I got the call from the garage at about the time I was getting dick-twitch at the thought of swinging my leg over the Black One and burning off the shiny skin of fresh, black, sticky rubber. It’s somewhat of a ritual when we have a new rear tyre, before I get her onto the fast bits, I hold her front brake, give her some berries and deploy the clutch, slowly, until her arse lights up, white smoke, noise… stop. Then off we fuck, free again.
The ‘phone call forced me into my office chair as if being given terrible news about a genital carcinogen, The Black Bitch had failed, she’d failed. Failed.
I’ve had her for 10 years and this had never happened, yes, we’d some close shaves but nothing like an outright ‘the government prevents me from giving her back to you (ha ha ha, you cunt).’ An additional exchange of monies in lieu of a bloody brake cylinder and some sort of labour intensive fussing with her headlights, her pert, firm headlights, was mentioned. This was going to cost me what I could ill afford at present. Fucking great.
As I thump this shit out I await an update on progress, if the brake cylinder doesn’t arrive today it may not be until early next week when we see each other, a prospect too awful to bear, especially with what’s planned for the weekend, or not as the case may now be.
So I shall consol myself with the guts of Gerry’s chart, a tune from therein and consol myself with altruism in the form of a fervent desire that your weekends are merry. Now piss off and leave me alone.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Hockey Learn To Lose NE 1
29 La Roux Bulletproof NE 1
28 You Me At Six Finders Keepers 29 2
27 Doves Kingdom Of Rust 24 14
26 Middle Class Rut I Guess You Could Say 19 6
25 Shinedown Second Chance NE 1
24 Scott Matthews Fractured NE 1
23 Five Finger Death Punch The Bleeding 17 10
22 Passion Pit The Reeling 27 2
21 Hollywood Undead Undead 15 7
20 Steel Panther Death To All But Metal NE 1
19 Pink Please Don’t Leave Me 14 8
18 The Maccabees Love You Better 13 5
17 Friendly Fires Jump In The Pool 20 3
16 The Horrors Who Can Say 12 4
15 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army 22 2
14 Depeche Mode Wrong 8 11
13 Blue October Dirt Room NE 1
12 Marmaduke Duke Rubber Lover 9 6
11 Twisted Wheel We Are Us 6 8
10 Enter Shikari Juggernauts 18 2
9 Empire Of The Sun We Are The People 16 3
8 Maximo Park The Kids Are Sick Again 3 7
7 Absent Elk Sun And Water 10 3
6 Kasabian Fire 5 5
5 Marilyn Manson Arma…Geddon 7 4
4 Prodigy Warrior’s Dance 4 6
3 The Gossip Heavy Cross 11 3
2 Placebo For What It’s Worth 2 4
1 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 1 7
I’m worried sick. My Black Bitch is having her MOT as we speak. She so didn’t want me to leave her with that nasty rough man who probably has his hands all over her… I told her, I said, ‘it’s okay Black Bitch, daddy will be back to get you later,’ she was very brave but I could tell she was upset.
We were particularly worried about what she was wearing, a flirty dirty loud pipe which is guaranteed to wind up the nasty man, but she didn’t have anything else to put on as the original pipe is now living with a new family near the seaside on the South Coast. I should’ve never got rid of her, needless to say, she never writes.
In addition to the MOT the Black Bitch needs some surgery on her arse, her current arse isn’t as rubbery as it should be so I’ve head to get her a new one. I’m dreading a phone call in case something has happened to her…
Short one today as I’m busy, I’ll leave you with this gem from a newish young hardcore outfit that have been eating my ears over the past few days. Don’t let the fact that they are a side project from that bloke from My Chemical Romance put you off, this is great stuff.
Chosen a lighter one for you, thank me later.
…actually, have this one too, a little more frenetic… no need to thank me now.
The bank holiday weekend revolved around foodtigo and began in a local curry house with IC, sis and bro-law. I’ve finally sussed this place and we selected a combination of dishes that doffed caps and tipped winks to one another whilst churning guts and burning gobs. Fucking lovely it was, I awaited the following days ablutions with a sort of perverse trepidation but it was pain-free and okay. Bah.
IC has discovered Skype. It’s not so much the free-phone part it’s the whole webcam aspect of it. If you’re away from your immediate family Skype is completely wonderful… if you’re trying to read the paper -or, more pertinently, trying to check your emails- Skype is the technological equivalent of a relative occupying the stall. But like everything there is an upside. As a consequence of Skypeing I’ve discovered the Guardian ‘quick’ crossword.
I’m not good at crosswords and The Guardian ‘quick’ crossword isn’t, according to some, a very good crossword. For one thing, it’s not fucking quick and I’ve yet to finish one of the bastards but there is something quite beautiful about an answer materialising in your frazzled brains. It also seems to have a sort of pseudo addictive quality. I can see it being of use in the future when I have to exchange the cigs and nightcaps for something a little healthier. What I’m saying is that Skype has actually saved my life.
Saturday evening, IC and I took the train to uber Sarf Landan to meet up with James and his missus for some dinner. James has always been a bloody good cook. As kids he and I used to experiment with food when our parents were out doing business for The Lord. In fact, it was James and I that invented the fully deep-fried breakfast –almost. We were in the process of its happening when we discovered that attempting to deep fry eggs results in an inferno. Our experiments were sadly curtailed by our being separated unless under supervision by an adult. Bastards.
We had a starter of stuffed mushrooms, lovely little fellows they were, and for main a Tuscan bean salad and tuna meatballs in a ragu which actually tasted like it could’ve come from last weeks trip to Italy. There was so much Cava knocking about I can barely recall the steamed pudding which preceded the Amaretto… IC and I waddled happily back home in a stuffed, pissed, fug.
