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.