Monthly Archives: June 2009


Hats off to Bernard Madoff, he’s managed to achieve something remarkable even by the greasy yardstick of the United States. His well-documented crime was to initiate a Ponzi scheme, put simply, set up an Investment plan and pay investors from money paid in by other investors rather than real profits. Naughty man.

His investment group was making exceptional returns, too-good-to-be-true returns as it happens, and if it wasn’t for the global recession -which caused investors to withdraw sums that didn’t exist- he’d probably still be happily trading.

Just before we go into the Piqued rant, quite obviously due shortly, it’s worth noting the Ponzi scheme is named after Charles Ponzi who notoriously used the technique in the United States in the 1920’s. Indeed, because of the too-good-to-be-true returns Madoff’s firm was investigated eight times by the US Securities and Exchange Commission. I wonder why his operation wasn’t shut down sooner? Perhaps the US economy couldn’t afford to shut him because of what, or who, Madoff was investing his fortunes in… Oooh ruddy er.

His achievement wasn’t just to pinch over £40 billion in the space of a 16 year period, it’s to be branded ‘extraordinarily evil’ by the beak, ‘a monster who should be caged’ a ‘beast’ by some of his victims before being sentenced to 150 years in prison -which is just fucking silly as he’s 71 and in some way complements the hyperbole regarding the comments on his new found status as the devil incarnate.

What Madoff did was utterly wrong, but he needed the rapaciousness of his investors to generate a fortune, he’s not ‘evil,’ he’s a giant shit taking advantage of both capitalism and the wilfully greedy. ‘Evil’ would be, say, waging fraudulent wars via cynical deception resulting in the deaths and injury of thousands of innocent women, children and men for financial rewards beyond numbers, and then, sickeningly, in addition to not facing any sort of prosecution, retiring in cunting luxury without a care in the world… On a lighter note I had a cold beef sandwich last night whilst watching Valentino Rossi win his 100th Moto GP race, so I couldn’t really give a shiny turd.


A Darren Walker of South Shields has been cleared of obscenity after writing a blog in which he describes the kidnap and murder of Girls Aloud. Isn’t this quite literally a thought crime? He didn’t actually do anything, just made some stuff up.

I’ve not read what he wrote so can’t comment on the quality of his writing nor whether it was tongue-in-cheek or played out as a sexual fantasy. Either way, I’m a little more concerned about people passing on very real images of child abuse than I am about the contents of some Geordie’s head. Thinking it might be an idea for the Obscene Publications Unit to do the same? Maybe? That’s not a waste of time and public money, you see.

I had a glorious weekend, on Friday I hooked up with IC in a boiling hot sarf east landan at a works-related house party, and mucked in. She had been gently boozing since lunchtime with work colleagues and was remarkably stable. Some weren’t as in control of their facilities as she, including one of IC’s bosses who called me racist because I still rate Lewis Hamilton over Jenson Button. As a result I had one of those dreadful moments where I had to swallow my tongue for the sake of diplomacy, the fucking twat.

We stopped by at Dan’s on our way home who was hosting the dying end of a housewarming do and went back to IC’s for some much needed rest. Saturday I was up by lunchtime and we went off to Broadway Market to visit the much-ignored Pie and Mash shop. The place is the same since the turn of last century the owner is the grandson of the original proprietor and is very proud of his establishment, it’s a beautiful place, almost like a living museum. Unique.

I took to Mr. Cooke immediately, he referred to me as ‘young man’ and was keen to tell us of its history whilst lamenting all the people that pop-in to take pics or look around without actually buying anything, despite being very polite to them when they did. There are no knives in Cooke’s, during the second world was some tea-leaf pinched the lot and his dad never bothered replacing them so one eats with a spoon and fork. The food is very plain, simple, but, as long as you season it well, delicious. IC didn’t really take to the parsley liquor and pie-pastry but to my less refined English tongue, it was just what I needed.

After filling our stomach’s (I could barely finish mine) we set off for Piccadilly to see the Tracy Emin exhibition at The White Cube. It’s divided, polarised, some pieces sensational whilst other dour and insipid. The more obscene stuff works particularly well -I always enjoy her childishness- especially the large fabric panels. After a quick injection of culture we bought a heap of sushi, which we took back to my flat to consume with Cava throughout the course of the evening.

At some point IC suggested we play poker as we’ve both recently learnt the rudimentary aspects of the game. It would seem IC has moved on a bit, she took fucking £10 off me in less than an hour… After watching a movie I challenged her to a return match and another fiver flew out of the window. Bugger.

Following breakfast on Sunday we shot over to the folks (for a late fathers day gathering) on the Black Bitch in some of the most humid and oppressive weather I’ve experienced in the UK. Even cutting through the turgid air at 90 mph did nothing to generate anything more than the barest wisp of a breeze and we arrived sweaty and fractious. Despite having eaten we took on a late lunch (mum never said anything about food) and the family spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden watching my niece belt about the place like her little arse was ablaze. She’s now talking a lot and seems very pleased with herself, she’s also much happier with me around which isn’t a bad thing. They always give in at some point. A few hours later and we set off home, the weather slightly more bearable but still way over my comfort zone.

We ate and watched Let the Right One In (which is fucking superb, look, I even swore to demonstrate both a lack of vocabulary and my enthusiasm, right there) at about 9 and initiated proceedings for Monday with a view to bed. I was sat in the lounge when for the kitchen Mary (IC flatmate) erupted in a gale of laughter shortly followed by IC. At some point over the weekend IC had split open the back of her trousers from the top pocket to the back of her knee exposing all of her particularly exquisite arse. Magnifique.

And so it starts.


Oooh, all the office is a-buzz with Michael Jackson, the pedo race traitor who sold lots of records as his grip on reality slipped from his little sparkly-gloved hand like his fortunes. I was never a Michael Jackson fan, didn’t like a single one of his records but I was very impressed by his dancing stuff, for me, though, that never really compensated for his not being properly investigated for child abuse… actually, fuck it, he abused children and got away with it. And he was unable to correctly pronounce the title of his best selling album, indeed, the best selling album in history, insisting instead of calling it ‘Triller,’ what a tit!

