans (I’m riding in on a bitch with a top speed in excess of 150, I’m not going to protect my legs with a hairsbreadth of suit fabric am I) smart but snazzy zip-up boots, shirt (no tie of course, hey, ties r 4 squares, yeah) and a waistcoat, cheap as chips that was, Primark. Anyway, I look noticeably unkempt and dishevelled in comparison to my colleagues. Which is fine by me, yeah. I live by my own rules. The boss isn’t too happy mind, hey, fuck him yeah. Yeah.

Before my meeting in town yesterday (30 mins each way by tube for a very successful 7 minute ‘yessss’) there was an altercation in the office. I’m positive I mentioned the fucking raspberry in here who regularly loses the plot and starts screaming into his keyboard… Yes, him, the same tool that nearly lost us a massive contract with a renown broadcasting corporation by being rude to a company secretary… well he lost it completely yesterday and was venomously aggressive to a colleague in his 60’s who didn’t take too kindly having a favour spurned (quite bizarrely I hasten to add, like so many cunts he’s thicker than a bulls dick) in such an appalling manner.

The looney (in his 50’s) squared up to the older fella and they were seconds away from coming to blows, if it wasn’t for another colleague intervening I’ve no doubt it would’ve kicked off. I on the other hand was keen to see what would happen. Being recently familiar with the sight of arseholes having their faces smashed-up I thought a second beating might set the precedent for a run of wankers getting their comeuppances. Oh well.

As usual I woke up to Today this morning (not This Morning today, note.) I’ve a question. Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to get Evan Davis involved? It’s one thing to present Dragon’s Den and another to hold yourself against the cream of world politics. He’s not the wit, souse or aggression to interview concisely, he asks completely banal and random questions and nine times out of ten hands the upper hand to the interviewee. I actually hand to turn him off this morning; the man sets my teeth on edge, the bald jug-eared git. BBC, fire him for fucks sake, he’s making your flagship programme look trite and flaccid.

Jesus Christ, The Raspberry has just walked into the office and hour and half late wearing a fucking hoody, he’s in his 50’s! What the fuck is going on?!

blud, blud, blud

What a wonderful, marvellous, joyous weekend. The weather was perfect, it was choc full-o-funs and Cunt got his fucking head kicked in.

I can hardly wit to indulge you, but first, let’s start from Friday where my weekend began trundling cheerfully to a boozer by London Fields to meet IC, herself full of the joys of spring-to-be following a relatively calm week in the work place. She and I arrived at pretty much the same time as the last of the sunshine was soaked up by the blue dusk of evening. We had a pair of drinks and set off back to hers, she on her velocipede and I on the bus with a gentleman flowing with bogies offering crack to a couple of condoling kids.

After a light supper we walked up the road to meet Swineshead and his missus for a natter and a drink or two. The pleasant evening was somewhat compromised by some sort of exchange between the womenfolk involving a large chest of drawers. Despite it talking SH and I 15 minutes to get it down his stairs the idea was that IC and I would ‘wheel’ the lump back to her gaff (a 10 minutes unburdened walk away through the sorts of streets one sees in The Wire.)

This was all well and good but by the time we’d reached the end of SH’s flat one of the wheels disintegrated, which was probably a good thing for the surrounding community as the volume of the trundling furniture was akin to an erupting volcano. Luckily she and I were topped up with Cabernet Sauvignon so the effort of having to carry the bastard was undertaken in a state of bloody-minded delirium. Nonetheless it was one fuck of a struggle, our hooded audience paid us scant attention save a few congenial cat calls and amazingly, after 20 minutes, we made it back barely able to move our limbs in order to get the behemoth up two more flights of stairs and into her room. Obviously we celebrated our achievements with a few more drinks before retiring, exhausted.

On Saturday IC took a pot of black paint to the new furniture and I set about repairing the drawers. We set off to meet to some friends for a late lunch in Clerkenwell, it was warm enough to sit outside in the sunshine and eat, heralding the first truly warm day of the year on the first official day of Spring. After lunch and a bit more too-ing and fro-ing we took the bus and tube back to my place and scrubbed up for dinner. Before we left an enormous fucking din erupted from beneath my feet as Cunt took it on himself to perform his retarded noise filth, probably with his fat stinking tongue lolling out of his cracked stupid lips. The sound was curtailed 20 minutes later when the other thing in his place pleaded for silence. I only know this because I heard the honking cockmeat object to her pleas with, ‘you don’t understand, you’re not a musician,’ mentally aiming for the source of his gob I’ve no idea how I prevented myself from smashing my foot though the floorboards and stamping on his thick skull.

After a period of calm I was back to my blithesome self. It was 8-ish when we took the short walk to the curry house. Being a little more au fait with the menu we ordered a perfect selection of dishes, one main and a range of starters and indulged. As usual we over-ordered and, as one would expect, were unable to stop eating even after we were both well past the point of merely sated.

We waddled back to the flat, the thought of not having to get up for work for another day, with some Saturday left, sprung our heels home.

As we approached the flat the porch light was on. Sighing with hate I explained to IC that on occasion this occurs for no other reason that my downstairs neighbour is a thoughtless shit massacre with brains less developed than frog-spawn.

I placed the key in the lock to the communal hallways and through the frosted glass door, to my complete dismay, I saw Cunt’s door gingerly open as if to receive me. My heart dropped to my Converse, I hissed something to IC who bristled behind me. I stepped into the hall and what I saw caused me to plunge my central incisors through my labia oris to stifle the first ‘HA’ (which had it been allowed to escape would’ve blown Cunt and the thing with him through his back wall) of a hurricane of uncontrollable laughter.

