Monthly Archives: July 2009

tat two

I was shitting it if I’m honest, I don’t recall shitting it like this before (maybe I did, I got a tattoo last year and haven’t been pissed to read back to see if I did/didn’t.) It disrupted my night with IC, and ballsed up the subsequently sleep. I woke early and drank coffee and looked at my design. After 6 months hard (hard) work it was perfect.

At 9-ish I left for Kentish Town, short trip on the DLR from Hackney, even though my appointment wasn’t until 10 I couldn’t hang around at IC’s anymore, she’d gone to work already and I was in danger of breaking something fidgeting.

I’d already decided I was going to have a fucking bacon sandwich at a greasy-ish spoon, when it comes to such places the Camden area has them in abundance, frankly, it’s enough to turn one stomach don’t you know. I settled in one near the venue that didn’t have all workmen and old ladies eating egg and ordered a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea to accompany my paranoia. The sandwich arrived with more fat on it than a hippo but it was bloody nice. I did The Guardian crossword frenetically. Tattoo down? Fuck.

By the time I arrived a heavily tattooed N was already there, outside, on the phone, with his Harley ticking cool in the warm sunshine. After scanning some of his work on my spindly arms he gave me a nod and I went inside to face the needle.

For those of you without ink one of two things happens before you get physically worked over. Either the artist will draw directly on your body or, if like me, they will take your design and trace it by hand. This means that black lines are outlined and it’s here, if you’ve a shit artist, that designs can be compromised. N spent a good half hour tracing mine out before making the purple transfer and calling me into the studio.

The transfer was applied to my requirements and N suggested it went higher up my arm, I agreed. Then he began. A tattoo feels like someone is dragging a cocktail stick over the skin, it’s not intense pain more of an insidious irritation. The worst part is the beginning, the first 30 seconds are always quiet intense but then endorphins kick in and go some way to soothing the discomfort. You must be aware that the outlines hurt more than filling in and the vague pain improves as the tattoo proceeds, though this depends on which parts of the body the needles covers. It helps to chat and settle into the environment, after all, you’re having an indelible mark put on your body so you may as well appreciate it what’s happening.

It took a couple of hours but when done N vocalised the fact that he was rather chuffed with how it’d turned out, which I took to be ‘ I fucked up.’ I saw the tattoo in the mirror and my heart sank to my baseball shoes.

I left feeling hot, prickly-uncomfortable hot, like I’d just nicked something of value from a kindly relative and sloped to the World’s End for a pint to contemplate. No use, I went home to contemplate the matter further but by now, under the cling film, the tattoo resembled a lumpy oil slick. I hung around the flat for a couple of hours catching up on the i-player before fucking off to Central London to hook up with my bro and an old mate who is rather famed. The bro’s missus joined us, annoyingly, IC who’d been re-assuring me for most of the day by reminding me I felt just the same way when I had the last one done, was out with mates and unable to pop along too. Pisser, yeah.

After a while famed-fellow and I walked to New Oxford Street and said cheerio when the 55 bus arrived to take me to Clerkenwell. I met Frank, his missus, Rosh, Merve and Rea whose birthday it was. The former party also reminded me that I was moaning about the last time I got inked in much the same way as I was now, come to think of it, my bro did too…

I was a littler pissed when I got home, so I decided to drown my sorrows by watching a load of Grindcore on youtube and consume Whiskey like an idiot. But first I had to change the cling film on my arms and wash down the muck that had leaked out. I could barely stand to look at it if I’m honest.

This morning hungover after another wash down I was more philosophical. Basically, no one has really seen it apart from me and N and because I’ve been living with the design for so long it’s possible that my tendency towards OCD has distorted my expectations of what I’ve had done. Also, this piece is more figurative/complex than the others. Basically I need IC to see it, something that’ll happen shortly.
So, the jury remains out.

Tune in Monday when I’ll be carving off my skin with an oyster shucker.

hang 10 yeah

You lucky cunts! In addition to being called ‘cunts’ just then this is the first of two posts today, or maybe tomorrow, unusually.

Basically, I wrote most of today’s crap on that PC in my gaff on account of a massive hangover, my home PC has a more advanced version of Word than the old version installed on this fucking antique in the office, which means as a direct result of Microsoft being a greedy, irresponsible collective of child molesters, the new Word won’t open here, well it will, if you’re happy to read this

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please feel free.

If not, tune in after 5 (or maybe Saturday) to read all about the HORRORS of the new Tattoo and how that old lady fucking deserved it.

Chart, tune, then wait…

30 Kings Of Leon Notion 24 8
29 Baddies Holler For My Holiday 21 9
28 The Gossip Heavy Cross 22 11
27 Raygun Just Because NE 1
26 The Ian Carey Project Get Shaky NE 1
25 Depeche Mode Peace 19 8
24 Reverend And The Makers Silence Is Talking 26 3
23 Linkin Park New Divide 15 9
22 The Twang Barney Rubble 20 5
21 Mpho Box N’ Locks 28 2
20 The Prodigy Take Me To The Hospital NE 1
19 The Maccabees Can You Give It? 13 6
18 Preston Dressed To Kill 25 2
17 Shinedown Second Chance 10 10
16 Blue October Dirt Room 12 10
15 Biffy Clyro That Golden Rule 23 2
14 Bloc Party One More Chance 17 3
13 Silversun Pickups Panic Switch 8 6
12 Green Day 21 Guns 16 5
11 Madina Lake Let’s Get Outta Here 14 3
10 Maximo Park Questing Not Coasting 5 7
9 Kasabian Where did all the Love Go? 18 2
8 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 4 9
7 Marmaduke Duke Silhouettes 6 6
6 The Doves Winter Hill 9 3
5 Arctic Monkeys Crying Lightning 7 3
4 Dead Weather Treat Me Like Your Mother 11 4
3 Lacuna Coil Spellbound 3 4
2 Billy Talent Rusted From The Rain 1 7
1 The Mars Volta Cotopaxi 2 4


Saturday night. IC, bro-in-law and I carried on boozing, though we went to bed early as Sunday was the day of The Christening, the purpose of the trip in many respects and we didn’t want to be too fucked up.

Sunday began with a lunchtime aperitif, actually, that’s not strictly true, it began with a behemoth shit. The toilet wasn’t working well, it flushed fine but there was some sort of airlock and the subsequent noise is like a special needs orgy. This meant we had to pour buckets of water into the pan to drown the chod. Usually one bucket would suffice, this one required FOUR full buckets, it was that fucking pizza dough, it was more glutinous than a car tyre, which is strangely un-Italian for a pizza base. Anyway, after the drink we gathered some Prosecco and snacks for the after-Christening party before taking leave of the Lake and driving West to Brescia to unload the haul. And attend church.