I had a long lunch with my boss, a colleague and a preferred client. We were summoned to a posh (though not overpriced by any means) steak house near Oxford Circus. It was fucking hot on the tube and by the time we arrived my appetite was non-existent, this wasn’t helped by my feeling fraught from the journey punctuated by massive delays on account of some tool dying at Warren Street.

I’ve never really been a huge fan of steak, I mean it’s okay but I’m much happier with lamb. The waiter was kind enough to show us different cuts and advise us of the best way it should be prepared, I opted for a Scottish aged sirloin, medium rare was the best way to enjoy it, apparently. Half a chest was delivered 15 minutes later, my steak was double the size of the combined quantity of my lunch companions, my heart sank, possibly preparing to explode. I began to eat, it was okay, made better with béarnaise sauce but it wasn’t like eating a rack of lamb, or a kebab. I made it half way through and was forced to retire, someone suggested a doggy bag… I agreed somewhat reluctantly.

Following the sultry trip back to the office (my companions now suffering from too much wine –I had abstained believe or not) I did a spot of work and then nipped off early to sort my passport out at the local main post office. By the time I joined the queue I was sweating and angry, then further infuriated by the post office person informing me that I had to re-fill out my form and because ‘I’d changed so much’ (shorter hair, beard) the passport shots had to be counter-signed. A complete waste of time… but a fortuitous turn of events as I learnt yesterday evening I’m going to Italy with IC mid-July. This now mean I’m going to have to get my passport done in person, next week. Join me then for some more protracted moaning and aggressive annoyance.

But before all that it’s worth mentioning that cold sirloin steak thinly sliced and shoved in a cheese-bread roll with some mustard and horseradish is a fucking sensation. Gerry’s chart, a tune and an earnest desire that your weekends are as joyous as the aforementioned sandwich follows, right here, in the form of this code GC+ED=JW.

Eee Hee, Ow!

30 Steel Panther Death To All But Metal 19 5
29 Kasabian Fire 23 9
28 Florence And The Machine Rabbit Heart NE 1
27 The Maccabees Can You Give It NE 1
26 Papa Roach Lifeline 28 3
25 Fightstar Never Change NE 1
24 Marilyn Manson Arma…Geddon 14 8
23 Linkin Park New Divide 29 4
22 The Prodigy Warrior’s Dance 16 10
21 The Enemy Sing When You’re In Love 24 2
20 Marmaduke Duke Silhouettes NE 1
19 Silversun Pickups Panic Switch NE 1
18 The Yeah You’s 15 Minutes 30 2
17 Empire Of The Sun We Are The People 9 7
16 Freemasons Heartbreak Make Me A Dancer 15 4
15 Placebo For What It’s Worth 10 8
14 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 8 11
13 Kings Of Leon Notion 17 3
12 The Manchester Orchestra I’ve Got Friends 13 4
11 Enter Shikari Juggernauts 6 6
10 Billy Talent Rusted From The Rain 22 2
9 Depeche Mode Peace 12 3
8 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army 11 6
7 Maximo Park Questing Not Coasting 18 2
6 Gallows London Is The Reason 7 3
5 Blue October Dirt Room 3 5
4 Baddies Holler For My Holiday 5 4
3 The Gossip Heavy Cross 1 6
2 Shinedown Second Chance 4 5
1 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 2 4


On the way home from work I stopped by Sainsbury to use the Coinstar, a machine that converts coins (for a small fee) into a cash voucher. Of course, the fucker wasn’t working and I was just about to walk off to get the passport photo done when a little old lady, very slowly pushing her shopper, stopped and produced a small purse of coins.

“It’s not working,” I said.
“It’s out of order, dear.”
“I know, they’re very good aren’t they.”
“Yes, but it’s not working.”
“Saves me having to count them.”
“It’s not working!”
“It’s out of order! Broken! Look…” I pointed at the ‘out of order’ sign that she peered at for a few seconds.
“Oh. Fuck.” She said.

After composing myself I went into the photo booth. Obviously it’s been a decade since I used one so I wasn’t expecting all the fucking pre-amble. First a short lecture about not smiling, sitting at an angle, wearing a ski mask etc., a little graphic appeared to show EXACTLY where my face and eyes were to go. I adjusted the seat but found I had to lean into the frame to suit the pedantic requirements of the passport office before this awful countdown to the shoot began. ‘Are you ready? Any second now, 5,4…’ I began to madly blink in case I accidentally blinked when the final moment came, 3, 2, 1/blink. Fuck! I was permitted to reject the image before it was printed, which I duly did, and then the countdown began again …3, 2, 1/blink. FUCK!!

This happened a further two more times, it was a hot day, I was stressed, uncomfortable and late. The resulting photograph resembling an aggrieved Ned Kelly with a hunch is a guaranteed finger up the nick next time I travel abroad. Jolly good show.

I took the tube and bus to Swineshead’s gaff for about 8. We spent a happy few hours smoking and chatting as I gingerly consumed two bottles of the redoubtable Speckled Hen. At 11-ish I was exhausted and made my way to IC’s flat about 10 mins walk up the road. I walked in and there were 4 girls (IC, Mary, Jo and Swineshead’s missus) sat in the kitchen with wine enthusiastically discussing the protests in Iran with regard to the expulsion of diplomats and completely shattering my illusion that girls only talk about shopping, diets and cock.

Another day in the office…


When I came home last night a Yellow-Pages thick envelope was waiting for my attention on my doorstep, well, I say ‘my doorstep,’ I don’t have a fucking doorstep, I pass over the freeholders at enormous speed in order to gain access to my flat before being subject to inane conversation from Cunt (the latest being ‘have you just been to the pub for a beer and a good smoke?’) who lurks downstairs like a touched Morlock.

I opened the package and discovered with mixed blessings (happy to go, just very lazy) that my Solicitors have been in touch -I’m destined to spend most of the day discreetly filling out a tonne of forms, my single aim today is to have it completed before I get home- and one of the things they require is a proof of identity, such as a copy of my passport, no problemo yeah, I have a scanner and shit, just pop it under the… holy fucking jesus, it expires in a fortnight.

It’s not that I’m going abroad in the next month or so, the expiry isn’t the issue, it’s the passport photograph that is. For the last three decades they’ve all been reprehensible and each taken prior to an overhaul of the way I look physically. I spent my 20’s looking like I’d just been nicked at Stonehenge for selling smack and the soon-to-be superseded incarnation features yours truly as follower of The Horned One, black hair down to my arse and a large soul patch denoting deviant sexual practice.