Slouched in front of me, and confused I wasn’t his daddy (the porch light was on for him, presumably Cunt suspected his dad may forget where the house he’d bought for his son was located) bleeding heavily from a gaping two-inch gash below a pitch-black slit of an eye and a five-piece size hole where his eyebrow had once been, was Cunt. Still unable to dare speak in case I started to sing I took the whole scene in with a growing woody. IC slipped past me and up the stairs leaving me to manage the situation alone. In addition to feeling faint she knew that had she caught my eye I’d have been helpless to prevent collapsing in a heap of shoulder-breaking giggles.

I managed to ask what had happened. He who ‘knew Kung Fu’, he who had once requested I join him outside for a punch up when a year or so ago I had the audacity to ask him to not ‘play’ the Organ at 3am on a Monday morning when the sound would’ve drowned out the Mander incarnation at The Royal Albert Hall, was stood shaking in front of me on the brink of tears. I took control of myself largely by lamenting the fact that he was stood there and not in a hospital or better still, a mortuary.

Behind the door his partner, literally dribbling from some narcotic, said ‘hello’ as if I was here to read the gas meter. By now Cunt had turned white and was on the brink of collapse. I left him unsteady for a while and asked him what had happened. To cut a long story short it transpires that his initial claim to having been randomly attacked was punctuated with caveats. As far as I can gather from getting staccato information from his dosed up companion the following day, Cunt bumped into someone in Tooting High Street and was challenged to apologise, when he failed to do so he was challenged to a dust up, to which he accepted. He was giving an almighty right hook to his eye (the kid who smacked him, in addition to being on the receiving end of a drink should I meet him, must have been as fit as fuck) and Cunt went down. I have to confess to exaggerating earlier, Cunt didn’t have his head kicked in per se; he was hit once by someone who really knew how to land a punch and left bleeding on the street, which’ll have to do for now.

Regular readers of this tripe might be for forgiven I’ve gone a bit soft in my old age when I tell you that I took a few minutes out of my Saturday night to treat his fucking cut with cotton wool and ice and calm him down, he was clearly in a state of shock and bleeding profusely, his white hoody was saturated. I’ve been beaten up twice, once unconscious, and it’s far from pleasant. I take comfort that the physiological consequences of the attack will hopefully render him as paranoid and frankly, afraid, as it did me in my early 20’s to induce some respect for those around him, but right then, to ensure he didn’t pass out and because I was raised properly by decent parents, I did what I could before his dad arrived. I left his poor father to take him to A&E where he had 6 stitches (and by god I hope they hurt) and half his stupid that’ll-teach-you-a-lesson face bandaged up.

IC and I had a fantastic Saturday night. We watched Traffic and drank wine, every so often I was forced to put down my glass and punch the air.

Sunday was stunning, warm and sunny with clear blue skies save the odd snow-white fluffy cloud. After a breakfast of crab and toast (IC discovered these pots of 100% and nothing else Brown Crab Meat in Waitrose if you please, they’re only a couple of quid and completely stupidly delicious) we set off on the Black Bitch to see my family, ostensibly my mum it being Mothering Sunday. But before that we took a long and lazy chug right through Richmond Park, complete with frolicking Deer and pink blossoms, sublime it was.

At my parent my niece greeted me with predictable screams but a short while after she seemed comfortable with me being there, she even came over for a cautious ‘high-five’ and when I left gave me a nervous kiss. A very pleasant afternoon passed with the family, which included my dad farting loudly in front of IC in the loft as I went through some old stuff to be cleared out. After a couple of hours we shot home at dusk via the shops, I made a splendid supper of roasted onion, tomato and prawns (nested in Yorkshire Pudding) that we ate in the kitchen in front of the TV, this was followed by a movie in the living room as we relaxed and eked out the final hours of the weekend.

Below us all was silent.


I’ve just been all the way to town to discover a message on my fucking mobile cancelling the meeting I went to town for, and come all the way back again. Great.

I explained to my client, who probably commutes in a helicopter, that the mobile network doesn’t work if one is underground, so if you’re going to cancel a meeting it’d be nice to get some notice a little longer that 15 cunting minutes before we’re arranged to meet.

I’m far from cheery with regard to a completely wasted morning.

However, it was nice to see Urban Woo last night (link right) even if I came home early in preparation for the meeting that didn’t exist, and I’m looking forward to a long and lazy weekend with IC. Next weekend is going to be mental so I regard this as the quiet before the storm.

Gerry’s chart and a tune from in it. Don’t forget it’s Mother’s Day on Sunday. I’ve got mine a dildo.

30 Franz Ferdinand No You Girls NE 1
29 Royksopp Happy Up Here 24 3
28 Kings Of Leon Revelry 26 5
27 Glasvegas Flowers And Football Tops 19 8
26 The Filthy Dukes This Rhythm 17 6
25 Fightstar Mercury Summer NE 1
24 Coldplay Life In Technicolour II 15 8
23 La Roux In For The Kill 30 2
22 Anthony And The Johnsons Epilepsy Is Dancing 10 6
21 Chris Cornell Part Of Me 18 6
20 Red Light Company Arts And Crafts 9 9
19 Lady Gaga Poker Face 27 2
18 Innerpartysystem Don’t Stop 11 10
17 In Case Of Fire The Cleansing 22 3
16 The Ting Tings We Walk 20 7
15 Funeral For A Friend Rules And Games 16 3
14 You Me At Six Save It For The Bedroom 23 2
13 Sparks Lighten Up Morrissey NE 1
12 The View Shock Horror 7 9
11 Snow Patrol If There’s A Rocket…… 14 4
10 Depeche Mode Wrong NE 1
9 The Hot Melts Edith 13 3
8 The Prodigy Omen 5 9
7 The Walkmen In The New Year 6 4
6 Hockey Too Fake 8 5
5 Shinedown Sound Of Madness 12 2
4 Oasis Falling Down 4 6
3 Starsailor Tell Me It’s Not Over 2 9
2 Doves Kingdom Of Rust 1 4
1 White Lies Farewell To The Fairground 3 4