Italy, as it will probably come as no surprise what with the Pope and all, is a very Catholic country. It upholds archaic traditions based around faith. It’s not uncommon to see statues of the Madonna in streets, by roads and roundabouts garlanded by fresh flowers. This faith bleeds into every day life and sustains strong family values, the vast majority of children live at home until married for example, for IC and her sister to leave Italy for the UK/USA respectively isn’t at all common.

Fortunately P’s mum didn’t mind that bro-in-law and I weren’t too keen on going to Mass that morning but the Christening was going to be an inevitable church attendance. The family gathered outside the venue with the baby, there were loads of them, unties, uncles, cousins, I learnt that this was only a small portion of them; IC’s family is massive.

Inside the priest started his business; I’d not a clue what he was harping on about but he kept staring at me with black eyes, put the fear of, well, god into me if I’m honest. I checked around the church, it was pretty but featured the most dreadful contemporary frescos of Christ’s crucifixion, screaming pain and all blood pissing about the place. Why on earth anyone would want to perpetually recall such an act of barbarism is beyond me. It was starkly contrasted by P’s niece all cuddled up in the arms of her mum. Mercifully the service didn’t go on for too long and afterwise we nipped by the house in Brescia for a few snacks and spot of drinking.

They’re a bloody nice bunch of folks by anyone’s standards. I played host in lieu of conversation (though some of he family spoke English) and we passed a happy few hours consuming the goods. We drove back to the Lake for a final supper (I’ve not mentioned the food much, it was simple and delicious incidentally, lots of cured meats, cheese, bread, olives… a ‘go figure’ situation) and saw off the weekend with Sambuca and cards.

Right pisser to have to leave the following morning, we had a short amount of time to have coffee in a pretty little village a few miles down the road with the immediate family and then we were off to the fucking airport. The flight back was remarkably okay, I think I was so down about leaving I couldn’t really be arsed to worry. Besides, I was completely engrossed in my book which I finished a minute before we landed.

We took the train home and went directly out to the pub we’d attended the evening before we set off. By now it was 8-ish, IC and I had a lazy dinner in the dining area and called it a day at home with a little shot of liqueur. Yesterday I had to get up very early and leave Hackney to unpack and wash some clothes before work. The day in the office was infused with the fading holiday and aggravated by the reality of having to attend the BBC Proms for a work related shindig.

The good thing about the company trip to the Proms is having a box. It seats 12 and is filled to the edges with food and booze. The music, however, is the pisser. In places it’s okay but it doesn’t half go on, and on, and on. Drinking helps ease it in and if you’re able to absorb yourself it’s bearable, but largely it’s stultifying dull.

Despite the booze collection the BBC had stiffed us on the red wine. My boss gave me 60 quid and suggested I nipped to the bar to get some more bottles during the interval. I got served fast and as I was gathering my haul some lanky boffin passed right behind me and I accidentally elbowed him in the stomach spilling his tiny cup of wine all over his shirt. He wasn’t best pleased and glared at me, sensibly choosing not to say anything as my eyes were sticking out my face like tentacles. Instead, I informed him that it was unwise to go creeping about a persons back when they were involved in buying drinks with such enthusiasm. He opened his mouth to speak/object when I wordlessly cracked open one of my four bottles and topped him up. He stood there witless as if I’d exposed myself.

The second half went on for fucking weeks, quite annoying to have such a good view (we were virtually hanging over the stage) when its for such a dirge. When it was finally over a few of us popped out to a hotel bar round the corner to recover. I had a fairly pissed trip back on the tube and blasted out my brains with Cephalic Carnage. By the time I finally got home I was arseholed, deaf and in excellent cheer.

No Piqued tomorrow, I’m getting inked in the morning and am having the day off to deal with it all, tune in on Friday to read all about it…

Cephalic who?


Where to start. Perhaps by mentioning that I’m knackered out and not at all in the mood to be in the office. For the last few days I’ve woken to a magnificent view of the Lake of Garda at the end of garden drenched in 40-degree sunshine.

It was hot from the moment IC and I stepped off the plane after lunch, coming out of that fucking tube soiled with human beings was like being popped in the oven. The flight, incidentally, wasn’t too bad despite some hair-raising turbulence and a landing heavier than Peter Kay hitting the thunderbox the morning after a night on the Vindaloo. Lately I’ve been using Viz as a flight-coping strategy but the pre-flight fear that IC and I wouldn’t be able to sit together on the plane distracted me from the fears of suffocation and/or crashing. In addition I chanced upon a book by Cormack McCarthy I’d not read, which from the off gripped me like a teenagers liver sock. ‘Child of God,’ read it. You’ll thank me, I promise.

IC’s mum and sister were there to meet us at Brescia and drove us to the house by the lake. From there on in, time stopped. Looking back now last Friday seems like a fortnight ago on another planet. It’s one thing to ‘go on holiday’ and cram as much drinking, eating and sightseeing as possible, and another entirely to ‘live’ as a native, so to speak. Early afternoon passed on the porch surrounded by Klein blue heavens and golden light with the lake glittering in the yonder like planished silver as winged teeth soundlessly consumed me. Apart from the latter and turning pages, all was still and sultry, I felt at ease to the point of death.

Later in the afternoon IC, mum, and sis and I walked out onto deserted roads to gather water from the spring and fresh bread and wine from the grocer. I found the heat on the wrong side of bearable but we returned gasping to relax. Elder sister, her husband and three-month-old niece returned from an afternoon by the pool and we all engaged immediately in the burn. We had supper outside and the temperature refused to cool as the lake shone in the immediate distance.

Like other European countries, The Italians live around mealtimes. Eating is an occasion with family and supper is usually pre-empted with Apperativo out with friends/colleagues/family (traditionally prosecco with Apperol (a sort of wine-strength bitter-orange mixer)) and they’re inclined to go out after dinner at 10pm. When (almost) in Rome and all that, we drove to a cluster of outside bars by the lake and I resumed my love affair with a strong cocktail called Negroni, a lethal combination of bitters, Gin, Vermouth and Campari.

The atmosphere was friendly and civil; there was a small orchestra in full swing with young girls dancing in ballerina costumes. All very strange but in context, completely normal. I continued to happily unwind chatting to IC’s brother-in-law who, being a musician of some note, entertained me with tales of his profession. When we got back to the house he, IC and I drank Sambuca until bed happened. I can’t say I was relishing this part as the house has only 2 bedrooms. IC, her mum and sis shared one and her other sis, bro-in-law and niece took the second. I was set to rest on a single z-bed in the lounge but as soon as my head hit the pillow I was out like the flick of a switch.