For the past few years passing through customs has been a living nightmare, the sour-faced authorities take a dim view of the weak-smiled appeaser presented in conjunction with the frozen face of The Prince of Death. Instead of relying on visual clues it’s as if they stare into your very soul sucking your identity out of the marrow in your bones. Honestly, by the time I’m out the airport I feel quietly violated.

Doubtless my short-ish haired biker/tramp look will be consigned to the annals of history in a month potentially causing unprecedented disruption. Even if I decide to be clean-shaven again I’ll still be presenting customs with an image of, in their eyes, an Islamist. I could shave it off now and save myself the bother but the chance to get a free rectal examination is too good a chance to give over. Now that’s the violation I like.

The Wednesday list, and a tune…

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I was so tired at work yesterday I even fell asleep taking a shit. I had to splash water over my face about 5 times throughout the course of the day, the bags under my eyes resembled bad tit implants. It was fucking horrid.

Amazingly, I managed to take the tube at 7 to meet up with Urban Woo in a pub near Leicester Square. After a couple of ales and good chinwag I was feeling a little more human, I was home by 10 feeling ‘okay,’ but the exhaustion had returned due to the soporific motion of the tube. I went to bed and was out like the proverbial light, but as fuck would have it, wide awake by 5.30 and destined to remain so until the present.

As mentioned last week, this refusal to sleep in my gaff is because my heart and soul aren’t there anymore. And I still have no clue when this matter will be resolved. I hoping that a completion date will settle me but until then, am I destined to spend an hour at the crack of dawn sewing up my jeans and washing clothes as I did this morning?

Spot the Piqued (and the typo) in comments below…

Christ I’m bored


Sorry this is late. I’ve been reviewing the Throbbing Gristle show for WWM, sooner or later it’ll be here

The weekend was, as usual, fantastic. It began with dinner with IC in an upstairs dining room in pub off Columbia Road, sort of gastro pub fare; bloody nice it was (even if the downstairs half was full of media wankers.)

Saturday we popped over to Dalston to help Dan and Y move to their new gaff in Hackney. My back hasn’t been too clever of late so helping someone to move might not have been the cleverest idea but I’m happy to say all is well (at the moment.) What isn’t so great is my ongoing battle with claustrophobia, so why on earth I volunteered to sit in the back on the Transit to collect some more gear is anyone’s guess.

I assumed there would be some light from the front windscreen but instead the back of the van was boxed in. It was like the black hole of Calcutta, dark, hot and completely disorientating. One of Dan’s mates (K) and I sat over the wheel arches and were thrown about like peas in a drum. K attempted small talk but I was in the grip of a balls-out panic attack, which caused me to respond in panting exultations of complete crap confusing us both in the process. I looked around in the dark for a handle to open a door, my eyes popping out of my head in a state of blind fear as my breathing became erratic and complicated. Fuck! I couldn’t see a latch, I tried to contain myself but felt that exchanging dignity over death (this is what a panic attack feels like) I opted for lurching at the side door and to my palpable relief located a small lever that opened the inside to the day, light and air flooded in. I breathed again and the attack subdued. Merciful god.

We spent a few hours lugging furniture up and down stairs and left to go to get some shopping for the evening. We passed Swineshead and his missus on the way to Victoria Park and stopped for a chat, grabbed the provisions and rested at home for while.

At 5-ish IC, Mary and I went to London Fields. It was a bit overcast when we arrived; already a group of two-dozen had laid out blankets which were spread with food, mainly Swedish dishes like the revellers, the Swedes celebrate the solstice with the attention it deserves. More and more began to arrive, the sun came out, my bro turned up, the booze began flowing, endless it was. Marvellous. I nearly got locked in London Fields toilet, we managed to fuck up a DJ with spiced vodka en-route to a gig, the Swedes began dancing… We packed up when it was dark and went to the pub, IC bought me a cocktail which ran down my beard, a few of us went back to IC’s and Mary’s, a couple paired off and left, the house ran dry of people but not drinks, by daybreak there was just me, IC, Mary and a sobbing girl, I was pissed beyond reason. I must have gone to bed because I woke up at midday still rotten and feeling incapacitated, mystery and bloody ill.

I watched the Grand Prix with papers I don’t recall getting, I don’t recall the Grand Prix either but I do remember that we went out for breakfast and had a massive fry-up. Feeling very, very marginally ‘better’ we took the 38 to Charing Cross, the bus journey was a nightmare as my body fought for sobriety and by 4pm we were at Heaven, though far from in it. I was feeling so awful I even spurned a hair of the dog, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. I wanted to be in bed. At 4.30 S.C.U.M. played a superb set but the highlight of the afternoon/evening was Throbbing Gristle, one of the best gigs I’ve seen, read all about shortly.

Blown away we took the bus back to Hackney in the sunshine, the depressing air of Sunday began to blacken the soul, we got pizza and popped back to watch a movie, it was so appalling I can’t even be arsed to utter its name.


I’m bloody knackered. I’ve not been sleeping so well at my gaff since I found out I was going to be moving. Last night was the first time in weeks I’ve spent an entire evening ‘in,’ I’m going to avoid doing that again, gave me the bloody fear it did… the shattered remains of what was ‘home’ have now all but gone; it’s like living in the flat of a deceased relative.

After a bit of TV, food, I spent most of the evening designing the tattoo. Every time I finished off an area to my satisfaction, I’d spot something not quite right and get stuck back in, then I’d fuck it and have to use Tipex.

The earlier processes of tracing paper, tape, pencil etc., are far behind, and now that I’ve pretty much solved the design aspect I’m thoroughly enjoying its making. It’s not without its woes mind; I studied ‘fine art’, not graphics, so whilst it’s easy to glean visual information from life drawing and sketches, schematising it is more problematic as, not being as experienced in this field, I’m inclined to get it just right and fuck it up. Factor in the OCD, the comfort of wine and cigarettes and a refusal to face that bedroom; I didn’t get to sleep until 4am.