Imagine being banged up for 27 years for something you didn’t do. When I was a kid I got trapped in a lift for about 3 minutes and that was more than enough thank you Mr. Mackay. Having said that I didn’t ask to be trapped in the lift, I didn’t press lots of buttons repeatedly and deliberately so the lift the broke subsequently trapping me, whereas Sean ‘Aldridge Prior’ Hodgson did, sort of.

Sean Hodgson was, according to his lawyer, a pathological liar; ‘pathological’ indicates that he couldn’t help being a deep far friar ‘cos he was a bit mental, like. But this term is a little misleading as ‘pathological liar’ is not an official clinical diagnosis (meaning it’s not listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) like Münchausen syndrome, which is compulsive lying in order to seek attention. Hodgson quite deliberately confessed to raping and killing a young woman. This isn’t like telling a little fib, it’s not really in the same league as ‘the cheque is in the post,’ so why did he do it?

This is of some concern, chronic lying in adults is often a manifestation of antisocial personality disorder, better known as sociopathy, which isn’t a particularly good case for the defence as sociopaths have a tendency to violence and murder. In many ways Hodgson was damned if he did, damned if he didn’t, it was only the DNA in the spunks found on the body of the deceased that made his conviction unsafe. The sample Hodgson provided (making him a wanker if nothing else) didn’t match the sperms on the stiff, as the beak said “The Crown’s case was that whoever raped her also killed her, so the new DNA evidence has demolished the case for the prosecution.”

This is far enough, of course, but something isn’t right. This case isn’t a clear-cut miscarriage of justice like that of Stefan Kiszko, a simpleton whose confession was coerced out of him by the heinous West Yorkshire pigs without a solicitor.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m in no way suggesting that Sean Hodgson was involved in the murder of Teresa de Simone, and to incarcerate a man for 27 years on the basis of an unsafe conviction is not only reprehensible it doesn’t serve the public interest in any capacity, especially when we consider the real killer has (or had, could be dead) his liberty (assuming he’s not already languishing in jail for something else, which is more than likely.)

Eleven years ago Hodgson’s lawyers contacted the Forensic Science Service and requested they test the sperm for a DNA match only to be told the material no longer existed, when it did. Why? It does seem, for whatever reason, somebody was keen to see Hodgson banged-up suggesting there may be much more to this case than meets the eye. Anyway, I hope Hodgson is enjoying the lovely weather we’re having. He could do with some sun on those old bones, poor sod looks awful.

Right, a massive youtube effort from the redoubtable John Hegley. Thirty mins of joy to make up for a week of largely miserable posts. Ironically I’m fine, the better I am the more boring it is for you. Eat that.


I completely forgot it was St. Patrick’s Day. I knew it was, the information was around, it just didn’t register as I would’ve considered this when making plans. I’m keen to avoid pubs on this day for a very good reason. Nonetheless, there I was last night with Rosh and a few of her friends ordering beer at the bar of some public house in Sarf Landon.

Mercifully the bar was half empty, the boozer next door on the other hand was all green balloons and flags and rammed full of Guiness-drunk types singing ‘I wish I was back home In Derry.’ The Australian barmaid questioned my decision to have a quiet pint of Pride when I could be walled in by a 1000 Irish-lite men laughing spittle and conversing only a little less loudly than Santa Pod through a Marshall, why wasn’t I ‘enjoying the ‘craic’?’

If there’s one word that gets my goat it’s that. For a kick off it’s an English Scottish word, not Irish, and as for that fucking spelling, that was invented in the 70’s. But for me it has more personal connotations, on St. Patrick’s day 20 odd years ago a drunken fellow tried to fondle a female companions ‘craic’ and when I intervened got a ‘craic’ in the mouth and a fucking good kicking to boot. The association of St. Patrick’s Day and being hurted are forever bound, though last night passed off perfectly peacefully and everyone had a pleasant evening.

Time for some Cunt news. He has a job, definitely. I only know this because he’s incapable of remembering his name and address, so when an anonymous envelope with my address lands on the communal doormat I opened it, naturally. It was an contract for full time employment in pest control, which is so deliciously ironic I don’t know where to start. What has been apparent over the past few weeks it that it appears to be shift based and we’re, for the most part anyway, on different schedules. This is excellent news now and gaining interest in the bank of hate, I’ve had an offer on my gaff from a property developer to convert it entirely. If I accept the offer he’ll be endlessly disrupted, hopefully as he’s trying to get off to sleep after a night in the sewer, woken by the chirpy sound of livid scaffolders clanging and banging and smashing, ahhh, even makes me feel a little guilty to keep sending those exciting looking packages full of offal and dogshit.