Needless to say Sunday took a while to get off the ground. We went for breakfast at lunchtime to a French place in Clapham that was bustling outside with diners. The weather was fucking hot, too hot for outside (as far as I was concerned) and I was secretly pleased there was no space on the pavement. Sitting inside enjoying not-as-good-as-I’ve-had, but still tasty Eggs Benedict, the hangover began to disappear without the sun beating down on my head.
We took the tube back to East London stopping by Tesco on the way to get some provisions (booze) for the planned Barbeque. It was now as hot as it had been in Venice, I wasn’t sure if I was entirely comfortable in the heat and considered buying a hat, which suggested that I might be getting sunstroke.
The chap hosting the Barbeque, Oscar, lives round the corner from IC and Mary and has access to a vast roof garden offering a beautiful panoramic view of London. By default it also offers a swirling 360-degree view of the roads and gardens hundreds of feet below.
I suffer from idiot’s vertigo, that is, a completely paralysing fear of heights and an irrational desire to leap into the void. Before IC and I had breakfast we watched Man on a Wire, which I sort of enjoyed with my arsehole nibbling at my underwear. In addition to the paralysing/jump paradox my minds-eye had decided that it would imagine tightropes spanning from the roof garden to adjacent building in the distance and asking me what the fuck I’d do about it. Being more of a projected situation my brain went into spasm as it considered actually walking off the building and over the treetops and towers to reach my destination. It was sporadically awful.
The roof began to fill with guests, maybe twenty or so, some I knew, some not. Oscar and Mary had home-made the sausages from scratch and they were delicious, other guests had brought along various treats and it was lots of fun up there overseeing a warm and sunny London eating and drinking, until I remembered that I was high up with an inviting descent all round and what would it be like to tightrope-walk towards the East India Docks… I can’t even tightrope-walk… and so on. Every so often I’d look below to check I wasn’t going to jump, twice I scared the muck out my back thinking ‘just go…’ Be nice to see the world from a different POV without all this grief, on the rare occasion that did happen it was sublime.
Back on terra firmer, IC and I met up with Jen and Andy in a little park by IC’s gaff to see off the evening. It stayed warm until dusk which seemed to be endless… after we returned home, buoyed on by a bank holiday Monday, we stayed up for a while longer until sleep forced us to retire.
Monday lunchtime, IC, Mary and I spurned pots and pans and went off to eat at the pub round the corner. We had ‘english tapas’ fresh fish fingers and fishcakes, a terrine, a little pot of roast beef shin, fat n’ chubby chips and took ourselves off to Broadway market for coffee. We bumped into a rather dazed Oscar who invited us to the roof for another barbeque later that afternoon; despite myself I was happy at the prospect of considering death for a few more hours hanging over East London with my bum twitching like a shell-shocked sapper. I bought some sea Bream and Bass from a humourless fishmonger and we went home to get ready, it was then we heard about Lucky. The barbeque was a little subdued, it rained for a bit and IC and I weren’t really feeling that sociable. We managed to extract some amusement from proceedings then went home to watch movies and just be a bit quiet. Such is life so it is.
So, the Wednesday list, what horrors in spelling await!
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It is with great sadness that I have to announce the death of Lucky, IC’s seemingly insane Dalmatian but in truth a splendid old fellow who chose devotion and loyalty over a broader congeniality to the public at large.
Lucky had a long and happy life and I’m chuffed to bits I got to meet him before he shuffled off this mortal coil. I’m even happier that I can remember him with all my balls.
Business will be resumed as normal tomorrow, in the meantime I’m going to go back to last week and read all about our adventures… Joking aside, Mille Miglia, Rialto Bridge, even IC’s mums lasagne, my overriding memory of my spring trip to North Italy will be when Lucky shit hisself in the back of IC’s car.
News, I’ve sold my fucking flat. And in the nick of time too.
Last night, Cunt, the embodiment of a genetic experiment gone completely wrong, was found to be alive. This in itself is a disaster of seismic proportions. Even the suppressants of his masturbatory proclivities, to wit, emaciated mother of his hairy spawn (in particular the latter) were no more to be seen or heard.
Previously the sounds downstairs, whilst achingly irritating, were partially (though not always) contained by the fact the hairy one had to sleep (on occasion.) Without the policeman of infant-sleep the deranged bachelor noises have resumed with aplomb. Slamming doors, yelling, ‘singing, ’ git-music played at O2 levels and the unmistakable sounds of a person bringing himself to climax with a knurled stupid fist are back with vengeance.
Despite my securing a buyer for my miserable-by-default dwelling, I now have to wait under these disgusting circumstances. I just hope I get out before my mind does.
The past few days back in Blighty have been largely uneventful, work has shrivelled up like a Octogenarian teat but my evenings saved with the odd pint with Frank and visit to IC’s gaff in the East End, a part of London I shall shortly be residing in full time, I can’t wait and I mean that almost physically.
There’s been some interesting stuff in the news over the past few days, blood boiling stuff that I’ll briefly touch upon for fear of blowing up, a 30 year sentence for smuggling a bit of sniff into the country a day before some Cockmuck convicted of 25 counts of rape on his own children had his reduced to 14… *speechless* …The catholic church literally getting away with child abuse on a massive, massive scale, not one conviction, and today it’s come to light that some of the girls were so heavily sedated by their ‘carers’ that their children have been born disabled! Beat that!
But it’s not all been doom and gloom, far from it… Erm…
ANYWAY. It’s Friday, Gerry’s chart featuring Woody Allen on guitar! A Piqued exclusive. It’s going to be a hot sunny bank holiday weekend in London so I’ll be out and about as usual, drinking, eating fine food and drinking. Have fun! Death to my neighbour!