I’ve a fucking busy weekend lined up, stuffed from arsehole to beak so it is. Dinner with IC tonight then tomoz helping a mate move, huge party Saturday night and then, Sunday afternoon, Throbbing Gristle. I’ll be reviewing it next week on WWM, so there’s one for the diary, right there. There. Their…(I’m pointing at your diary, go and get it.)

Chart, Choon, good one have… don’t forget the podcast! —>

30 The Yeah You’s 15 Minutes NE 1
29 Linkin Park New Divide 24 3
28 Papa Roach Lifeline 30 2
27 La Roux Bulletproof 22 4
26 Maximo Park The Kids Are Sick Again 18 10
25 All-American Rejects I Wanna 27 2
24 The Enemy Sing When You’re In Love NE 1
23 Kasabian Fire 19 8
22 Billy Talent Rusted From The Rain NE 1
21 Scott Matthews Fractured 17 4
20 Absent Elk Sun And Water 14 6
19 Steel Panther Death To All But Metal 12 4
18 Maximo Park Questing Not Coasting NE 1
17 Kings Of Leon Notion 26 2
16 The Prodigy Warrior’s Dance 13 9
15 Freemasons Heartbreak Make Me A Dancer 21 3
14 Marilyn Manson Arma…Geddon 9 7
13 The Manchester Orchestra I’ve Got Friends 16 3
12 Depeche Mode Peace 20 2
11 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army 11 5
10 Placebo For What It’s Worth 6 7
9 Empire Of The Sun We Are The People 7 6
8 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 4 10
7 Gallows London Is The Reason 15 2
6 Enter Shikari Juggernauts 5 5
5 Baddies Holler For My Holiday 8 3
4 Shinedown Second Chance 10 4
3 Blue October Dirt Room 2 4
2 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 3 3
1 The Gossip Heavy Cross 1 5


Twenty seven year old Haylie Hocking from Bristol works in a garage. Jason Blake, who is thirty years old, became a customer there and before long the couple had starting going out. Jason had told Haylie that he was a personal trainer which accounted for his weekends away while he was supposedly training his clients. The couple’s relationship progressed quickly and after six months they moved into together and two months after that, Jason proposed. The wedding was planned and a few days before the big day one of her friends discovered he was a (and I quote) a ‘pornstar’ and she called the celebrations off on the spot.

Fair enough, the silly bastard should’ve some clean (his defence was that he was “only acting” and that he would have given up his career if she’d asked, the twat) but what I object wholly to is the use of the term ‘pornstar.’

I get paid for working in a bloody office, does that make me an ‘officestar?’ is the bloke that works at my local Costcutter a ‘cornershopstar?’ It seems to me that if you’re prepared to fuck on camera you automatically get the title ‘pornstar,’ the word ‘star’ lends a certain degree of glamour to what is, let’s face it, a seedy exploitative industry. You could successfully argue that being in porn is the absolute antidote to being a ‘star’ as you’re reduced to the sum of your body parts at best, and at worst whatever your imagination will allow, and that could even involve poo, or Paris Hilton.

I had a pleasant night with IC and my two cousins, one of whom is a well-known photographer. Sadly, the latter is perpetually fighting his copyrights as the Internet allows his work to be distributed about the world willy-nilly for no fiscal gain. It’s a pretty sorry state of affairs and disheartening to hear as the unique methods he employed to make his name can be pretty much faked on Photoshop these days. I’d love to go into more detail but I can’t. Bugger. Anyway, it’s not fair.

After work and before I set off to the pub Swineshead, Napoleon and I successfully completed a podcast which will be on WWM (link right) shortly. It was rather fun at time but I’ve no idea of the results after editing, hey, why not find out yourselves…


As of late I’ve been getting a volley of those Bank-Scam emails, you know, the sort that begin ‘Attention please, how are you doing together with your entire family,’ before being given some guff regarding my selection for the deposit of an abandoned fund and a request for my bank details to get the ball rolling.

Does this still work? When these scams appeared 5 years ago I’m sure a few blessed wankers fell for it, but after all the press attention and what have you what sort of raspberry would hand over their details to the bank of Ouagadougou Burkina Faso in West Africa in the belief that a complete stranger is going to deposit $15,000,000 into their account?

So I’ve decided to give it back as it were by cleverly combining fact, subtly and an extraordinary lack of decorum, my details therefore are Barclays Bank (fact) sort code: 5318008 (this is the one that spells ‘boobies when you turn it upside down on a calculator –told you it was subtle) and my account number: FUCKYOURMOUTH… well, it beats working.

I’m sure you’ve read of the girl in the news who is suing a Belgium Tattoo artist after she left his parlour with 56 stars on her face, rather than the three she says she asked for? Kimberley Vlaeminck, 18, says she fell asleep during the procedure, and only realised what had happened when she woke up.

I’ve never heard so much shit in my life to be honest. Well I have, but this is pushing it. Tattoos are inclined to sting, for the clean-skinned they’re not as painful as you may think (like a cocktail stick being run firmly over the skin) but in certain regions they fucking hurt, the face is a ‘fucking hurt’ region by all accounts, akin to one on the inside of the lower arm I’ve been reliably informed, which I have experienced. Falling asleep when someone is tattooing your face, unless you’re pissed or full of narcotics, isn’t going to happen. I have to say, not entirely sure why the tattooist agreed to tattoo an 18 year olds face… put it this way, I’ve seen my artist turn down the sorts of guys that would hand over their bank details to Mr. Rafik Bahaa Edine Hariri, just cos he asked. More on this story from the Tattoo community by clinking on the BMEZINE link to the top right of this piffle.

Had a pleasant evening with my bro and his missus, we had a drink at a pub in London Bridge before having dinner at an overpriced and crowded restaurant during which I was informed of some rather nasty developments in my bros residence, the upshot of which may result in their having to physically move…

Shit, got to run, I’m off to get FUCKYOURMOUTH tattooed onto my forehead… Oh, Wednesday list, tune etc.,

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I saw Philadelphia last night for the first time. It wasn’t planned, I’d just eaten a vast quantity of roast pork, roast potatoes, broccoli and gravy and there it was, on, and with shit all else available I let myself go. For those of you that haven’t seen it, and I should imagine that applies to the most of the remaining few of you that still read this crap, it’s about Tom Hanks catching the AIDS and losing his job and suing his employers. He dies in the end. Look, I’ll level with you, it had me in tears but it’s no way as good as the French original, Boursin.