Josef Fritzl is in court (he’s a dead ringer for Vincent Price isn’t he) and the BBC mentioned at the beginning of their report that he was wearing a ‘grey suit and blue shirt.’ Snappy eh? But I’m a bit confused. Why? Is he trying to impress the jury? As his daughter speaks of her harrowfying deal, 24 years of beatings, incest, rape, murder, do you think anyone gives a weeping Christ what he’s wearing? Surely to be vain at such a time just shows what an evil little pervert he is. Indeed, his case would be better served if he walked into court stark naked, smeared in his own excrement trying to piss into his mouth.

Anyway, his defence lawyer Rudolf Mayer has publicly said he was perhaps, next to Fritzl, the most hated man in Austria. They’ve a short memory that lot haven’t they, what about that bloke who murdered 6,000,000 Jews? His name escapes me for now, but I’m sure it’ll come back.

goin’ down’s

After my, and believe me, very suppressed mention of that lad with Down’s Syndrome on yesterday’s Piqued (to recap, the kid whose mother had ‘boy banded’ him up (gelled hair, whispy Klingon beard) in order to make him more sexy and therefore, more likely to get laid by a Metro reader on her (or his, mummy didn’t specify what sort of creature with whom she wanted her disabled son to engage in coitus with) way to work or repeatedly burgled by some vile depraved beast before he’s sold onto an East European crime syndicate to be used as a cock sleeve and violently dispatched in Belovezhskaya Forest) I noticed that there is to be an entire show dedicated to his plight on BBC3.

This is completely irresponsible. I don’t care what anyone says but this sort of programme doesn’t serve to highlight a plight or a cause, it’s a Victorian Freakshow, plain and simple, and I’m extraordinarily surprised the BBC are touching it.

For a start, as mentioned yesterday, it’s a subject worthy of serious discussion because of the vulnerability of the subjects and subsequent consequences. Sex, of course, can lead to pregnancy which opens up a very different set of dilemmas. There are even cases of Down’s Syndrome sufferers having non Syndrome Children. What then? Don’t ask me I’m not a fucking expert I’m just saying that it’s potentially much more than an attention-seeking mummy trying to get her son his jollies.

Maybe BBC3 will touch on these topics, they probably will but the very fact it’s on BBC3, a sort of middle-class yoof channel, raises my heckles. If you’re not sure why I’ll explain very simply; in precisely the same way we find it entertaining to see children aping their parents (trying on their clothes, make-up etc.,) seeing a Down’s Syndrome version of Robbie Williams inspires amusement as both have neither the mental capacity or physical ability to realise the absurdity of their actions in the context of ‘normal’ perception, which makes it funny/endearing. Put it this way, if the show was going to be ‘educational’ over ‘entertaining’ it would be on BBC2, or better still discussed on Radio 4.


On the bus last month I’d passed a sushi bar I’d never seen before minutes from my flat, I noted the name and checked it out online pleasantly surprised to read favourable reviews, some quite ecstatic. I booked a table for Friday and at 9pm following a quick pint in a god awful spit and sawdust pub (sprinkled with little inebriated middle-aged men stood up at the bar not taking to each other with country and western blaring out the jukebox) IC and I sat down and pondered the menu.

After locating a few of the classics, that is ‘stuff what we recognised,’ we also ordered ‘stuff that looked nice,’ and some Pinot Grigio. Within 10 minutes half of Tokyo was glistening on our plates and we began to eat, and eat, and eat. Whilst we were eating more stuff kept arriving, it was like the food was regenerating, after an hour of perpetual eating we were done, but asked for a doggy bag for the remaining pile. The bill, incidentally, was absurdly lean. The same amount of sushi (and far less appetising) would’ve been 3 times the cost in Soho.

We got home and resumed our depraved consumption of food; it was like we couldn’t stop. We were washing it all down with Cava and Prosecco (please don’t think us overindulgent, both purchases were made on the cheap, Lidl is God) and took it in turns to choose guilty pleasures on youtube, at one point someone put on Caribbean Blue by Enya. As it wasn’t IC it must have been me. Sweet Christ.

After kippers for lunch-ish we headed East to Hackney with vague hangovers. On the way we stopped at Borough Market and utterly failed to buy anything save carrot cake for Mary, though we did eat 2 giant dates. Back at IC’s we readied ourselves for the evening, which I did by reading the paper, then off to a boozer round the corner to meet some friends. The wine-thing happened jollied on by the prospect of falafel at home, the wine-thing forced us to make a detour to a new bar that’d recently opened a stone’s throw from IC’s gaff, I wandered in clutching a bit of tree after reassuring the bouncer it was decommissioned. Back at home Mary was entertaining a friend that called for some more wine, and so on. The hangover on Sunday was tremendous, a real stinker, despite this we still managed to make it on to the bus to get to Brick Lane.

It was a glorious day, best of the year so far bar none, so we were already expecting throngs of cunts, and weren’t to be disappointed. Our reasons for undertaking this horrific task do contain logic. IC needed to buy some clothes for her sister who is shortly to become a mother and she knew of this one stall in the Up Market. It was heaving with a viscous mix of knowing bohemian types, confused tourists and all out bastards but we were relatively successful in our mission. Getting out of the area was another matter, a part of Brick Lane is closed forcing a thousand people a minute into a sort of makeshift pipe. Put it this way, I wished I’d not started the brilliant article in yesterday’s Observer about Hillsborough (if you didn’t read it find it online.)

We wound up at the boozer we’d been to the previous evening for a sedentary pair of drinks before returning home and eating and finally, watching an engaging yet completely miserable French film called ‘The Secret Life of Angels’ which I tentatively recommend, though not on a Sunday.

I had to get up early this morning to get from East London to the South causing me to catch sight of The Metro, which, even by its own disgusting standards, managed to dig with its claws a new low in Journalism.