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Madina Lake Never Take Us Alive 20 5
29 You Me At Six Finders Keepers NE 1
28 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Zero 21 9
27 Passion Pit The Reeling NE 1
26 Fightstar Mercury Summer 18 10
25 Eagles Of Death Metal Anything ‘Cept The Truth 17 8
24 Doves Kingdom Of Rust 22 13
23 Morrissey Something Is Squeezing…….. 23 3
22 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army NE 1
21 Papa Roach Hollywood Whore 14 8
20 Friendly Fires Jump In The Pool 28 2
19 Middle Class Rut I Guess You Could Say 15 5
18 Enter Shikari Juggernauts NE 1
17 Five Finger Death Punch The Bleeding 11 9
16 Empire Of The Sun We Are The People 24 2
15 Hollywood Undead Undead 10 6
14 Pink Please Don’t Leave Me 8 7
13 The Maccabees Love You Better 13 4
12 The Horrors Who Can Say 16 3
11 The Gossip Heavy Cross NE 1
10 Absent Elk Sun And Water 19 2
9 Marmaduke Duke Rubber Lover 12 5
8 Depeche Mode Wrong 5 10
7 Marilyn Manson Arma…Geddon 9 3
6 Twisted Wheel We Are Us 3 7
5 Kasabian Fire 6 4
4 Prodigy Warrior’s Dance 4 5
3 Maximo Park The Kids Are Sick Again 2 6
2 Placebo For What It’s Worth 7 3
1 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 1 6
The journey back from Venice wasn’t as pleasant as the one there. In order to save £10 Euros we foolishly opted for the 2.5-hour journey back to Brescia. This in itself wasn’t the issue, we had books, I-walk-pods, imaginations etc., but the carriage, a hot and steaming pipe of fart with a sealed fucking window and, god help us, young cunts who’d just discovered nu-metal, was.
As soon as I got on the train I knew we were in for a journey only partially more pleasant than the 3.55 to Dachau. As we sought seats we passed a rubber-faced moron with close-cropped burgundy hair, his lower lip wet from a primeval form of amused noises as he entertained himself by twisting the arm of a pig-faced female as she shrieked like a banshee at the inflicted pain. This disgusting tableau was being overseen by a nonentity hanger-on and a white bloke with a beard and dreadlocks, the most accursed look for a Caucasian guaranteeing his being a tit.
They weren’t playing loud music, worse, they were sharing headphones and ‘singing’ along whilst shamelessly baring teeth and pointing at each other without any care of how they were being perceived before resuming the wrestling/mating routine. But worse, worse than the sound of the corncrake she-pig with a voice that could melt concrete, was they were ‘singing along’ to songs I used to enjoy back in the day, utterly killing any future pleasure I may have had when I happened upon them in a moment of drunken music frenzy. I had a good mind to ruddy well tell them to jolly well pipe down, I can tell you.
We arrived home exasperated and ate supper, again, the meal memory is lost, killed by my loathing of the passengers and the delights that followed.
The Mille Miglia were due to return to Brescia from Rome, it was estimated the winner would arrive at about 10pm so we drove to the centre of the city and joined the hoards lining the street. It was a warm evening and the atmosphere palpable, families were out, couples, groups of well dressed young men and women, and us 3, me with my little MM flag that ICS had nabbed off a brolly dolly type and a glass of spritzer that IC had bought for me. A Type 41 Bugatti went passed and blipped the throttle right by me, oh fucking joy! Then another, then an old Aston, A Bentley which inspired me to roar ’well done chaps!’ as Englishly as I could muster. We stayed there for an hour as these gorgeous antique-racing cars zipped and plipped past us, I was deliriously happy, choked, even.
We closed the evening in a nearby bar, I sipped my final negroni and we went home to sleep the day off, a perfect one only sullied by the twats on the train and in the grand scheme of things, even that wasn’t really an issue.
Sunday morning IC, ICS, their mum and I went to visit a kindly relative, we chatted briefly about the week’s events and then set off to church. Sort of. IC snr went off to mass and we 3 popped to a different church, lit a candle and left to enjoy the sunshine outside a nearby café. In Italy Catholicism is alive and well, most people go to mass on Sunday, including, much to my amusement, young Italian stallion types in souped up Beemers and Mercs in Fred Perry shirts and Armani slacks.
We all met back at the apartment for lunch, the last meal before we had to leave for Blighty. Lasagne, home made and out of this world. Perfetto. After saying goodbye to Lucky (I was truly sad at having to leave him behind) ICS and her mum drove us to the airport, we said our farewells and that was it. All of that experience, joy, wonder, excitement reduced to boarding fucking Rynair. The only bonus was that IC and I got a 3-seat block to ourselves so we could stretch out a bit.
Of course, London was overcast and cold when we landed, we took the miserable Stanstead Express back Liverpool Street and the bus home. By the time we arrived it was almost 8. Work tomorrow. Great…
…so we cracked open the duty frees and got pissed.
I went Italy when I was in my early 20’s, James was studying in Padua, I was studying Art at Camberwell so nipping over and seeing a few paintings, fresco’s, churches and shit, and getting blindly inebriated, made pure 100% sense. With nipples on it.
Needless to say, not being in family surroundings the first time round, I learnt a few things about the day-to-day comings and goings of the everyday Italian. For a kick off, lunch isn’t a sandwich at a desk; most Italians shut up shop for a few hours and go the family home for a proper sit down meal (traditionally pasta.) You can even drink wine without everyone staring at you like you’re about to ask for change. It’s fucking ace!