I’d met up with Frank earlier; I walked to the pub in the most horrendous thunderstorm and walked back in sunshine. It’s burning hot this morning. English weather eh? You couldn’t make it up. Though the fucking BBC weather forecast does. According to them, as I type this, it’s ‘light showers’ yet the sky is bluer than a Swedish skin flick and it’s hotter than Darfur.

Despite the day at the office, demoralising and dull, I went to bed feeling rather chuffed. There is now a big red ‘sold’ sign outside my gaff and on my desk is a letter from the buyers solicitors explaining that things are moving ahead. It looks as if I’m finally free of that prehistoric arsehole who dwells below me and not a moment too soon. In all fairness he’s been much quieter since he got smacked about after gobbing off to some kids on the streets of Sarf Landan but because he’s less idea of hygiene than a shit-eating sewer rat the communal hallway which leads to our respective front doors hums like a hookers flannel.

Oh, an apology to those that heeded the news last week of a new podcast on WWM, basically, Swineshead, Napoleon and I did record one last Thursday but sadly, for technical reasons, it wasn’t good enough for broadcast. We’re having another shot at it tomorrow evening.

I’m thoroughly enjoying the new album by the way…


I’ve always spurned gambling, largely because it requires dealing with numerals, a pigeon would fair better as a sous chef that I with a phone number, so why on earth would I know how to play poker? IC, Mary, Paul and I were equally hungover when Paul produced a deck of cards, it was the last thing I wanted, I was too hot and feeling as I’ve my internal organs had been exchanged for KFC chicken giblets. Sunday afternoon, on a roof garden in Hackney, I learnt and played my very first game. After a while I got the hang of it, an hour later I was addicted. Well there’s the beginning of the end. I’m already fighting the temptation to play a hand or few online… maybe I can turn pro and earn my living in seedy late-night gaming rooms and dubious east end ‘casinos,’ that’d be fucking ace.

The weekend started with Dan, Nicky, IC and I outside a busy pub off St. Martins Lane warming up for dinner at J.Sheekey, the most sublime (and famous) fish restaurant in London Town which, if one is careful, is cheaper than night in Pizza Express, I shit you not. Whole Cornish cock crab £15 and a bottle of (extremely drinkable) house red £18, for example.

After gorging ourselves silly on the aforementioned crab, oysters, smoked eel, fisherman pie, haddock rarebit and a few bottles of the good stuff (bill was less than £40 per head, would’ve been a lot less but we went a bit mad with the eel, and the wine) IC and I wound our way back East to continue with a night of youtube and perhaps some Italian wine.

By Saturday lunchtime it was hot and sunny, after we’d resurrected we met up with Ellen by Cambridge Circus for some fare at Bistroteque. I have to say, despite the ‘knowingly trendy’ air to the place, I am very fond of it. This may have a lot to do with IC and Ellen knowing a lot of the staff and our being treated like The Rolling Stones, it also helps the food is superb. I was clearly looking the worse for wear and I was given a complimentary Bloody Mary and after the eggs benedict I was as right as rain.

After some shopping we were home by 4-ish, short catch up with papers and IC and I went off to the local on Mare Street for half price cocktails. We were joined by Mary, Paul and Marky and spent a funny evening in the evening sunshine giggling at the mundane and pithy before settling inside. Toward the end of the night a load of cage fighter types began to arrive (as it happen they were actual cage fighters) with their glamour girl arm candy. We left to continue celebrations back at IC and Mary’s gaff and the sun had begun to make an appearance before we finally headed off to bed.

The Catalunya Moto GP on Sunday was one of the best I’ve ever seen, Valentino Rossi led for most of the race after overtaking team-mate Georgio Lorenzo early on, Lorenzo took it back for the last quarter (or did, as the pundits suspected, Rossi give Lorenzo the place to ‘study him’ as the former is a genius and the latter a rising star.) Either way, the last lap was so exciting even IC was on her feet. Rossi took his place back but then Lorenzo got ahead, they swapped, swapped back, it was looking bad for Rossi as he’d only one corner left when, and even after watching this a few times I’ve no idea how he did this, stuffed it past in a place where you just can’t/don’t overtake. I was on a high for that for most of the afternoon, fucking marvellous.

After the poker we went back to the flat and did the Sunday over with two movies, Old School-funny in places, and The Hunting Party- tentatively recommended. No drinks though, we needed a rest. Despite this, after cycling in this morning, I feel as bad as I would’ve if I’d necked a bottle of Japanese whisky.


Watch the first half. Rossi has just taken his lead back…


Interesting item in the news this morning. Apparently some 38 year old knicker sniffer has been targeting schoolgirls wearing Ugg Boots and has been labelled an ‘Ugg Boot Fetishist.’

This is, of course, impossible. A sexual fetish is the last thing seen and claimed (as a substitute) by a young boy before he realises his mother hasn’t a penis. This revolting creature is 38 and the Ugg boot, after much argument, didn’t become an established as the ‘Ugg’ brand until 1978 which means it’s impossible for him to have seen an Ugg Boot before he was 7, some 3 years after sexual fetish window has closed!! Idiots!

Had a pleasant evening with Red, Frank and his missus in the local pub garden. Can’t say I’ll be sorry to leave my current dwelling but that garden in the summer does have a certain charm to it I suppose. The day preceding the drink was fucking vile but the hour lost with Swineshead and that NC character during the podcast was rather jolly. The results of our nonsense will be available on WWM later today, you can subscribe too, link right and all that.

Before the Friday list, a tune and a sincere wish your weekends are as splendid as mine, I’ll leave you with this. Johanna Ganthaler, a pensioner from Bolzano-Bozen province, had been on holiday in Brazil with her husband Kurt and missed Air France Flight 447 after turning up late at Rio de Janeiro airport on May 31. All 228 people aboard lost their lives after the plane crashed into the Atlantic four hours into its flight to Paris.

