Monthly Archives: May 2009

Mowtee fayl

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

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M O Titz

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.


Foodtigo?

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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good luk

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.

Goodnight, sir.


nurmel

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


luk off

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.

Service back to normal tomorrow.


luk

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.

Final part tomorrow you’ll be relieved to hear