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…

nigella lawson naked 3
penis in cunt 2
nude nigella lawson 2
how tget to the old bailey by tube or bu 1
norkporn 1
moto gp nip slip 2
bbc wimbeldon “sexy bum” song 1
why was throbbing gristle’s 4pm show at 1
photographer 2009 formula3 paddock galle 1
“carol vorderman topless” 1
jerry springer show toplesss girls 1
amy matthews nude 1
who has the biggest pennis in the whole 1
pj harvey nipple slip 1
enormous titstube 1
formula 1 pit brolly dollys 2
haylie & nigel hocking bristol 1
the logical song – tabs by: supertramp – 1
norkporn 1
gitprong 1
adult films amy matthews 1
“carol vorderman’s arse” 1
bigtitts 1
biggestcocktube 1
nigella lawson fucked 1
“kissing after sucking” vid 1
old stretched cunts 1
toples girlfriend in pub 1
tatooed cunt pics 1
“amanda redmond” naked 2
big black boobs 2
“debbie lawson tits” 1
utub road accedents 1
bigtittube 1
valentino rossi tatoos 1
is dame shirley porter a cunt? 1
bouibaise traditional 1
amy matthews nipples 1
utube 1
utubebigboobs 1
big cocktube 1 1
porn, sex, women with pennisfucking othe 1 1 1 1
james toseland girlfriend tori 1
bigtits animal fyck tube 1
sex utube11 2
livesex 2
utube tattood people 1
racegirl rioka 1
whats size boobs are carol vordermans 1
comics lara croft cuntraider 1
nvde in africa 1
nudestube 1
nigella lawson nude tits 1
cocktube pennis videos 1
frankie raider nude pics 1
older womentits 1
bigtittube 1
lilly allen toplesss 1
biker womentits 1
woman pics 1
pictures of men pennis out of there pant 1
nurse sucking milk from girl nipples vid 1
jenny agutter porn 1


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.