I was woken early by the baby but I wasn’t remotely fussed, I was happy to get out of the gloom (Italians shutter their houses in the evening to protect themselves from the sun and myriad of midges) and to make sure no one had moved the lake. I snacked on torte and coffee and off we went to Salo, a little town on the shoreline of Garda featuring a long boardwalk that winds by the waters edge facing an endless view of the lake. Pretty boats and yachts bobbed in little harbours, pale blue water splashed against the rocky banks as we drifted past bathers and strollers in the midday heat. Such as it was, IC and I cooled our heels in the water, which made the walk back to the car tolerable. We went back to the house for lunch and spent the afternoon lazing on the porch, reading and playing with the baby when she woke for a feed seemingly every hour.

Late afternoon we drove round to Sirmione, the rocky peninsular that sits at the south of lake and pokes into the water like the vomer bone in the human skull –The Lake of Grada resembles the nose cavity. Sirmione features a walled medieval town and castle. Though touristy it retains an air of the ancient and has a dreamlike quality about it. We had pizza outside in a place set against the castle walls as dusk settled in the warm evening; it was like a set from a Peter Greenaway film in it’s sumptuousness and the pizza was bloody good to boot. The baby behaved impeccably too despite having to have her nappy changed in the corner of the dining space. The faeces of the other diners was worth the trip alone.

More of this shit tomorrow.

Ladies and gentlemen…


After numerous calls to my estate agent in order to get some idea if the whole flat purchase is going through, I was finally called back by his colleague who apologised profusely for the lack of response. Said estate agent has Swineflu and has been on deaths door for a week. I was livid; it’s all very well for him to be lying about in bed contemplating his mortality in a fevered delirium, but what about the sale of my fucking flat? Also, he’s been in my gaff recently, doubtless he’s been coughing up his lardons in my kitchen and touching my door handles with his trotters. I could fucking die through his selfishness. The ill cunt.

This is the last post until next week; I’m off to Italy tomorrow morning with IC to spend some time with her family at Lake Garda. Apparently it’s fucking hot there, so hot I’ve been advised to bring swimming trunks. The words ‘Swimming Trunks’ brought me out in a cold sweat. As I type this I’m shaking like a jelly at a toddlers birthday party.

When I was a kid I used to swim for my school (don’t let me give you impression I was some floppy-haired hooray from Harrow, this was a competition held in the public baths with bobbing turds and Danny Kendall rotting at the bottom) and was a dab hand at the front crawl. A decade ago, after not swimming a stroke since I was 15, I leapt into some baths at a lido and re-enacting the winning ways of my adolescence. I got half way across and just ran out of oxygen, energy and limbs, in fact, I got into serious difficulty and was forced to weakly flail to the side gasping like a landed carp where I happily vomited last nights tea into the water before being asked to leave by a tanned skinhead in tight red shorts.

If I survive the flight there and back I may well meet my maker discreetly showing-off past swimming glories to IC’s family to prove my virility, or at least, emptying a pile of regurgitated lasagne and Barolo at the horrified feet of her mother.

I’m still shaking… Christ, maybe it’s just the Swineflu taking hold.

Gerry’s chart is early this week for obvious reasons, look up the entries, enjoy a tune featuring some bloke from Abba and for heavens sake behave while I’m away.

30 Hollywood Undead Young 26 4
29 Gallows London Is The Reason 20 7
28 Mpho Box N’ Locks NE 1
27 Fightstar Never Change 24 5
26 Reverend And The Makers Silence Is Talking 30 2
25 Preston Dressed To Kill NE 1
24 Kings Of Leon Notion 17 7
23 Biffy Clyro That Golden Rule NE 1
22 The Gossip Heavy Cross 15 10
21 Baddies Holler For My Holiday 13 8
20 The Twang Barney Rubble 19 4
19 Depeche Mode Peace 12 7
18 Kasabian Where did all the Love Go? NE 1
17 Bloc Party One More Chance 22 2
16 Green Day 21 Guns 16 4
15 Linkin Park New Divide 10 8
14 Madina Lake Let’s Get Outta Here 25 2
13 The Maccabees Can You Give It? 11 5
12 Blue October Dirt Room 9 9
11 Dead Weather Treat Me Like Your Mother 14 3
10 Shinedown Second Chance 7 9
9 The Doves Winter Hill 23 2
8 Silversun Pickups Panic Switch 5 5
7 Arctic Monkeys Crying Lightning 18 2
6 Marmaduke Duke Silhouettes 8 5
5 Maximo Park Questing Not Coasting 3 6
4 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 2 8
3 Lacuna Coil Spellbound 6 3
2 The Mars Volta Cotopaxi 4 3
1 Billy Talent Rusted From The Rain 1 6

m piz

I have to say, this MP’s expenses business left me rather cold. To be honest I couldn’t help feeling that it was a bit of a storm in a teacup along the lines of ‘politicians on the fiddle? OMG!!!’ as if we’re all surprised that a bunch of over privileged sex-cases were carrying on in exactly the same way as their peer group in corporate business or law and passing off the odd pornographic film and moat-cleanse as ‘expenses’ accrued in the line of carrying out ones elected administration. There’ll be men on the moon next, u marc mi wurdz.

From where I was hiding, I could see good, decent people going postal over something that was more obvious (to me at least) than cow tits. The bloody media, and they’re the last fucking group that should go around waggling a disparaging digit in moral anguish, whipped up a tidal wave of hysterical condemnation from a trickle of passing exasperation. Quite honestly, you could’ve bombed the shit out of the third world last May and still the letters pages in The Daily Telegraph would be purple with rage on discovering Sir Nigel Fortesque Percy had claimed 84p for a tin of chum for his wife’s leaking Pomeranian.

But this morning, laying in bed with the fug of last night’s bourbon evaporating off my languid tongue, a feature on Today nearly caused me to fart out my organs. It’s the beginning of the MP’s summer holidays, it was bad enough learning they get a bloody 12-week recess -which by anyone’s standards is obscene- when I discovered that out of the 52 weeks in the year they’re off for EIGHTEEN of them! By now I was bolt upright with my jaw cradled in my pills and my eyes swivelling in their sockets like bingo balls, but the final smack to the throat came when I discovered that in addition to this, they may be given a further 12 days off! For FUCKS sake!