The article headlined ‘Will Anyone Sleep with my Down’s Son?’ has to be quite the most irresponsible bilge I’ve seen committed to words. ‘His room is stuffed full of condoms…and his collection of pornography is staggering,’ his gormless mother gushed of her son, Otto, a 21 sufferer of Down’s Syndrome.

In the article she laments that he’s not getting the same deal as (and I quote) ‘‘normal’ people’ even saying she’d have no problem if he went to a brothel in Amsterdam (we’ll ignore the casual condoning of prostitution for the sake of time.) I’m sure Otto has a sexual appetite like those of his peers but Lucy Baxter (the mother) must know by now that Otto isn’t ‘normal’ in certain respects; he’s got Down’s Syndrome, he needs 24 hour care on account of his disorder, which means that whilst he’s the facility to fuck, he’s a mental age of a five year old.

I accept this is somewhat of an unfortunate paradox, and I’ve no problem in discussing the pro’s and con’s therein, but to stick your son in the newspaper, photo and all and asked someone to fuck him is, at best, a cynical method of getting your mug into a national newspaper and, at worse, inviting abuse due to his vulnerability.

Right, off topic, more from M R James. This is a real corker, frightened the piss out of me it did. Watch alone in the dark…


Thank fuck it’s Friday. Happy to see the back of this week and have an entire weekend without the prospect of endless car journeys, coffins and what have you.

Last night whilst returning from seeing my bro in a boozer in London Bridge I alighted the tube and reached for my book, which wasn’t there. The bastard thing had fallen out of my bag because I’d unzipped it outside the pub to locate my tobacco and failed to zip it back up; I was only a chapter from the end, which means that I’m going to have to buy the bastard thing for the privilege of 30 minutes reading. What really galls is that after I have to return the book that I borrowed to its owner.

When I arrived at the tube at the other end the tobacco I’d taken from the bag and placed in my jacket after rolling a fag, was fucking missing. It must have slipped out my pocket because in spite of frantic patting and digging around the only thing I was certain wasn’t there was my bloody snout, though I did find an orange Chewit.

Just one thing, if you’re a podgy-faced American woman with a booming voice and a laugh that could curdle paint, do everyone a favour and stay at home, preferably in the garage with a hose attached to the exhaust pipe. My entire tube journey was dominated by this harridan who’d been fucking everywhere and wanted to amaze her 3 dorky (utterly silent, nodding) friends and in turn the carriage (and I shouldn’t wonder the whole of the London Underground) with her ‘knowledge’ and ‘experience’ of ‘life’.

I’ve always hated seasoned travellers, when you’ve the misfortune to meet one you’re usually abroad and instantly they begin harping on about the best fucking places they’ve been to via the most tenuous of comparison (‘Oh I see they serve coffee in china here, in Bhutan they serve coffee in the scooped out stomach cavity of the Northern Leaf-tailed Gecko, dried, of course…well I say coffee, it’s more of a paste derived from the semen of the Green Tree Python… etc) the worst, of course, endless streams of derring do, stomach bugs, guns etc whilst being completely unappreciative of the here and now. I remember this glorious sunset in Florence when I was in my 20’s and some Scottish git in the adjacent table giving a list of the best sunsets he’s ever seen, most of them in war torn regions of West Africa, and completely ignoring the sublime sight in front of his eyes and spoiling the experience for me the fucking twat.

Right, Gerry’s chart is back and a tune from therein. Have good weekends

30 La Roux In For The Kill NE 1
29 My Chemical Romance Desolation Row 18 6
28 Lily Allen The Fear 21 10
27 Lady Gaga Poker Face NE 1
26 Kings Of Leon Revelry 20 4
25 The Wombats My Circuit Board City 17 7
24 Royksopp Happy Up Here 27 2
23 You Me At Six Save It For The Bedroom NE 1
22 In Case Of Fire The Cleansing 29 2
21 The Airborne Toxic Event Sometime Around Midnight 13 10
20 The Ting Tings We Walk 24 6
19 Glasvegas Flowers And Football Tops 14 7
18 Chris Cornell Part Of Me 16 5
17 The Filthy Dukes This Rhythm 12 5
16 Funeral For A Friend Rules And Games 23 2
15 Coldplay Life In Technicolour II 10 7
14 Snow Patrol If There’s A Rocket…… 19 3
13 The Hot Melts Edith 22 2
12 Shinedown Sound Of Madness NE 1
11 Innerpartysystem Don’t Stop 7 9
10 Anthony And The Johnsons Epilepsy Is Dancing 8 5
9 Red Light Company Arts And Crafts 3 8
8 Hockey Too Fake 15 4
7 The View Shock Horror 4 8
6 The Walkmen In The New Year 11 3
5 The Prodigy Omen 2 8
4 Oasis Falling Down 6 5
3 White Lies Farewell To The Fairground 9 3
2 Starsailor Tell Me It’s Not Over 1 8
1 Doves Kingdom Of Rust 5 3

wea we

I can’t be arsed to post today, I’ve a malaise.

This may have something to do from a failure to fully recuperate from the beginning of the week, in terms of sleep certainly I’m well behind. I was up very early yesterday morning following an evening with IC and found going to bed at the ‘right time’ last night very difficult. I somehow feel I’ve been short changed if I hit the hay before 1am. This ridiculous logic stems from my self-imposed ‘8 hours on, 8 hours off’ rule, from my late 20’s when I started to work full time, if I spend 8 hours at work then I’m entitled to spend the 8 off out of my brain.