IC’s mum is a bloody good cook, the pork based ragu type thing we ate for lunch after Lucky’s ‘accident’ was buonissima! Despite the weather still being a bit shitty, following eating we three went out for a walk to see some of the finer points of Brescia. It’s a beautiful city, overseen by a 13th century castle with plenty of awe-inspiring churches and chapels (medieval, Renaissance, Baroque and contemporary) stuffed full of appropriate goodies, including a few significant frescos and panels. Whilst meandering I took on pistachio ice cream which was so good I nearly died on the spot. We visited the achingly gorgeous church where IC’s parents married, all the while IC happily translated conversations between her mum and I. Despite my contempt for Catholicism I love their accessories, I monitored my comments and focussed on the latter aspect.
Late afternoon IC’s mum went off to get some provisions and IC and I met up with ICS, we went out and had Apperativo before saffron Risotto at home overseen by a reformed Lucky, he was like a different dog, he even obeyed commands and took scooby snacks off me leaving my hand un-mangled flush with digits.
Out again after supper for cocktails. To the English ear this sounds downright elitist, but it’s normal for Italians. It’s much cheaper to drink over there and after discovering Negroni (Gin, Vermouth and Campari) I was able to get nicely toasted in comfortable surroundings and still have change for some tabs. IC, ICS and I were back in the same bar we’d visited the previous evening (IC knew the bloke that owned it and I was very happy in there) and were joined by some friends who joined in with the spirit of things. At some point I got into Sambucca. I should imagine we went home because I woke up once again half hanging out the little bed in the apartment.
It was an early start to Saturday, espresso, shower and out. The weather was fucking glorious, hot and sunny, a bit too much of the former actually but I wasn’t complaining, though I just did then a bit. We took the train to Venice that hummed in air-conditioned happiness through lush green countryside and some of the cities and towns I’d visited with James some two decades earlier. That hit home quite hard that did. What happened in between? I was probably pissed.
Indeed, James and I had managed to get to Venice too, but this in no way diminished the sheer jaw dangling joy on exiting the station to see an entire city with all its roads replaced by rivers and canals. I’m not going to bother to describe it (just go, you can fly there directly) and of all the places I’ve been to it remains the most beautiful, sublime, so much so it’s virtually otherworldly. We walked in the heat, over bridges, through passages, into piazzas, lazily heading for St. Marks.
We ate pizza and drank wine in a pretty little square outside one of Venice’s hundreds of trattorias and osterias, it was fucking, fucking ace of spades. We finally found St. Marks bustling with tourists, pigeons and stalls selling relative tat -Venice sailor hats, masks, glass curiosities, fridge magnets of little gondolas… and then went to Harry’s Bar after securing our tickets for the taxi-boat back to the station.
It wasn’t as civilised as I remember when I went with James, for a start it was full of bloody rich Americans who were playing their usual tiresome game of treating the place like they owned it while self consciously doing the whole, ‘yeah, so we’re in Venice,’ thing. The relative ease of getting to Harry’s Bar with IC doesn’t do justice to the greater personal significance of being there with her. It was, without going into any detail at all, a milestone of sorts. Even if I was charged almost £40 cunting Euros for a pair of whisky sours.
The evening of the first day, outside the bar… it started to rain, not like English rain, this was like crowbars. So bad was it we had to borrow a brolly in order to get home. This Ondine turn of events didn’t bode at all well, I wasn’t even clear of my first day in Italy and already it was pissing down. This wasn’t meant to happen, it was May for fucks sake, in Italy.
I woke up the following morning mildly confused. I was alone in a single bed, well, half in a single bed, half out. The door opened and IC appeared with an espresso and Lucky almost vertical behind her in the shape of an angry star. I got up, fast.
IC and I went out for breakfast; the weather was brooding but clement, sort of ‘English summer’ it might rain a bit. It rained a bit. I had brioche with custard which was fucking lush. For all I knew it was my last meal as the task to follow could result in me being torn into bacon rashers.
Lucky likes to scratch at doors, perhaps more ‘claw’ at doors as he tries in vain to get to the petrified eyes of whatever is scurrying away yonder. Every door in IC’s mothers apartment, and there are many, bear testament to the frantic attentions of Lucky, and this was the reason we had to take him to the vet to have his nails clipped for the love of god.
ICS was at work so it was down to IC and I to undertake this task unaided. This was bad news, bad news made devastating news when IC informed me that Lucky didn’t do cars. Of course, being a dog, as soon as the lead was attached and (more pertinently) the muzzle fitted, he figured something was very wrong and responded accordingly. But instead of attempting to bark the place down he got a bit upset, whining and going all rigid and shit. He was proper scared, and I’m convinced he thought he was being taken to place where he’d suffer the doggy fate of being hanged by the neck until dead. I actually started to feel sorry for the poor old bugger.
By the time we got to the car Lucky had decided 100% he wasn’t going anywhere which meant that IC had to physically scoop him up and drop him into the boot space and poke him into position with an arm and a foot so he didn’t get caught in the slamming hatchback.
Initially I sat in the front but Lucky was in such a state I decided to sit in the back and reach over and stroke the poor sod. He looked utterly petrified and was shaking like a Motorhead bass cab. I figured that when that muzzle came off I’d just get on a plane but for now I felt duty bound to help out a fellow male under extreme duress. I patted him firmly and spoke to him like this ‘aruh, arf,’ he was fucking terrified, I mean proper First World War trench stuff…so much so, he shit hisself.
I should imagine that many of you haven’t experienced a dog excreting half a dozen eggs in a confined space. I’ve been a fucking nurse and I have to say, the smell from this rivalled the arc of horror emanating from the old dear who fired off her colostomy bag after a cancer inspired ‘tummy upset.’ It was sensationally dreadful. The smell rendered me speechless, IC drove the rest of the (merciful god) short journey with her head lolling out the window like a dead frog. By the time we arrived my eyes were watering so much I could barely see.