Now there is something to get livid about, not some chinless creep claiming a mortgage on his daughters Wendy house, but the amount of time he gets to tit about doing wank-all why the rest us, in the midst of the worst economic crisis since The fucking Plague, work our fingers to the marrow. They should throw every last one of the cunts in the Thames after driving them over Blackfriars Bridge on the backs of mules. Naked. The MP’s that is, the mules are already naked… you’ll be able to see their cocks and everything. The MP’s I mean, and the mules too come to think of it. Unless they’re girl MP’s, or mules, and it’ll be Fanny City. Yeuch.

Now fuck off and do some work.


It’s 40 years today since man walked on the moon. Today. I thought it was last week? Month? Was it May? The media have been ramming it down my throat since January. I’ve lost all sense of, well, space.

It was a massive achievement of course, and reading about it has been awesome (in the correct sense of the word, not as in the version employed by baseball-hatted street types with Nike logos and a propensity for, like, being ‘extreme,’ dude. i.e., standing on little bits of wood with tiny wheels) and at times genuinely moving.

The last mission to the moon was in 1972 with the Apollo 17 crew (it’s my earliest memory as it happens, I vividly remember mum pointing at the moon and telling me that there were men on it, blew my tiny mind) and since then, no one has been. It’s all very well being retrospective but to make the moon landings truly significant, to give them the accolade they deserve, we should be setting our sights on continuing space exploration and looking to set foot on other planets for the sheer hell of it. Landing on the moon didn’t actually achieve anything outside the kudos of doing so; it was an act of humanness, altruism almost, for sake of everyone and nothing. Even the fact that that it was a race between to the two world superpowers makes it even more, well, trite. Maybe it says more about the 1960’s than anything else, I don’t know, but it is worth celebrating because, let’s face it, the world has lost a lot of its sense of fun since then.

Speaking of fun, this is a fun post right? It’s okay, something a bit lighter… actually, I’m afraid not. Henry Surtees, son of racing legend John Surtees (only chap I history to have won both the car and motorcycle formula one) got killed in a freak accident at Brands Hatch on Sunday when Jack Clarke’s wheel became detached and smacked into his head at 120 mph. As far as freak accidents go this most be one of the weirdest I’ve seen (oddly I was going to go to the race with my dad but we pulled out due to bad weather) and a stark reminder that motorsport remains fucking dangerous.


I’m up to my clockweights in hassle at work. Friday was fucking revolting and despite the weekend, which was marvellous, it’s as if I never left the bloody office.

To make matters worse, or better depending on which side of the fence one is standing, I’m off to Italy on Friday, which puts me under even more pressure to get this shit sorted.

Still, always time for a bit of Piqued eh? And after you can hear Swineshead and I discussing nonsense on the WWM podcast to the right of here. Subscribe, please.

Friday evening IC and I had a low-key evening in Hackney. We were both grey from a week of work-related hell but I managed to sort myself out by getting pissed and losing £10 on a fucking card game.

After breakfast on Saturday we headed on the 55 for town, IC alighted at Clerkenwell to have some hairs cut on her head and I continued to Covent Garden to spend money I’ve not got on some ‘smart’ black jeans for a Christening in Italy. It was a nice day, London was full of cunts and I swerved aggressively through the streets to my destination, one Urban Outfitters, from where you can purchase reasonably priced jeans that don’t make you look like you’re a glue sniffer.

I’m not a fan of clothes shopping. I want to be in and out as fast as I can so I’m inclined to hone in my potential item, grab it and fuck off out of it with as little contact with the sneering-staff as humanly possible. Worse case scenario is having to ‘try something on,’ but having been burnt in the past by avoiding this sensible action I reluctantly selected my size, scattering the ordered pile of trousers over the table in the process, and raced for the changing rooms. The pisser with my desired brand of (cheap) Swedish Jeans is that the sizes vary dramatically, just as well I tried them on as either I’d gained two sizes round my waist (I’ve not) or the sizing was a big fat lie. After almost losing a testicle trying to pull them on, I furiously ran back downstairs to select another pair. Flinging the rejected pair at the freshly tidied pile and toppling the stack, I frantically thumbed through a second pile before being confronted by an exasperated shop assistant who, through gritted teeth, politely asked me if I’d found my size at exactly the same moment I laid my hand on the very pair I’d been searching for, right at the bottom of the pile, which I grabbed forcefully. This time the pile of jeans leapt from the table and landed in a varying heaps on the floor. I grunted an apology to her livid face, shot over the changing room, decided they were okay, paid and fled.

They not okay by the way. They’re shit.

After accidentally buying a pair of black leather Converse (I hate those too) I met IC and Mary in Clerkenwell where the latter was pulling hair stunts on the former. By now it was 3pm so we headed for coffee, but ended up in a pub by accident.

The plan was that IC and I were going off for dinner but instead we left the pub, went home and then went back out to the local in Hackney where Saturday ended in gales of laughter and booze.

Sunday, Moto GP, watched Valentino Rossi win the race by the skin of his teeth and then went off to meet IC in the fucking pub who was drinking tea with two friends due off to the bash in Victoria Park. Obviously I had a pint or two and eventually IC joined in. We were back home by 5 feeling merry and I set to work on a fisherman’s pie that we ate at 8 in front of the TV. Sensibly I only had a glass of wine resulting in a hangover free Monday! Go me!

I feel sick.


As you can see, I’ve changed colour. It’s not a tribute to Michael Jackson, it’s more that some of my reader complained that they couldn’t see a fucking thing for about ten minutes after staring at words on here, and it wasn’t just tears mingling with fingernails. The final straw was a comment from Crapsack combined with complications mentioned yesterday with regard to my eyebollocks -oh, you’ll be pleased to know, they’re much worse this morning.

I went out with my bro last night following a day in the office that had me weighing up the advantages of earning a living sucking off dustmen. I arrived in the boozer at 5.30 sharp on account of blatantly leaving the office a bit early, I didn’t feel too bad, either I left when I did or I went at the proper time carrying someone’s head. A pleasant evening passed and ended in a lively conversation about ‘religion,’ the only other notable event was when I informed the barmaid that the jug (dimpled glass) in which she was pouring my beer had been banned by many pubs on account of their propensity to shattered into jugular-severing shards when smashed over someone’s head. The second pint was wordlessly poured into a regular conical glass and she avoided serving or even looking at me for the rest of evening, I assume she thought I was some sort of a sociopath. I have her nipples in my wallet.