Saw Harry last night for a few beers, we chatted about Scrabble for the most part and walked into the tube together. Harry’s train was already on the platform so he didn’t see the tall, wiry skinhead clutching the Clapham North sign and undressing himself. Pissed beyond human he was. As I approached he got out his very modest tool and began to urinate over the platform. As I passed I felt as if I ought to say something but he beat me to it with a ‘what you looking at, having your head kicked in?’

I weighed the matter up, he was so drunk I figured that even if he could see me there would be a good chance he’d fall off the platform before he got to me, and even if he did get to me I…bear in mind I’d had a few too, but not as much as him.

‘Needle dick,’ I heard myself say over the sound of his torrent of pee. There was silence behind as the piss stopped, suddenly I felt very sober, I caught a mental glimpse of myself on the front of The Metro pictured with IC last year in Porto and ‘Thrown Under Train’ written over the top of my grinning face. Christ, they’ve printed my age…

‘Yeah, whatever,’ the skin said.


I opened the door to the hotel room; there was a two-foot wide corridor and on the right a bathroom the size of a Leyland Mini, though perhaps not as generously proportioned. At the other end of the room, which was about 3 paces away, there was a bay window through which I could see a bit of the North Sea and some beach. Languishing in front of this was my single bed, despite the surface area being roughly the size of my 18-month niece it came up to my nipples. I applied a small amount of pressure to the mattress to ascertain what it would offer in terms of comfort and wasn’t remotely surprised when it felt like a five quid tit-job.

I turned on my heels and went down to reception demanding some sort of an upgrade. The slack-jawed centaur behind the counter grunted something about ‘unavailability’ though she didn’t use that particularly word, too many syllables, mind you she did glare at me as if was penetrating Iggle Piggle dressed as Hitler. I immediately went off in search of my family and after locating my sister and brother in Law, brother and his missus and my parents, all of whom had double rooms the size of Hampton Court with vast views over Scarborough’s North Bay, I demanded to know from the latter what I was doing in a fucking broom cupboard. I was gently informed by mum that as I was on my own she’d not thought twice about getting me a single room, despite all rooms costing the same on a Sunday… perhaps the most irritating aspect was that I had to take this square on the chin as the following afternoon we were laying her dad to rest, and having a petulant 40 year old teenager screaming in her face wasn’t really de rigueur…The reality of Monday dawned on me in a most unexpected and dreadful way. I sloped off to the bar where I remained until dinner.

On Friday I’d nipped over to Hackney to have a few drinks with IC at a the bar where my birthday had taken place, we chatted with some friends and went back to eat a late dinner. On Saturday we woozily made our way to Broadway market to get a gift for Pru whose birthday party we’d been invited to in the evening. The day shot past and it wasn’t long before we were on the train heading for bloody Queens Park, not so much miles away but a pain to get to from where we were.

When we arrived the party was already picking up, the theme of the occasion was famous dead people, I went as Ritchie from The Manic Street Preachers because all I had to do was whack on some eyeliner and it sort of worked. IC was Wendy O Williams (I’d decided that when she’d dressed up and said ‘who do I sort of look like?’) She didn’t look much like Wendy at all, she was dressed for a start, but as most folks wouldn’t know who Wendy was if she walked into the room and told them neither of us were too fussed. It did mean, however, that when a guest asked IC who she was supposed to be I was waved over to explain, a task I was only too happy to undertake, especially as the evening got more lubricated.

After a few hours we were forced back onto the streets due to time constraints, we were having a surprisingly good time and it was an annoyance to leave. I couldn’t be arsed to wait for a bus so being flush with projected funds from the imaginary beer bank I hailed a black cab. A memorable journey followed to the tune of 30 fucking quid but it was good we were home relatively early as I had a sizable journey to undertake the following morning.

The following morning, as it happened, was only 5 hours sleep away from the end of the previous evening. It was bright sunny morning and the streets were empty. I had a 10 minute walk to a bus stop to take me to Waterloo. It was 8.45, plenty of time to grab a can of Coke and walk unencumbered. The can was drained in two hefty pulls and the remaining gasses expelled at quite staggering volume at the bus stop, even I was rather taken aback by the reticulated din, I had to sort of dislocate my jaw to allow the brown air free passage and, under the disgusting circumstances, felt an apology to my fellow passengers-to-be was appropriate.

I took pole position on the upper deck and we cheerily chugged through the city. At Waterloo I had time to grab some sandwiches before the train ride to Woking where I was met by my bro-in-Law. Before we set off up the M1 we collected my sister and 18-month-old niece who on sight of a rather dishevelled Uncle screamed the place down. My sister had to sit in the back of the car to cajole her which was fine until she caught sight of me sat in the front via the wing mirror and resumed her wailing. This cycle of placation, overlook, Uncle! and screaming occurred roughly every 30 minutes for the duration of the 5 hour journey, though bizarrely she seemed fine with me at the grotty services in Derby where I witnessed the fattest mum, dad and son eating 3 Whoppers (each) in about the same time it takes me to cut the crusts off my fucking cucumber sandwiches.

After passing through every weather system on planet Earth we finally arrived in Scarborough, my niece still howling like a Fox in a steel trap following my turning round to ask my sister a question about mixers for rum. Despite being on the North coast it was relatively warm and blue skies, like, so ruled. On the outside the Hotel looked promising, inside it was very nice too and after the disappointing meeting with my bedroom I have to say the bar wasn’t all-bad either.