In comparison to the journey there the nail clipping part was a breeze. The vet calmed Lucky down and got on with it, at one point he was momentarily distracted by a fat cat having a blow dry in the adjacent room but the incident was sated by a firm word from IC. Lucky remained silent (boom boom)
We got back into the car and Lucky was released from his muzzle, sensing that he was to live another day he wasn’t too flustered on the way home and the predicted assault on my personage never got out of first gear, he and I had bonded somewhat and from there on in, Lucky and I became mates.
Wednesday evening, full of holiday cheer IC and I met up with some friends in the very same boozer I enjoyed the delights of my 40th. We said farewell to Claire who was leaving to start a new life in Catalonia and received some gifts from Dave who’d just come back from Tokyo. Booze happened.
When we got home we decided to see off the evening with a few more snifters, it was late, two-ish and too late for a proper sleep so we figured we’d sleep on the plane/train and take a quick nap before we set off to get to Stanstead and catch the 6am flight. After setting 3 alarms we dozed off.
At 7.30am the plane was soaring over Italy preparing to land, at about the same time I woke IC up and informed her that the plane was soaring over Italy preparing to land. Following a protracted series of expletives from the pair of us, and far too coarse for the readers of this gentile offal, we managed to get another flight for an additional £100 courtesy of Easy Jet leaving later that afternoon.
For fucks sake.
Lately I’ve been privy to the delights of flying the National Express coach of the sky that is Ryanair. The stewardesses come in two sizes, Hereford livestock and third-world rat, and the one steward I’ve had the misfortune to fly with looked like he was on day release from rape camp. Easy Jet, itself a marginally more pricey no-frills airline, is in a different class. I won’t say I had a good flight, such a thing is impossible, but with the aid of Viz, decent cabin crew and IC rubbing my neck and telling me that we wern’t going to die the journey passed relatively smoothly.
Milan was warm on landing but a bit overcast, we shot an espresso and took the train to Brescia where we were met by IC’s sister (ICS) who, after a death conquering Apperativo in a bar, took us to the family homestead. But before I was allowed in I had to get past Lucky, IC’s furious Dalmatian.
I’d been warned about Lucky, he doesn’t do strangers and there I was, a delicious meaty one on his property. My instructions were worryingly stark. Don’t look at him, don’t touch him and for fucks sakes don’t go lower than his eyeline or he’d have my throat off. Lucky was already barking from the balcony before we’d even got out of the car, as we approached the door I could hear this scratching and thumping as he attempted to claw towards my genitals. IC’s mum opened the door, a diminutive lady with a Hound of the Baskervilles leaping up behind her like he was on the end of a cattle prod and barking like the contents of hell on a Friday night bender. I nearly shit my pants, frankly.
I shuffled past IC’s mum offering Ciao’s as I went staring directly ahead as Lucky exploded about me and walked firmly towards the nearest room with a door. Outside I could hear fond greetings over seen by Lucky having a fucking fit. After a while and reassurances from IC that my sweetbreads were safe I ventured into Lucky’s space who polarised between going berserk and staring at me with a disconcerting growl.
We had supper with Cuju keeping a firm eye on me; occasionally he’d slam into my legs to remind me he was there. For all I knew he was green with pink spikes coming out of his arse as I still daren’t look at the bugger. When I did after about 30 mins I thought he was going to bark up his arsehole (I was so terrified I’ve even forgotten what we ate.)
IC’s mum doesn’t speak English; my Italian is less than rudimentary so IC was required to mediate. As predicted IC snr didn’t appreciate my tattoos or my beard but she seemed to like me enough. I was on my very bestest behaviour after all, largely because I didn’t fancy my chances with Zoltan if IC’s mum so much as furrowed her brow.
As is customary in Italy, we went out at about 10pm for a few drinks. The Mille Miglia, one of the reasons I’d gone to Brescia, was long gone due to the earlier faux-pas with the plane but I’d get another stab at seeing them when they came back -besides sipping Negroni in a pretty little bar a mile away from IC’s place I was just happy to have all my testicles.
We bumped into some of IC’s friends and spent the night chewing the fat. I was fortunate that both the blokes in question had a basic command of English, when they didn’t understand something I’d said, and IC wasn’t free to assist in translation, I raised my voice and pointed. It’s the English way after all.
What? Pardon? Someone say something about going off to see the Mille Miglia in Brescia, Italy, tomorrow? Mmm? Oh, sorry, that’ll be me going off to see the Mille Miglia in Brescia, Italy… I’ll be there tomorrow as a matter of fact. Did I mention this already? You know, that thing about the Mille Miglia and my having to leave at (Christ, 6am tomorrow morning –don’t think about that, or the flight. Joanna Lumely’s plastic arsehole, Joanna Lumley’s plastic arsehole, Joanna Lum… (happy now?))… it’s fairly pointless rubbing this in as you’ve probably never heard of Italy’s most famous road race. Basically, since 1927 a 1000 mile ‘race’ (it used to be a balls out race until a fatality in 1957) to Rome and back has begun and ended in the city of Brescia, which by coincidence is where IC and I are staying.
These days the Mille Miglia is a bit like the London to Brighton run but considerable bigger, faster and louder featuring only classic sports cars from 1927 to 1957, cars from the point of view of he-who-prefers-motorcycles are capable of turning even my underwear into filo pastry.
The short excursion includes a trip to Venice -when in Rome and all that, except I’m not going there, I’m going to Venice- and church on Sunday. You read that correct, for reasons I’m not gong to expand on I’m required to attend a real Catholic church service with real Catholics and everything… Jesus. Church.