I’ve a jam-packed weekend lined up, all of it with IC in Hackney which pleases me immensely. I can’t stand being at Chez Piqued at present, I’m perpetually sizing up all the stuff I have to move thus plopping me in a protracted state of dread, that’s if I do move of course, it’s all gone a bit quiet on the estate agent front again. I’m dread locked.

Chart, tune, nice weekends. Roger, over and, yeah.

30 Reverend And The Makers Silence Is Talking NE 1
29 Jamie T Sticks N’ Stones 30 2
28 The Yeah You’s 15 Minutes 17 5
27 Freemasons Heartbreak Make Me A Dancer 22 7
26 Hollywood Undead Young 26 3
25 Madina Lake Let’s Get Outta Here NE 1
24 Fightstar Never Change 24 4
23 The Doves Winter Hill NE 1
22 Bloc Party One More Chance NE 1
21 The Enemy Sing When You’re In Love 19 5
20 Gallows London Is The Reason 12 6
19 The Twang Barney Rubble 16 3
18 Arctic Monkeys Crying Lightning NE 1
17 Kings Of Leon Notion 14 6
16 Green Day 21 Guns 18 3
15 The Gossip Heavy Cross 10 9
14 Dead Weather Treat Me Like Your Mother 25 2
13 Baddies Holler For My Holiday 7 7
12 Depeche Mode Peace 5 6
11 The Maccabees Can You Give It 11 4
10 Linkin Park New Divide 13 7
9 Blue October Dirt Room 8 8
8 Marmaduke Duke Silhouettes 9 4
7 Shinedown Second Chance 3 8
6 Lacuna Coil Spellbound 15 2
5 Silversun Pickups Panic Switch 6 4
4 The Mars Volta Cotopaxi 20 2
3 Maximo Park Questing Not Coasting 4 5
2 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 1 7
1 Billy Talent Rusted From The Rain 2 5


Yesterday contained two highlights, one was the podcast I did with Swineshead on my return from work, it’ll be up in a few days (don’t worry, I’ll remind you) and the other was a combination of the lasagne I made with a black-as-death comedy show on BBC4 about a geriatric ward, soon to be reviewed on WWM when I’ve got round to writing it.

Of course, yesterday contained a myriad of shitlights. Work is fucking awful, I didn’t drink anything last night and I from the afternoon onwards, following a quick trip to the opticians, was forced to endure a pair of spectacles dating from my 20’s whilst my current frames were handed in to be re-glazed.

My right eye is okay, it’s been getting steadily worse as time passes but its rate of deterioration has been acceptable, indeed, I’ve not needed a new lens for the right eye for nigh on eight years. The left eye is a different matter; apparently I have what is called ‘astigmatism,’ putting it bluntly, instead of being a round shape, my eyeball resembles a fucking egg that is gradually flattening. In terms of ‘being able to see’ this isn’t, for the time being, a problem: when my glasses are off I simply can’t see very well, when my glasses are on I can see ‘normally,’ but when I wear glasses with an old prescription it’s as if my left eye is convulsing in it’s socket trying desperately to get focus and transforming one side of the world into a 1960’s movie-filter employed during close-up shots of the leading lady.

If this isn’t bad enough, when I dropped off my old frames I picked up my new sunglasses with their brand new prescription. Going from the fucked spectacles to the new shades is like suddenly being pissed in one eye. So disorientating is it that I’m having to correct my walking gait to prevent me from going round in one protracted circle. As ridiculous as this sounds, it’s like the left side of my body is being dragged to the ground.

I’m aware that in due course my eye will get used to this new way of seeing, this means that whenever possible I am required to wear the new prescription over the old. Subsequently I’m sat in the office wearing dark glasses and feeling like a complete tool, to add insult to injury, I don’t know what on earth possessed me to select these fucking frames –well I do, they look a bit ‘punk’- but that doesn’t mean it translates well on my stupid beardy face.

I look like a fucking cunt.


I was looking back over some old posts last night having spent a few hours in the pub with Harry, and came to the rather distressing conclusion that this blog used to be quiet good and is now fucking shite. Gone are the days when I’d happily describe a squalid life of heavy drinking, wanking and spending half of Sunday’s hangover with my bowel open like a basking shark’s gob featuring long and graphic descriptions of what subsequently emerged, these day’s it’s all, well, cheery –save the odd rant.

I can only apologise, I suppose this is what gives when you find yourself stepping off the gallows and running off into a meadow full of wildflowers and no wasps. Someone once said they stopped reading this blog (last year) because ‘I wasn’t having enough accidents’ anymore. Even the vague tension brought on by the selling of my London shed has, for the time being at least, ended in a tentative thumbs up. This could all come crashing round my ears but things for the now are okay, good even… apart from work, of course, that remains an abhorrence, a drawn curtain over whatever spark of creativity existed before it occurred to me I’d financially entombed myself. I’ll make no bones about, the reason you’re reading this shit is because it justifies my day, this isn’t an exercise in ego -I mean who really gives a cunts wink what I had for my tea, I don’t- this, dear readers, is a Pressure Valve.

Cool, so I’m going to vituperate now. Today, flagship news programme on Radio4, (worth the license fee on its own if you ask me) has been broadcast for 50 years and from day one it’s featured a slot called ‘Thought for the Day,’ you’ve probably heard of it. Thought for the Day, on at 7.45am everyday save Sunday, is exactly 2.45 minutes of faith-based guff featuring the dulcet tones of Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Hindu, Sikh and Buddhist thinkers. I catch it rarely but when I do I always listen as it opens a gateway into something I don’t subscribe to at all, or know, and on occasion the featured religion can act as a catalyst for something quite nice about the world in which we live, but largely it’s just a load of old bollocks.

To date there has been no place so far for secular or atheist viewpoints but Radio4 controller Mark Damazer has said that the rules for who can speak on Thought for the Day may be up for grabs. I think this is a mistake. For a start having some faith-led numpty waffle on about stuff they believe in is a good enforcer of precisely why one shouldn’t blindly adhere to a conditioning and proscribed existence. But more of a concern is who exactly will replace the antiquated doctrines of the vapid and frankly trite bores that occupy the TFTD slot.

Whilst it’s a given we’ll be subject to lily livered ‘humanists,’ exasperated Darwinists, Dawkinites, lefty do-gooders, we could also be exposed to the screaming guts of creationists, intelligent-designists, Scientologists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Satanists, Zoroastrians, Mormons, Wicca’s, Druids… fuck, anyone with a bloody soap box happy to pontificate about the human condition and how we’re all going to Hell/ Hel/ Diyu/ Anaon/ Uffern/ Pekloo/ Mictlán/ Gimokodan/ Kalichi/ Hetgwauge/ Adlivun/ Metnal/ Jahannam/ Avici/ Naraka/ Shobari Waka/ O le nu’u-o-nonoa or Slough in a handcart.