The ANSA news agency reported that the couple had managed to pick up a flight from Rio the following day. It said that Ms Ganthaler died when their car veered across a road in Kufstein, Austria, and swerved into an oncoming truck. Her husband was seriously injured.
Anyone seen Final Destination? Sleep tight Mr.Ganthaler…

30 Papa Roach Lifeline NE 1
29 Depeche Mode Wrong 20 13
28 Pink Please Don’t Leave Me 24 10
27 All-American Rejects I Wanna NE 1
26 Kings Of Leon Notion NE 1
25 Marmaduke Duke Rubber Lover 17 8
24 Linkin Park New Divide 28 2
23 Twisted Wheel We Are Us 16 10
22 La Roux Bulletproof 23 3
21 Freemasons ft S Ellis Bextor Heartbreak etc 25 2
20 Depeche Mode Peace NE 1
19 Kasabian Fire 11 7
18 Maximo Park The Kids Are Sick Again 13 9
17 Scott Matthews Fractured 18 3
16 The Manchester Orchestra I’ve Got Friends 26 2
15 Gallows London Is The Reason NE 1
14 Absent Elk Sun And Water 9 5
13 Prodigy Warrior’s Dance 7 8
12 Steel Panther Death To All But Metal 10 3
11 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army 12 4
10 Shinedown Second Chance 15 3
9 Marilyn Manson Arma…Geddon 6 6
8 Baddies Holler For My Holiday 19 2
7 Empire Of The Sun We Are The People 5 5
6 Placebo For What It’s Worth 4 6
5 Enter Shikari Juggernauts 8 4
4 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 2 9
3 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 14 2
2 Blue October Dirt Room 3 3
1 The Gossip Heavy Cross 1 4

bi bitch

For the first time in yonks I rode from sarf Landan to the East End. It’s a dead simple journey -Wandsworth, Vauxhall, Elephant and Castle, London Bridge, City, Shoreditch, Hackney- 5 miles as the crow flies and in theory 20 mins. But the fucking traffic is horrific and the road from E & C to and through the City is gridlock requiring much filtering and stop/starting.

I’ve also discovered that the Black Bitch doesn’t like it at all, she gets all hot and flustered, the oil warning light flickers at tickover which isn’t good. Add this to a collection of minor niggles that require attention, but bearing in mind she’s still in very good order, it’s time for her and I to split up. When the sale of my gaff is completed we’re going to have to go our separate ways, a thought that makes me feel rather sick. If you’re interested feel free to mail me, I’d rather it went to someone I sort of know, however tenuous the link.

I arrived at IC’s in victorious spirit after seeing off a few fellow bikers (the journey had taken 45 mins.) I changed and we went out immediately to meet Ellen in the boozer we’d taken a late lunch in on Sunday. We sat outside in the cool evening drinking wine sensibly and, aware work was due the following day, returned home by 10pm.

This morning I was up and out by 8. IC cycled off in one direction and I shot off in another. As I approached the City I caught up with IC (she can shortcut the journey, I can’t) and we had a race through the traffic, which was virtually at a stand still. I can confirm it’s faster to cycle through Broadgate than it is to motorcycle. This explains the vast hoards of cyclists, most of whom have a good idea of what they’re doing but the cunts that don’t are fucking unbelievable. One far arsed bint (clearly not a regular of the Derailleur) managed to prevent dozens of vehicles passage on account of not understanding what a green filter means. I gave her a mouthful, of course.

Once clear of London Bridge things started to improve, more motorcycles appeared and within minutes a competition of speed and prowess got underway. I think this fact alone is an incentive for a new generation of city bikers. Boris Johnston should instigate a campaign simply sloganed ‘it’s a fucking race, ace,’ featuring a picture of me doing a one handed jump over a frigging bus, or something. I arrived at work after much shouting and gesturing though shaking with exhilaration. It’s been many years since I despatched for a living and I’d forgotten what frustrating fun it all is. I’d better get used to it too as soon this will be a regular commute, just not on the BB, sadly.


Before we get stuck in I’d like to note a comment made by OWAICTT on yesterdays grief. In this ‘mind your head’ society of ours the TT is regarded by many as fucking idiotic, and every year it claims human components as riders push themselves to the absolute limit. Sadly one of OWAICTT mates is now in a coma but before this brings home and reinforces the ‘stupidity’ of motorcycles I’d like to point out that unadulterated joy and the pursuit of dreams can come at a price. I’d like to wish the chap and his family and friends all the very best. Money down, if he makes a full recovery, he (and they) will be back next year.

The little bellpress who made an offer on my gaff has fucked-off out of it, but my wily agent suspected he might be a wind-up merchant and continued showing my place to other potential buyers. On Monday I was informed that someone has matched the offer, is good to go and to reinforce this I took a bona fide call from my solicitors yesterday to get the wheels in motion. Despite the full weight of the hassle of moving and all that goes with it, not to mention looking for a place to live, I’m finally free.

I dread Wednesday, because I know I have to publish the list o’ Wednesday (when I remember.) What horrors await? Before I go, the Isle of Man circuit from the POV of the rider who still hold the lap record. It’s utterly terrifying/beautiful.

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This post is late on account of waking up on my stomach with my back locked like a bank vault.

This hasn’t happened for a while, I was somewhat peeved to find myself in this position as things with the spine and I have been quite good of late. After using blue language for a while (things like ‘fucking cunt’ and ‘arghhhhh fuck’) I manoeuvred myself orchestrially (in the dark, I’ve magnificent day-killing blinds) and got onto the floor. Once settled I did these little stomach tensions until a few clicks heralded the beginning of the dogs-tongue-disc back into situation. Half an hour or so later I was able to reach the Aspirin and, following the usual panic attack when I take anything, things began to stabilise. It’s not 100% of course but I can at least move without screaming, a bonus for the office in which I’m currently installed.

I had a pleasant evening after a fractious day at work; despite being exhausted I nipped up to Soho to meet Breeks, Rozsz and Nails for a few pints and a chinwag. The conversation was surprisingly bawdy for a trio of ladies; indeed, I’ve heard more refined banter from blessed dockers. That Rozsz in particular would make the fucking merchant navy blush with her carry-on.

Anyway, short one as well as late; I’ve got shit to do. Oh, don’t forget, all week is TT week, check the highlights at 9pm on ITV4.


On a Monday there is only one reason why one would come into work, it’s very straightforward when you strip everything away. Coffee.

Fortunately, the boss likes the stuff too so we’ve a half decent machine. And that’s it really. My single eternal motivation for coming into work, dangled in front of me like the proverbial carrot on a stick as I rise, dress, bus, tube, walk and finally cycle. Christ.