The horrors of yesterday evaporated gradually during the pub quiz in Fitzrovia with Rosh, Merve, Anna and The Dr. We came a respectable third and would’ve won if fucking Alice Walker, author of The Color Purple, hadn’t decided to evaporate out of my hippocampus. But fortunately Anna poured a whole glass of wine all over my nuts so at least I travelled back on the tube stinking like Geoffrey Bernard had barfed up over Oliver Reed.
So, no Piqued until next week. You may wish to consol yourselves by checking yesterdays podcast on Watch With Mothers featuring Swineshead and myself moaning about The Apprentice and Kent (link on right.) Or you may not. Should you be looking for someone to take over your radio stations breakfast slot or culture show then do listen and give me a call. I could do with a new challenge if I’m to be honest, especially just after watching a lunatic colleague smashing his phone into smithereens when the person he was trying to contact popped him through to voicemail.
So, the Wednesday list and a final choon before I say buon giorno as I’m off to see the Mille Miglia in Brescia, Italy. Sorry, I should’ve mentioned earlier about the Mille Miglia. In Brescia. Italia. CIAO.
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I’ve just realised I’ve been with this organisation for 13 fucking years. Thirteen. 13.
This was not the plan, not by any means. I came here after the penury of studying at university for 6 years and once I had a bit of cash in my pocket, I was fucked, sucked in by spending power and the childish novelty of food and shelter.
I know I’ve gone on about this crap before, and am fully aware that if I hadn’t taken this decision the vast swathe of friends that chain-reacted from my employment would simply not existed, including by default IC (maybe?) but sat here today, THIRTEEN years after choosing a job over academia, I can’t help feeling completely and utterly fucked-off.
So before I nip off to the loos for a trog and a little cry, a bit of Piqued normality, a moan to re-address the balance by having a quick look at one of the most fundamentally stupid fucking things in society, more baffling than religion in many respects, the issue of drugs.
Briefly, there are two sorts of drugs, legal (taxable) and illegal (non taxable). The former accrue billions in revenue for the government/private businesses and are there largely to help people who are ill. The latter essentially do the same thing but illegally.
Instead of legalising all drugs, regulating their usage, making profits etc., some are deemed ‘illegal’ and, ironically, millions of pounds of taxpayers money is spent on halting their trade.
The two main ones are heroin and cocaine, the former trade stems largely from Afghanistan and the latter from Columbia, both countries have somewhat of an issue with warlords and abject poverty but the Powers-That-Be feel this is preferable to legislation and distributing the wealth in order to undo this miserable trade thereby creating a stable balanced society containing education, healthcare ‘n shit.
There are obviously ‘good’ economic and political reasons why the authorities feel it’s better to halt the trade in certain cash crops than allow the previously cited third world countries to profit from them. So to stop us from enjoying their fuzzy delights we’re drip-fed the line that ‘all illegal drugs are bad’ and they’re banned, leaving the criminal fraternity to act as they will in their unregulated criminal way directly resulting in cocaine going from ‘not a particularly healthy choice’ to ‘fucking lethal.’ Why?
Apparently the world cocaine market is on the ‘retreat,’ maybe as a result of better policing, maybe because of the world recession, and wholesale prices are soaring so drug gangs are using increasing amounts of chemicals- so-called cutting agents – to dilute cocaine powder sold on the streets of Britain. They include the cancer-causing drug phenacetin, cockroach insecticide and pet worming powder.
It’s okay though Soca (serious Organised Crime Agency) are taking steps to make our cocaine safer by sending WARNING LETTERS to legal drug suppliers they suspect may be selling the products to illegal drug gangs.
Quite honestly, what the fucking hell is going on?
Any conversation involving politicians (or policeman) has an automatic caveat of ‘..well, of course, what does one expect,’ as there must be an inherent fault in a person to make them subscribe to either of the aforementioned careers. It should come as no surprise what so ever when we discover that there has been widespread expenses’ fiddling on both sides of the house, and in the world of politics who really gives a pigs cuntlip if David Willets has been claiming on his lightbulbs or if Oliver Letwin claimed £2k to replace a leaking pipe under his tennis court –actually, that one made my fucking blood boil but it had nothing to do with claiming expenses, the combination of the name ‘Oliver’ with ‘Tennis Court’ infused a rage of intense hatred to my comprehensively-educated mind.
Of much more concern is the rise of the BNP, the knuckle-dragging buzz-cut party presided over by that all round foreskin and leaking arse cavity, Nick Griffin. This little group of neo-nazis (and believe me, as much given to hyperbole as I am, I use this phrase with nothing but sincerity) are gaining supporters, and there is a good chance they could win seats in the European elections in June entitling them to £2m quid from the EU and tangible power.
In the words of Edmund Burke, ‘All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.’ Perhaps journalists, especially the popular redtops, should focus more on these little skinhead fellows with the same sensationalist lexis reserved for the likes of shadow Welsh secretary Cheryl Gillan claiming £4.47 for dog food / a snack.
I had a marvellous weekend full of pizza, Prosecco, risotto, sunshine, pubs, Black Bitch… I would go into more detail but I’m in the middle of training some poor bastard how to spurn his god given talent and work in an office, forever.
Listening to Radio 4 this morning with a tiny little hangover two things happened of note. Joanna Lumley casually mentioned she was an OAP, for chaps reading this of a certain age this comes as quite harrowfying information, and I learnt that Jesus is responsible for Swine Flu after an incident in what is now Jordan involving the transferral of a disease from a naked man to a sounder of pigs, which then apparently drowned themselves…
…but they didn’t did they, Jesus, no. While you were bigging it all up to your fans some of the pigs made it and gradually the Swine population has been irreversibly contaminated, and this is why we’re in the sorry mess we’re in with Influenza A H1N1, you wanker.