The immediate family congregated for dinner. I ate the most appalling starter of mackerel and potato salad, the former was fresh out of its vacuum packed housing and the latter near its sell by date. The main wasn’t much better, the ‘slow roasted knuckle of lamb’ was as tender as an infant’s earlobe but tasted of absolutely nothing, it was like chewing a beige flavoured afterthought, and it’s not even worth mentioning the shit it was served with. I was now doing rather well in terms of wine consumption; on top of the beers I’d enough Dutch courage to face profiteroles! (Please not the exclamation mark.) Before we go down that road you may have noticed the menu is rather, well, quaint. The menu was from a time of Unions, Lorry driving serial killers and a rather laissez faire attitude to the welfare of minors/miners. Don’t get me wrong, I am genuinely fond of this type of food but this muck was reprehensible. The profiteroles! by the way, were sensationally disgusting, lard encased in rennet, even Iceland would’ve spurned them like a putrefying donkey. I took one bite and allowed the rest to render themselves in the regurgitated white spume in which they were smothered. Dad loved it.

That night in my spastic cot I had the most awful nightmares, a full Ghost-in-the-Room number which saw me bolt upright at 4am with terrifying shadows caressing my face and the distant sound of the North sea boiling sewage. ‘Whistle and I’ll Come to You’ cast itself into my addled brain and I got up to peer at the beach in order to comfort myself. Those of you that have seen this masterpiece will know what a bloody silly thing that was to do, especially when I had no option but to return to my crumpled toy bed. I fell asleep as the seagulls woke up, which woke me up; one of the birds in particular was just taking the piss.

I was early for breakfast. Despite not allowing myself to look forward to it in any capacity I was more disappointed than I’d be if I discovered Stephen Fry fancied nippers. There was egg, ‘scrambled’ and ‘fried,’ congealing bacon, orange sausages, pitch black parched pudding, baked bullets, lard-drenched bread and drowning fungus. Being hungover I helped myself to the lot and ate it. Plant oasis in Motor Oil would’ve been more appetising.

After the morning fodder my sister, bro-in-Law, banshee niece, brother and his missus took the cliff-tram down to the Marine Drive. It was another glorious day and as the tide was out we took a stroll on the beach. It was here I discovered that my niece is quite literally afraid of her shadow. We were walking to the sea when she suddenly stopped, quite literally frozen in horror. her little arm came up and pointed at the black shape at her feet, her mouth downturned in a visage of medieval fear. ‘Shaboo!’ She screamed, ‘SHABOO!’ She turned to flee from the flailing shape only to notice that it was pursuing her as fast as her chubby little legs could pound the sand resulting in a balls out screaming fit. The convulsing gales of laughter from yours truly in the midst of her episode wouldn’t have done much to cement any bond between us. After she calmed down she took to looking at me like I’d just been landed on a boat with my guts hanging out my arse.

Before we went back to the hotel we had a quick shot in a few of the arcades that face the sea. In the 40 years I’ve been going to Scarborough these have changed remarkably little. The child that used wander about the 1p slot machines all those years ago was a tangible distance from my adult self, that and my niece who is a dead ringer of my sister at that age, aptly set the tone for what was to follow. I think it’s fair to say that most childhood’s close with the death of a grandparent, the realisation that life isn’t forever, the reality of death making itself known to the developing mind and suchlike. I’ve been fortunate, until last week I still had one remaining grandparent, that tenuous link with my childhood was irreparably severed and may explain, to some extent, why I retained so much of my childish self in adulthood. I thought about this as I put on a black suit and tie in the hotel room, even stopping to polish my shoes.

I met the rest of my family in the hotel lobby and various cars were dispatched to take us to the Church. Set in a picture postcard village by the side of rolling Yorkshire Dales it’s the epitome of what one thinks of as ‘An English Church’, a 16th century stone building sits serenely in a small, neatly trimmed copse prickling with uneven gravestones gently consumed by golden lichen and ivy. Once arrived we gathered by the wooden vestibule that leads to the entrance of the church, itself filling with more family and a surprising variety of elderly friends, though none as old as granddad when he died. By the time the service began, which was emotionally tougher than I’d anticipated, the church was packed solid with a bunch of people listening outside. Over 300 people came along.

The wake took place at an absurdly beautiful hotel in the middle of the Yorkshire countryside, the wine was sensational (grandad, by the way, was drinking wine right up to the evening before he was taken to hospital) and the sandwiches and cakes were, for once, delicious. It was very strange being at a family gathering and him not being there by the way. Downright weird actually.

We couldn’t stay too long, still suited and booted we resumed our places in the car and headed back south. The journey home was somewhat subdued unsurprisingly. At some nightmare Service Station I changed back into civvies and packed away my death costume. A few hours later I was dropped off at Woking station, it was about 10pm when the train finally rolled in and after one change and a bus I was home by about 11.30 fucked. I didn’t go to bed until 3am, my head was burbling, it took a few whiskies and a couple of Top Gears on I-player to quieten it down.

So, Grandad. His funeral was 20 years to the day my Granny died and 80 to the day that he married her. He was born in the East end of London on the 27th of April 1907, he left school at 14 and worked in a hotel cleaning the kitchens. In ten years he was managing the hotel, ten years later he was managing the company that owned it and a string of others. He suddenly gave it all up to fight in Burma and came home an officer 5 years later demanding a job from his old employees. He was responsible for restoring and returning to its former glory The Grand in Scarborough, what he considered his greatest achievement. It was here he became friends with Winston Churchill who was recuperating after the Second World War and here that he raised his family. After he retired he remained in North Yorkshire and acted as a consultant for his company right up until a few years ago. Granddad liked fishing, golf, swimming, restoring clocks and furniture, antiques and wine, preferably red and French. Until his death his lived at his home, his mind was as sharp as razor and despite failing eyesight was in remarkable health. He had a stroke on Monday 23rd and died peacefully on Wednesday 25th February in Scarborough hospital, annoyingly.