Obviously Monday never helps when one has had a blistering weekend. Thinking back to last Friday from my perch it’s as if I was on a different planet. It got underway when I arrived at IC’s in Hackney at 7.30 after a non-day in the office; Mary cut my hair in the kitchen, which is the last word in separating the self from the working week and presenting the new incarnation to the weekend to be.

We three had a few sharpeners and made our way over to Orlando’s gaff containing a dozen ready-to-go types stuck into wine and such-like. As a group we took the bus to Angel and made our way to our destination, a club -dark, dry-ice- and settled in.

It’s only since I met IC that I’ve been ‘clubbing’ again. I like to avoid the word ‘clubbing’ as it implies vast rooms of cunts moving like defibrillated zombies to the vacuous mono-beat-offing of some artless gitprong fiddling with knobs. This is a tad unfair as some DJ’s do possess genuine talent, it’s just the majority of them are under the misapprehension they’re musicians and contain ego’s that vastly outweigh an ability to nick someone’s song and slap it over the sound of industrial demolition.

The clubs I used to frequent were dark and a bit scary, only made comfortable by the use of intoxicants and a poker face. Fortunately, the place I’d arrived in reminded me of being 20 again, though I’m not, and neither were most of the guests. The first band came on at midnight, they were called S.C.U.M and I liked them in an instant. They reminded me of a young Bauhaus/Jesus and Mary Chain and I took it on myself to try and help them out in ways I’m not entitled to discuss here. Indeed, they were far more impressive than Nitzer Ebb, the headline act that finally took to the stage at 2am.

I have to say I was less than impressed by their audience too. ‘Fucking rude’ is the phrase that springs to mind. I’ve seen some of the most unpleasant death metal and punk bands on the planet, I can’t recall an instance when, carrying drinks, I’ve had people refuse point blank to move out of my way… I walked from the back of Hammersmith Empire to the front when I last saw Slayer with two pints last year. I didn’t spill a drop! On Friday 2 glasses of whisky and coke were reduced to a couple of melting ice cubes in an inch of tan liquid.

Can’t moan that much though, IC and I had a splendid night, despite the crowd, and it was fun to bump into members of our group as we meandered about the place. By 4 or so we were done, we took the bus back home on the top deck sprawled in splendid isolation. I’m fairly sure we had a final nip of the good stuff before crawling into bed at dawn… I certainly recall the following lunchtime when I woke with a cheese grater skull.

IC and I ate breakfast and headed off to a tattoo shop in Shoreditch via Broadway Market in order for IC to get a piercing changed. We walked miles in a state of comatose, floating about the place like dandelion clocks until finally arriving at the venue exhausted. After a standoff with the owner (rude fat bastard he was) the deed was done and we took the bus home to recuperate from the ordeal. Almost as soon as we had settled we were off again to Hampstead to meet some friends in pub that had employed one of our pals -Dave.

We sat outside tentatively drinking wine. A behemoth panic attack gripped me as the hangover handed itself over to a fresh supply of booze rendering me silent for about 20 mins. It passed and I was free, back to indulge in my Saturday night with friends and a rather neat Cote de Rhone. Suddenly the evening accelerated and almost as soon we’d settled we were off to catch the final train to Hackney Central, it was if we were home in an instant. Foolishly IC and I decided to stay up for a little while longer. It was dawn when we finally decided we were done.

IC woke me on Sunday just before the Grand Prix, I nipped out to get a paper and some provisions and got back minutes before the start of what transpired to be a dull but positive race. It heralded the beginning of a lovely, lazy and, sensibly, alcohol free Sunday. The latter fact is even more remarkable when you consider we ate ‘British Tapas’ (little home made fish fingers and fishcakes, hand cut chips and wee venison burgers) in a pub at 5-ish with nout but Virgin Mary’s.

We watched TV and Barton Fink, a lesser-known yet brilliant offing from the Coen Brothers, and flopped about as if made from rubber. Marvellous.

I’m gonna grab a third cup of coffee, I’ll leave you with some S.C.U.M…


I’ve a malaise. Sort of alcohol derived. I didn’t even drink that much. This is what happens you see; you let your guard down for one day, just one, and before you know it you’re out of practice. I knew I should’ve drunk on Wednesday. Now look at what’s happened.

The reason for my current situation is based on Den’s book launch last night. I was both delighted and horrified to discover I’d been extensively quoted, delighted to have been quoted and spoken about in such pleasant terms, horrified to discover that a cornucopia of motorcycle gangs are probably discussing how much they can get for our respective kidneys.

After relieving myself of the responsibility of giving a shit via the drink, a lovely evening plodded merrily along with a whole host of friends from here and there. I hope I made a tit out of myself at least once.

I was home in time to watch the rub-outs enter the Big Brother pad and then I accidentally watched all of The Machinist, despite having seen it a few times I was saving it for IC and I, and hit bed.

I’ve a sizable weekend of course. Nitzer Ebb are playing tonight in the middle of a late-night party and various invites and opportunities to fuck ourselves up have been paraded about like this weekends D-Day celebrations… check me out, topical similes.

God I feel like shit.

Chart, tune, thanks.

30 Hollywood Undead Undead 21 8
29 Hockey Learn To Lose 30 2
28 Linkin Park New Divide NE 1
27 The Maccabees Love You Better 18 6
26 The Manchester Orchestra I’ve Got Friends NE 1
25 Freemasons ft Sophie Ellis Bextor Heartbreak Make Me A Dancer NE 1
24 Pink Please Don’t Leave Me 19 9
23 La Roux Bulletproof 29 2
22 The Horrors Who Can Say 16 5
21 Friendly Fires Jump In The Pool 17 4
20 Depeche Mode Wrong 14 12
19 Baddies Holler For My Holiday NE 1
18 Scott Matthews Fractured 24 2
17 Marmaduke Duke Rubber Lover 12 7
16 Twisted Wheel We Are Us 11 9
15 Shinedown Second Chance 25 2
14 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll NE 1
13 Maximo Park The Kids Are Sick Again 8 8
12 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army 15 3
11 Kasabian Fire 6 6
10 Steel Panther Death To All But Metal 20 2
9 Absent Elk Sun And Water 7 4
8 Enter Shikari Juggernauts 10 3
7 Prodigy Warrior’s Dance 4 7
6 Marilyn Manson Arma…Geddon 5 5
5 Empire Of The Sun We Are The People 9 4
4 Placebo For What It’s Worth 2 5
3 Blue October Dirt Room 13 2
2 Gallows The Vulture (Act 2) 1 8
1 The Gossip Heavy Cross 3 3


Silly me, I was so carried away with yesterdays rant that I completely forgot about the frankly vile Wednesday List… stand by.