Speaking of livestock and religion, Frank and I noticed on the tube to meet Harry last night, that some fucktard had written a letter to The London Paper (the free evening rag that floats about London commuters like arse porridge) complaining that some KFC hovels were now selling Halal Chicken. The author of this deranged correspondence was screaming-off about being force fed ‘religious meat’ when he didn’t subscribe to Islam.
Couple of things here, If you’re stupid enough to eat such muck I doubt you really care about the means of despatch, who gives a fuck if the former chicken has been strangled or hit with a plank, the result is the same, dead boneless filth. The cunt that wrote the letter to The London Paper was, of course, having a badly veiled pop at the changing face of the UK, in short the man was a KFC eating racist making him as equally stupid as KFC eating Muslims, which has ironically forged common ground and caused a sort of unity of the weak minded and poorly fed that knows no god or division, simply, a taste for poor quality mass produced mangled fucking chickens. Together, through the beak-ripped offal coated in Colonel Saunders chemical sawdust, we can come together, as one! Praise Colonel Sanders, praise Him, for He hath delivered us from the bondage of false idols, death to the vegetarian infidel! I WILL NOT REST UNTIL ALL VEGETARIANS ARE SLAUGHTERED!
JOANNA NOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
You know the drill, Gerry chart, a tune, and an earnest desire that you all have weekends almost as pleasant as mine.
NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Morrissey Something Is Squeezing My Skull NE 1
29 Ladyhawke Back Of The Van NE 1
28 Death Cab For Cutie The Open Door 20 6
27 Lily Allen Not Fair 29 2
26 Fleet Foxes White Winter Hymnal 21 6
25 The Horrors Who Can Say NE 1
24 P J Harvey and John Parish Black Hearted Love 18 6
23 Green Day Know Your Enemy 27 3
22 AC/DC Anything Goes 14 6
21 Doves Kingdom Of Rust 19 11
20 Madina Lake Never Take Us Alive 22 3
19 Sparks Lighten Up Morrissey 16 8
18 Marilyn Manson ArmaGeddon NE 1
17 The Maccabees Love You Better 26 2
16 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Zero 10 7
15 Placebo For What It’s Worth NE 1
14 Marmaduke Duke Rubber Lover 15 3
13 Fightstar Mercury Summer 7 8
12 Middle Class Rut I Guess You Could Say 13 3
11 Eagles Of Death Metal Anything ‘Cept The Truth 6 6
10 Hollywood Undead Undead 11 4
9 Kasabian Fire 17 2
8 Papa Roach Hollywood Whore 8 6
7 Prodigy Warrior’s Dance 12 3
6 Five Finger Death Punch The Bleeding 3 7
5 Maximo Park The Kids Are Sick Again 9 4
4 Pink Please Don’t Leave Me 5 5
3 Depeche Mode Wrong 2 8
2 Twisted Wheel We Are Us 4 5
1 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 1 4
The bike mechanic that showed up yesterday was the same bloke that’d escorted me the last time my Black Bitch had thrown a spook. I reminded him of this, ‘just before Chjristmas, it was snowing?’ Suddenly he remembered and recalled a perfect list of changes I’d made to my machine from factory standard… he didn’t recognise me though. Despite my beauty.
The cause of a puncture was a 2-inch chrome plated screw that the mechanic chilling explained had ‘probably been screwed in deliberately.’ This isn’t the first time I’ve had a screw in a tyre and this predates my moving to London so I refused to get paranoid… Still, not a nice thought, bearing in mind a motorcycle puncture has potentially far graver consequences than that of a car.
The bike fellow put in a plug and inflated the tyre, a temporary measure. Really I should get it seen too asap but I’m going to wait until the end of the month and change the tyre when she’s in for the fucking MOT.
Had a completely non-day at work and a pedestrian evening. Ate, bathed, did some work on my tattoo that has resulted in the start of a redesign. Fuck. I then watched one of those films that wasn’t particularly good but more-ish enough to maintain interest. It had Christian Slater in it, he dies in the end, no idea what it was called but it was all right, actually it was shit. What a waste of an evening. The cunt.
I forgot the Wednesday list, so here it is, on Thursday. It’s disgraceful but one or two search terms made me roar with laughter. See if you can spot ‘em mum.
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This morning has already got off to a dreadful start.
I woke up with my back feeling like Ricky Hatton’s face -this comes hours after the previous evening’s pub-boast as to how bloody good it’s been through cycling- so I cheerfully opted to take the Black Bitch into work this morning, it’s been a while and, well… I’ve missed her.
Realising I’d given myself a guilt-free ‘okay’ to spurn the fucking velocipede and leap with impunity onto my Dark Whore, I hastily dressed and by means of savouring the short ride to work made a cup of tea and, unusually for me at that time of the day, rolled a tab. I lit it off the gas hob- lighter in the kitchen, which some cunt (me) had set to ‘Einstossflammenwerfer 46 flamethrower’ and set fire to my fucking hair.
I went from Robert Smith to Frankie Howerd in less time it takes to scream and frantically smash my skull; the remnants of my hair, powder, floated about me like summertime midges and I stood in the kitchen in shock for a good minute trying to work it all out. I need some protein filament assistance, which is unfortunate as Mary, IC’s flatmate and friend who happens to be a professional hairdresser and keeper of the deep dermis follicles, is in fucking Morocco until next Wednesday.