Before I go I intend to put in place the very thing that gave me fucking nightmares in the Hotel, it’s in 3 parts. Watch them in a dark place late and alone. It’s what he would’ve wanted.


This is the last post before next week, probably Wednesday, where they may or may not be a bumper entry involving the sidesplitting antics at granddad’s funeral.

I should be careful how I discuss this, my flippant sense of ‘humour’ has already upset mum, the ‘we’re giving granddad up for Lent’ didn’t go down well and something I said about him fucking granny in heaven went down even worse.

The comments were made when I wasn’t firing on all cylinders in fairness to myself. I was a bit pissed at not feeling particularly cheery when mum called the day after news of his exit. Combine this with my oft-mentioned auxiliary nurse experience, which has left a bitter streak as wide as Cheddar Gorge for anything with dentures, I’ve become heartlessly practical about ‘dying old’ and was far more concerned to learn if he was full of Morphine when he slipped his moorings leaving the whole tact-thing convulsing in A&E.

Despite this mum insisted I go up to Yorkshire with my sister and bro to meet her and dad for dinner the night before the funeral, which takes place 1pm on Monday. The selfish side of me is a bit pissed off my weekend has been sliced in twain but, of course, I’m going.

I’ve even been conscientious enough to buy a new suit. My current black uniform was purchased in a hurry a couple of years ago and makes me look like an upended isosceles triangle with hairy ball balanced on top. So yesterday morning following a meeting in the plush offices of a well know record label I found myself in Moss in Kensington.

As soon as I stepped in I remembered why the old black suit had been purchased in such haste. The instinct to run away from cardboard-stiff salesmen contemptuously analysing your attire is only vaguely eclipsed by the desire to wave ones manhood at the staff whilst screaming hymns. I was forced into some £200 (on sale) monster that made me look like I was starring at the funeral rather than merely attending and after almost succumbing to the coos of praise from Edwin managed to escape with my 200 quid still in my wallet.

I took the tube to Oxford Street and walked out the station and right into Top Shop opposite. The good thing about these sorts of places is that the quaffed, poofed sales-yoof don’t give a tinkers cuss if you buy stuff or not allowing you to browse in your own time without hassle. After 10 mins I’d amassed a bunch of reasonably priced togs, which I furtively tried on in their cavernous dressing rooms. To my astonishment their hip, slim, and much-advertised Whistle fitted me like a Featherlite condom. Fully aware I’m way too old to be dressed like Johnny fucking Borrell I rushed to the counter, grabbing a sickeningly hip slim black tie on the way and paid (£110 the lot) trying not to laugh and punch the air in a cloud of smug serendipity and quite possibly, a vile and deluded perception of my physical self. I’m so happy with the bloody thing I’d wear it out under non-funeral circumstances which also makes me feel rather guilty for some weird reason, not to mention an utter, utter cunt.

Oh, don’t go to the Absolut Ice bar. I managed to get a pair of free tickets (with complementary drinks) for it last night, IC and I were supposed to be there by 6.30 but we were a little late (7.45) and they wouldn’t let us in. I hope all the staff get pneumonia and the fucking place melts into a pretentious stagnant puddle not fit to be slurped at by the fetid black tongues of consumptive mongrels.

Have a nice day.


IC was less than impressed when, at the Hoxton Hotel meeting friends early Sunday evening, we went to pay the bill for two Cocktails. Earlier, after my attentions for service were spurned by three or four waitresses over the course of fifteen minutes, I went to the bar myself to order a pair of Hazelnut Alexander’s. Twenty minutes later two rather disappointingly small puddles arrived on the fingertips of some churlish tart. An hour passed and IC and I left our friends in the restaurants to enjoy their meals, but before we left I had to pay for the drinks.

After a good ten minutes, stood up, the bill was finally calculated but only after a barrage of questions and the maître d having hushed consultations with the barman and a manager. It was clear we could’ve fucked off with impunity but being the honest sort we are and all that… The bill came to £13, plus £1.56 ‘service,’ £1.56 for some cliff-faced harridan to walk 10 yards with a fucking tray. I was surprised when my dyscalculia-addled brain presented me with the 10p cost per-step statistic, which I brought up as I jabbed a finger into the bill, then at the bar and then table on which we were sat, I swished an erect digit through the air to emphasise the 10p per step proximity. IC shrank into her shoes.

The bill was recalculated after I demanded the ‘service’ was removed, more hushed mutterings took place between the dour maître d and the surly manager and another five minutes passed before I was re-presented with a bill for the cost of the drinks only. ‘Good,’ I said, IC gave me a withering look. Fully aware I’d cost us more than enough time for the sake of a pound fifty, but with principles restored, I cheerfully tipped the astonished maître d two quid. Result. I think.

The weekend was nice, dinner out both Friday and Saturday, the latter with some of IC’s friends, all from Europe and only one of the them an English speaker, making for a surprisingly dynamic evening. We even wound up at a club where conversation was reduced to pointing and hugging. I needed to get drunk this weekend and we did, but in a happy way I hasten to add.

This blog will be sporadic right up until Wednesday week for reasons alluded to last post. The funeral is next Monday, so that’s something to look forward too.