At least the present line-up of weaklings represent established faiths that wield genuine and, at times, terrifying power over millions. It’s sort of good to know what’s going on, like reading The Sun to see what the majority of the nations are digesting with their Golden Nuggets.


I’ve received some bad news regarding the neck-sticking-out posture I developed on Saturday afternoon regarding my new flat and the selling of my current greasy pad. Essentially, the buyers mortgage broker has ‘disappeared’ chucking the whole fucking sale into jeopardy leaving me swimming in a lake of hot financial shit. Oh, business has dried up too, which is just great… excuse the short post, I need to call Dignitas.


Friday night IC, Dave and I were forced to go to a pub local to Dave in Hackney, he’d just come off shift and his missus was laid up with a migraine. The boozer in question had been recently refurbished and whilst not offensive on the eye was packed full of coke-sniffing little farties in the first flush of the weekend. I went for a pee before we left and, choosing the chod bin over the urinal, was harangued by two little buzzing tits desperate to get into the small room and fix themselves with another serving of Bolivia’s finest. After I’d seen to business I opened the door and was virtually knocked sideways by one of these little characters desperate for privacy. I grabbed him (I was a little pissed and he was shorter than me) and curtly informed him that his fucking moustache was coated in a thick quantity of white powder, without a second to spare his mate leant forward, licked the power off his pal and both disappeared into the toilet giggling like school girls.

On Saturday morning I stuck out my neck and signed the rent agreement to a one-bedroom gaff in Hackney. The reason I’m taking this chance is that the place is great and I’m very fond of Hackney, when I was little I used to go with dad on his rounds to the arched garages and later, I used to hung out there in my early 20’s. Despite being a different place back then it’s always had this natural air of bohemianism about it, a sort of self-awareness and pride that it’s not like any other part of London.

Over the past year I’ve been in Hackney much more than I was almost two decades ago, and whilst parts of it remain as they did, other areas have become knowingly ‘trendy’ and infused with cunts -media types, trustafarian ‘artists’ and ‘musicians,’ promoters abound… the fact that people as described above feel comfortable, almost obliged, to openly indulge in narcotics with impunity is just the sort of crap that make locals and long standing residents roll their eyes in dismay. Nonetheless, even with this sort of nonsense going on, it beats the stultifying dull existence of southwest London and I can’t wait to get out.

On Saturday afternoon after signing off my ass to my new landlord (a decent fellow) I met up with Gerry in a quiet boozer in Shoreditch. We had a happy couple of hours discussing music and family and I left to meet IC in what is now fast becoming a local. Paul and Mary joined us and had a few drinks before going back to IC and Mary’s gaff to play poker. We played until the small hours, I was doing okay for a while until I fucked up on a bluff and lost half my winnings in one shot, IC faired worse and Paul cleared us out. Blast.

Sunday IC and I went for lunchbreakfast by Regents Canal and took on a Bloody Mary with Eggs Benedict (I’m a Benedict addict, yeah) and we accidentally walked past the local and stopped off for a swift half that turned into a longer session as friends popped by to join us. Sunday ended with IC, Mary, Paul and I eating pancakes with that Anvil movie which is funny, sad, moving and fucking marvellous.


I’m off to the fucking dentist in an hour. Obviously I hate the dentist, you can have that, not just because all dentists are weird and hurty but because I view today’s dental surgery as a right royal rip-off? Why? I’ll tell you.

The last time I darkened the doors of a dental surgery it was to get my teeth cleaned by the hygienist, I’d been fairly regular for the past few years so I wasn’t as fussed as when I had my teeth cleaned following a 15 year hiatus in 2003. The hygienist was new and had attitude, a big arse, too much make-up and spoke like a Russian villain -I took an instant disgust to her.

I assumed the position and she commenced the procedure, scraping, buffing, prevaricating and after 25 mins, 5 less than usual, she was done. Ace, maybe I’d judged the fat clown harshly… she then told me to book a second appointment to do the top set.

Sessions with the hygienist are £45 a shot, it’s already a fucking fortune as all they do is take advantage of an inability to see behind ones own teeth and get dirt off. I was less than pleased and vented, explaining that when I arrived following my dental wilderness years my teeth were like that of Wilfred Bramble and I didn’t get charged twice then. So when I booked this time round I demanded that the hygienist did the whole session in one shot or I’d take my gob elsewhere. No problem, I was happily informed. I’m retrospectively hopping.

I’ve a packed weekend ahead including handing over a load of cash to my future landlord and sticking my neck out in terms of completion on the sale of my flat. I stand to lose £1.5 k if, for example, the vendors mortgage lender/surveyor quibble the deal. So, from August the 1st I’ll have both a mortgage and rent to pay, not good.

Sweet Christ it’s Gerry’s chart and a tune. Nice weekends all.

30 Jamie T Sticks N’ Stones NE 1
29 The Manchester Orchestra I’ve Got Friends 17 6
28 Franz Ferdinand Can’t Stop Feeling 30 2
27 Placebo For What It’s Worth 21 10
26 Hollywood Undead Young 28 2
25 Dead Weather Treat Me Like Your Mother NE 1
24 Fightstar Never Change 22 3
23 Enter Shikari Juggernauts 15 8
22 Freemasons Heartbreak Make Me A Dancer 18 6
21 Graham Coxon Sorrow’s Army 11 8
20 The Mars Volta Cotopaxi NE 1
19 The Enemy Sing When You’re In Love 19 4
18 Green Day 21 Guns NE 1
17 The Yeah You’s 15 Minutes 13 4
16 The Twang Barney Rubble 26 2
15 Lacuna Coil Spellbound NE 1
14 Kings Of Leon Notion 12 5
13 Linkin Park New Divide 16 6
12 Gallows London Is The Reason 9 5
11 The Maccabees Can You Give It 20 3
10 The Gossip Heavy Cross 8 8
9 Marmaduke Duke Silhouettes 14 3
8 Blue October Dirt Room 7 7
7 Baddies Holler For My Holiday 5 6
6 Silversun Pickups Panic Switch 10 3
5 Depeche Mode Peace 6 5
4 Maximo Park Questing Not Coasting 4 4
3 Shinedown Second Chance 2 7
2 Billy Talent Rusted From The Rain 3 4
1 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 1 6


Aaah, the voice of tolerance and moderation has spoken, sorry; the grunt of a fucking pimple-brained nazi has rung out in the European media reddening the face of all but a handful of bull-necked townies.