Livid, I put on the last of the bike gear, grabbed my lid and gloves and went outside to mount my noir joie de vivre. My first task was to get some air into my rear tyre, which had been suffering lately from a slow puncture. Arseholes.
I gave the rear a friendly kick to ascertain the situation, make sure it wasn’t completely flat or anything only to discover the fucking rear tyre was flatter than a witch’s teat. The source of the puncture stared up at me, the crosshead of a screw happily plonked slap bang on the centre of my precious rubber, all said and done, a bill for at least £160.
‘Ah, fuck it,’ I thought and went back indoors for a wank.
If you’ve been watching this tiny miserable part of cyberspace you may have been aware of some issues with Nat West. Following much hassle they’ve decided to reimburse me the full amount (some £300 plus) but being the pedantic sort I am, I want compensation for the distress caused to me, my friends and you, for having to put up with my fucking moaning about it.
Anyway, it was rude to not write a reply, one was dispatched this morning -it contained the following extract…
“…As said in my previous correspondence, which you failed to notice, I already contacted the financial ombudsman. I’ll notify them of this matter and a copy of your letter for their records.
It may also be worth noting for your records that in the second paragraph of your letter (dated April 2009, ref no.XXXXXX) you stated that ‘[you] wrote a cheque out on the incorrect account in error and this was presented to your account July 2009.’
The first part of the statement is true but with reference to the dates cited you might have noticed your letter (dated April 2009, ref no.XXXXXX) is addressed to Mr. Piqued not Mr. H.G Wells, and I don’t have the facility to pass through the fabric of the time/space continuum. If I had such skills I would have corrected my error by returning back in time some 25 years and opening an account with Abbey National….”
Spain was marvellous despite having to fly Ryanair, an experience so miserable I’ve all but cancelled it from my brains. In hindsight, on entering the human tube of horror, I can’t help thinking of pigs skidding and sliding up one of those ladder ramps to face the sticker’s lump hammer, such is the pushing and shoving to get a decent seat, which if you’ve been on Ryanir is an oxymoron.
IC and I managed to achieve two essential things. We sat together and one of us, not I, got the window. I, however, was privy to a flight with an enormous Spaniard spilling into my being on the other side. It felt like a stroke. I virtually climbed into IC’s seat with her to avoid suffocation
As usual the palpable relief on landing inspires immediate drinking and this aspect was aided by being met at Madrid airport by two old pals who drove us back to their brand new gaff and plied us with Rioja and scotch into the wee hours. They laid on a spread of chorizo, cheese and bread, that’s what I call a happy meal, and our combined delight at seeing one another allowed us to push on until way beyond bedtime.
The next morning we had breakfast on the balcony which was enough to induce vertigo, this wasn’t helped by the communal swimming pool a few hundred feet below ‘inviting me’ to leap into it. In spite of this I was green with envy at their apartment, which was rented out at about half the cost of my mortgage.
Our pals drove us into the city we said our goodbyes, IC and I checked into our hotel, which for a 3 star was a bit shit. The lobby looked lovely, just our room, a bit pokey. Bathroom all right though… bidet, I love a good bidet me. Clean goods? No bother. Especially in that temperature.
It was lunchtime when we headed to the Prado after a weird but tasty open sandwich, queues round the bloke and as I’ve been there before we cut our losses and headed into the massive park to visit the Crystal Palace -it’s literally a carbon copy of the English one that burnt down though a fraction of the size. We wandered about in the burning fucking heat and decided to head back to the city via a Coke in a café by the Royal Palace (I managed to smack an old dear round the barnet with a metal chair as I was transporting it from one table to another much to my amusement) and find some cool back street that did the Spanish thing of Paella in one joint and Sangria in another away from the relatively throngy throngs.
Following a long and rather important drink we headed off for something else to eat. It was still boiling hot despite being early evening so we took a table outside see off the first phase of the night. We ordered tapas with Cava, the Cava was lovely but the grub was a bit hit and miss, though it more than happily laid the foundation for a nasty cocktail in a bar near Sol. There was so much cocktail in fact that we wound up walking about Madrid clutching green drinks in a less than civilised state… at some point in the small hours we arrived back at out hotel and slept like the dead.
After a shower, a good squirt on the bidet (I fucking love them, I really do) we had a greedy breakfast in the hotel at 11. I ate meat, meat and bread, some cheese, but mainly meat, then we headed out to get an espresso. It was another hot day and IC and I were a bit vexed at having to leave for home later on, though we managed to stuff our faces and enjoy one final go on the Sangria before setting off on the pristine Metro for the fucking airport.
Madrid is a beautiful city; it’s very homely and not too big so you can virtually walk everywhere. In addition to it being cheap (a jug of Sangria and more tapas than you can possibly eat costs less than 15 Euros) the Spanish seem to actively encourage smoking. Tabs are cheap and you can smoke anywhere you want, shops, hotels, bars no one gives a flying fuck. The city also encourages serendipity, away from the main drags little streets curl round plazas and discreet open squares usually boasting fountains and hidden bars. The city feels safe and relaxed; despite my love for London I can see why my mate Al and his missus live there so happily. The only caveat to my enjoyment of Spain is the music; it’s fucking loathsome and far too present in the bars and cafes.
Coming home was a pisser to be honest, the flight was as horrific as I expected (I sat next to a monster Mexican looking chap which didn’t inspire easy breathing, I spent most of the flight gulping air from the other side of the plane) and the landing was terrifying. To sate our dismay at suddenly being home we went out for dinner in Dalston which went quite a long way to returning us back to a happy ‘normal.’
The bank holiday consisted of sleeping, a bit of shopping for food, The Big Lebowski, eating and the consumption of duty free booze and tabs. It was ace.
Oh good back in the office, oh no, off again next week.