I spent a good deal of last evening making the 4th WWM (there is a link to right so you may subsribe) podcast due to be broadcast this very afternoon. Swineshead and I will be discussing Big Brother. I think I come across like a bit of a misogynist and that friends is completely the opposite of my polemic.

After SH and I had finished, and I’d dozily managed to get the required files sent over to him and I’d located them on my own PC (he was very patient with me, to be honest my equivalent to finding computer files is a monkey angrily pulling apart his poo to locate bananas) IC turned up all hot and sweaty from cycling right across London. I am out of puff before I reach the end of my fucking road and she cycled fro London Bridge to Tooting! Fit as fuck she is. Hurrah!

We had a jolly booze-free evening of nut roast and a movie, Night at The Museum, which is bloody awful yet for some odd reason I enjoyed it immensely.

Before the disgusting list read the comments on this… Type ‘tracy emin taboo evening standard’ into Google, hit the first link and read the comments…

…and enjoy a spot of Wilco at the end for the purposes of recovery.

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al tru

The government had been holding my Bitches Black arse for 5 days, sat at my desk before lunch on Tuesday lunchtime, I was going to crack, I could feel lunacy in my throat.

Why hadn’t they called?

I grabbed the phone and called the captors of my dark dreams. ‘When?!’ I cried after an agent picked up, ‘WHEN?!’

‘All ready for you Mr. P.’

I didn’t bother to enquire why the fuck they’d not called me. I slammed the receiver back into the cradle, sweating with delight.

I had to wait a few hours before I could get her. The bill for her stay was more than I’d anticipated but I was so happy to have her back in my charge I almost didn’t care (though looking through my bank balance this morning I fucking do, of course.)

It’s not all-good news either; more stuff needs doing to her throwing into doubt a planned sojourn with a mate. But for the short time, she’s back under me, and I’m going to ride her, hard.

I’d have been happy to have taken her out for spin last night but had planned to meet Swineshead and Tim in a boozer off Oxford Street. We three wound up at The Intrepid Fox drinking and listening to Rock and smoking cigs out the front and shit. It was a hot evening and I wasn’t relishing the sweaty tube journey back South… it was bound to be crowded. In hindsight I wish it had been.

We said our farewells and I boarded the tube at Tottenham Court Road. As is customary, I sat in the front carriage, stuffed in my headphones and waited for the whole nastiness to pass. Two minutes into the journey the huge lady in front of me leant forwards and said something. I wasn’t entirely sure if she was addressing me or not as her eyes were at ten to two, I then noticed that the ‘ten’ was looking directly at me.

I pulled put my ‘phones and she repeated her question, which was ‘is the next stop Stockwell?’ We were about 7 stops from Stockwell and the train was due to terminate at Kennington where we’d be ushered across the platform to wait for connection. I explained this but it was quite clear that the recipient of my information wasn’t firing on all cylinders. I’d sort of already gleaned this, in addition to the question and the searchlight eyes she was eating the fluff off her trousers.

At Kennington I explained we had to get off. A LU guard had been notified that a person with a mental disability was alighting at the station and was there to assist her. To my horror he was shrugged off by the lady who informed the guard that ‘he was helping me,’ and nodded in my pissed direction.


The LU guard glanced at me and told the lady there would be someone waiting for her at Stockwell, and to make sure she got in the first carriage. I found myself taking her to the opposite platform and waiting with her for the train to arrive.

Of course, the first carriage was stuffed full. We stood in the middle of the crowd as the lady spontaneously began to supply me with information about her. She was headed for Norwood, her mother was dead and her boyfriend (?) didn’t hold her in bed… I attempted to make small talk in return that had to be conducted at an attention-grabbing ‘audible’ as the Lady was also a bit mutt n’ jeff. Luckily the entire carriage stopped talking and stared at me as if sizing me up for Crimewatch.

After what seemed like a fucking year we stopped at Stockwell. I looked hungrily out for the LU guard who was supposed to be waiting. Of course the cunt wasn’t there so I had to get off with the Lady. I looked up and down an empty platform turning back in time to notice that the train driver had popped his head out the cabin, he saw us and gave me a broad grin, upped his thumb and fucked off.

Fuck, again.

I had no choice. I took the Lady to the barriers, another guard offered assistance but like the first was he was ushered away and I was cited as her primary carer. The Lady needed to take the number 2 bus to Norwood, already out the station I figured I might as well see this through so I walked her to the busstop on the opposite side of the road. I had to take care as the Lady was prone to wandering about, she nearly had us both under the wheels of a passing 345.

At the busstop more small talk was conducted under the noses of a posse of hooded young me who felt that sucking their teeth at me was the best way of aiding my act of fucking charity. I was full term in needing to piss; ‘I’d be happily home by now,’ I sighed to myself.

After 20 minutes (and another year) the bus finally arrived. Just before I helped her board (she wasn’t physically disabled I hasten to add, just enormous) the Lady told me she didn’t have any money for the ride. Great. I let everyone board ahead of her then shoved her on and told the driver she didn’t have any money. The driver looked at her, then me, then her again,’ Come on mate…’ I said. I didn’t mean to sound exasperated.

He gestured her on. I then asked him to tell her when to get off at Norwood. He looked angry which in turn enraged me. ‘Who are you?’ he enquiring curtly. ‘Oh me, just fucking helping out, you gonna tell this lady when to get off?’ He looked at me as if I’d just ordered him to cuddle her after sex. I’d had enough. I didn’t wait for his reply… I turned and addressed the bus, ‘Can someone tell this lady when to get off at Norwood?!’ someone piped up at the back. I screamed back a ‘Cheers!’

I said goodbye to the Lady who thanked me by name, which surprised me somewhat. I got off the bus, dived behind the nearest dumpster and pissed like a horse.

This is quite beautiful…