Nick Griffin isn’t known for his powers of oration, problematic when you’re setting out your stall for fascist dictation, but even by his standards yesterdays little nugget of horror was as ill-conceived as operating a toaster in the bath.

Just in case you missed it, sadly it wasn’t given the attention it deserved, the MEP for the North-West of England (god help us all) said the EU had to get ‘very tough’ with migrants from sub-Saharan Africa. How Nick? What do you propose? Can I have some more jelly? His reply, “Sink boats carrying illegal immigrants to prevent them entering Europe.”

Cue retard clapping and honking. The stunned interviewer, BBC Correspondent Shirin Wheeler, said, “I don’t think the EU is in the business of murdering people at sea.” If he’d said something like “well fuck that, this country is full, if they’re going to try and enter illegally we’ll do anything at our disposal to stop ‘em, the black bastards,” at least he couldn’t be accused of dishonesty via a maintenance of his warped polemic. But he didn’t do that.

Remembering the new ‘hey guys, the BNP aren’t nazis!’ policy adopted a few months ago, little Nicky got on his tiny bicycle (with stabilisers, spokey dokeys, bell-end horn and plastic SS flag) and pedalled back as fast as his stubby little legs would allow. “Oh No!” he squealed, “I didn’t say anyone should be murdered at sea! I say boats should be sunk, they can throw them a life raft and they can go back to Libya!”

Yes, Nick. After being sunk, injury free of course, simply throw them a life raft, easily thrown as we all know, we’ve all done that, thrown fucking life rafts you toggle, and they’ll just happily go back to Libya. Can I have some ice cream now, please? Raspberry Ripple, and a balloon. Goody gum drops.

It would seem that Nick Griffin isn’t just despised by virtually anyone with an IQ over 10, even the French National Front Lega Nord want nothing to do with him, and being turned down by them is akin to a premiership footballer failing to get into Danielle Lloyds Y-fronts.



ONG!! MICHASEL JACXSON IS DED. For FUCK sake, now the kiddy fiddling race traitor has been planted I hope that’s the last of all this nonsense. Look, I was never a Jackson fan anyway, I mean he clearly had talent but I’m afraid all the nonce stuff put me off. I feel similarly towards Gary Glitter who at least had the decency not to black up.

Obviously I didn’t see the memorial concert, I value the tripe in my stomach too much, but I did hear his daughter on the end of the hourly news broadcast on Radio 4 trying to hold it together (and failing) as she spoke about her Daddy describing him as the “the best father you could ever imagine.”

Really? I’m afraid I have to take issue with this as young Paris (and this isn’t her fault by the way so I’m not directing this at her) is a Jackson product. Jackson ‘married’ Debbie Rowe, the nurse of his dermatologist 1996, she bore him three children (rumoured to be artificially inseminated, and if you’ve seen the state of Ms. Rowe, who is far away from pop star totty as I am to the Mariana Trench, I can’t hold that against him) and three years later filed for divorce, but in an out-of-court settlement surrendered her parental rights and received millions and millions of bucks.

It’s also come to light that the kids didn’t know Ms. Rowe was their mum until recently, and in the light of Jackson’s death, Ms. Rowe doesn’t know if she’s going to pursue custody of her own fucking kids who are currently in the care of Jackson’s mother… this isn’t normal is it? Bearing all this in mind the quote of last nights tacky crane-necking has to go to civil rights leader the Reverend Al Sharpton who turned towards MJ’s children and said, “there weren’t nothing strange about your daddy.”

Turning back to me now, I had weird dreams about Russell Brand who berated me for not being a vegetarian before taking me back to his room via a lift that travelled horizontally round a vast Georgian hotel, I was then showered with gifts wrapped in pages from the Hackney Gazette.

I’m cancelling the Wednesday list, it’s getting too disgusting and I fear, despite editing, attracting people with similar peccadillos to MJ.

NOW. Go to WWM and click on the ‘DownTuned’ link (up at the top) and read an article about Throbbing Gristle, then pop back and see today’s vid, it’s badly shot but the sound is good and sort of explains the gaps left in my appalling stab at music journalism.


Not content with having a president who likes to be beaten by hookers dressed as Waffen SS, and whose father was an actual fascist, now the CEO of the FIA, Bernie Ecclestone, has declared that ‘Hitler… got things done,’ when enthusing about the totalitarian way Formula One is governed.

It’s more of an immature thing to say than actually offensive because he’s technically right. Hitler got the economy going after WW1 by preparing munitions for war, he invaded Poland, Denmark and Norway, occupied Holland and Belgium and bombed the heart of London, he built roads and cars, rallied his own people and he managed to exterminate innocent children women and men on a mind numbing scale and this is why Hitler is an unimaginably insensitive and ridiculous leader to cite.

But Ecclestone didn’t actually say, ‘Hitler got things done.’ He said, “In a lot of ways, terrible to say this I suppose, but apart from the fact that Hitler got taken away and persuaded to do things that I have no idea whether he wanted to do or not, he was in the way that he could command a lot of people, able to get things done.”
The press have plucked out ‘Hitler… got things done,’ and left out the part which, in my considered and measured opinion, should see him reduced to the status of car park attendant.

It seems to me that Ecclestone is excusing Hitler for the Holocaust, that he was ‘persuaded to do things that I have no idea he wanted to do or not.’ Like it wasn’t his fault really, it was ‘others.’

Dismissing this monsters responsibility for the deaths of millions of innocents in the most appalling ways available to the human psyche is the part I find deeply disturbing.


I’ve fucking burnt myself. It hurts, a lot. And it’s not my fault, I wasn’t courting the sun, I’m not one of those simpletons who feels compelled to lie down, flesh out, and expose their organs to a perpetual nuclear assault. I can’t remember the last time this happened, it certainly would’ve been accidental as in this instance but I would’ve recalled the pain sufficiently to date my last encounter with The Hot One, this means that I’ve burnt myself worse than anytime in my history, fucking ‘ouch,’ yeah.

The weekend began very suddenly when Jamie appeared at my soon-to-not-be-gaff and we instantly fucked off on the tube to Clapham Common and made out way to a pub facing the common (it has a discreet roof terrace largely free of the arseholes that frequent that part of London.)

After almost planting an entire pint of beer on my front cock and bag when I sat down on a broken seat, Jamie and I settled down in the warm sunshine and caught up. Frank joined us and we remained outside until cooler air forced us down into the belly of the hostelry where we were joined first by James and then Rob with his missus in tow. Things get a bit vague here on in, at some point Jamie, Frank and I went home via the Lebanese Café for a shawarma, I do recall that it was fucking lovely, and then we went back to mine and made a load of noise, because I’m leaving and I don’t give a fuck, or rather, I didn’t then. Frank left and Jamie played guitar (he’s very good by the way, unlike that knuckle-dragging horror of connective tissue and gristle that survives below me on rudimentary mental facilities) and I woke up at 4 am on my couch with the day starting.

Jamie left the following morning and I remained asleep for a while before succumbing to my weekend. I was extremely aware that IC was away and was determined to make the best of my circumstance, perhaps even celebrate what may be the final Saturday I spend alone in chez Piqued? So I did some sewing. Not sure how this happened but I find sewing therapeutic, I like it enough to have a college qualification in textiles, which is basically posh-sewing. I shoved on The Iron Giant (someone said it was good, it’s fucking brilliant!) and made good a pair of IC’s jeans that I’d volunteered to repair. Feeling very homely with myself I decided to spurn the world and after visiting the shops for a paper and milk shut myself in for the rest of the afternoon and evening that revolved both happily and fractiously around the ongoing issues with the tattoo-to-be. I ate, watched a thrilling but completely shit movie, and sank a bottle of wine, all the while pondering the bloody ink design. It’s coming on nicely now you’ll be delighted to hear.

Sunday I was out by 10.30 the Black Bitch and I flew to the folks. My niece is now talking and it seems this has helped her overcome her fear of Uncle Nasty. Dad and I drove to Brands Hatch in his beautifully restored 1972 MGB, he bought it for a song a few years ago and has spent a great deal of time fiddling with her private parts, it’s now immaculate and best of all, convertible.

I should imagine this latter point heralded the beginnings of my burning. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, perfect to be in open-top British Sportscar, we burbled happily there in under an hour and arrived in time for the first race, classic Formula 2 which isn’t really my bag, bit too processional. The Supersport race that followed was fantastic though, massive 5000cc cars that are louder than Motorhead at 5 feet inspiring goosebumps and envy at not being given the chance of a go. All the while I’m outside in a vest with the sun beating down on me.

The Historic Formula 1 race was a bit of an anti climax though I did get to see the sublime Lotus once driven by Nigel Mansell screaming through druids, but the biggest pisser of all was The Orwell series, 8000cc Supercars and the race dad and I were looking forward to the most.

The cars look stunning, almost cliché-macho but achingly beautiful with voices to match, a sweet screaming rumble that lasted for 2 laps before a French driver planted his BRM (possibly the only one left in the world ) into a tyre wall at 140 mph. The resulting delay signified the worst; no news of someone’s condition is bad news as it’s the protocol when a fatality occurs. Dad and I couldn’t see what had happened as it was in the entrance to paddock on the far side of the circuit but we knew he’d hit the wall with such force only the two rear two wheels were in daylight. He’d also collected a Chevron driven by a Japanese fellow who’d flown all the way from Tokyo to enjoy one lap before having his pride and joy smashed up like an egg.

After almost an hour and the excellent news Frenchie was conscious and talking, the race resumed. This time, on the first lap, a chap in his heart breaking Lola got out of shape at Clearways and smacked both the nearside tyres into his chassis and wound up crunched and steaming right in front of us. It was a dismal sight, the proud, brutal machine slumped awkwardly from which the driver alighted shaken and devastated at not only killing the race but the thousands of pounds worth of damage accrued subsequently. And that was end of that; they didn’t run them again due to time. Blast and shit.

The 70’s saloons that followed went some went to making up for it, Imps, Coopers, Jags, Anglias, Cortinas, all in full race spec sliding and buzzing over the track… by now I’d the vaguest inkling that I’d taken on too much sun, it was getting late but the warm sunshine maintained it’s fiery gaze. Dad and I left and headed home after 5-ish, the roads were clear for a Sunday and we sat digesting the day with the Kent countryside framing our passage. Back at the folks I grabbed the Black Bitch and returned to my gaff after a brief stop at Tesco to collect some ingredients for something Italian to eat, I had a craving that had to be satisfied.

After an agonising bath and a spot of culinary know-how, I ate spaghetti and meatballs in a sensational tomato sauce watching Top Gear, did a spot on the Tat and watched the Moto GP. By now I was Ducati-red and regretting ‘what?! Fuck that!’ to dad’s suggestion I stick on some sun block… still, it wasn’t my fault I got burnt was it? No, any fool can see that.


The big news isn’t really big news at all, well it is to me, it’s huge news. Essentially, I’ve found somewhere to live in ‘Ackney. In addition to it being cheaper than I’d hoped there is a small gated garden where I can safely park my black bitch bike and it’s in the same block as IC. I went and saw it last night and apart from a few very minor niggles (it’s not enormous and the bedroom is sans windows) it’s perfect.

There is one hiccup in all this mind, I’ve sold my flat, sure, but I don’t know when the fucking sale will be completed. The gaff in ‘Ackney is free in 3 weeks and I have to grab it now, so I may be in the ridiculous situation of being Piqued-Two-Gaffs for a couple of weeks with the chance that the sale on my flat might fall over on it’s botty and I’ll wind up losing a bleedin’ monkey in dead rent. Strike a ruddy light.

After I posted yesterdays sweat infused bile I went back on the tube to get my passport from Victoria. Ignore what I said yesterday about the tube being preferable to outside, by 2pm it was diabolical, I was like a joint of beef running clear juices though, unlike brisket, muttering and sneezing from the perpetual hay fever I’ve had since Monday, and still have as I drip over this keyboard.

I arrived at the passport of office and was sent to a window containing a fucking weirdo. The guy was enormous, huge, but spoke like a 6 year old girl with a lisp and took, it seemed, a great deal of pleasure in extending the last word of any given sentence. He pronounced my surname for about 10 seconds looking directly in my eye, this caused me to snigger so he snapped, ‘what’s so funnnneeeoi,’ which served to perpetuate my stifled guffaws. My only option was to lie and said he had pronounced my name wrong, he stormed off to get my passport then returned to examine the finished article and my face with such contorted concentration I lost my composure again. I was curtly informed to keep a straight face so he could make sure he was giving the passport to the real owner and then stared at me so intently for about a minute my fucking blood ran cold. It was harrowfying, all my laughter extinguished by what I can only describe as sheer menace.

Feeling frankly violated I shuddered off to get the tube back home, I was too traumatised to make it back to the office, I took a bath and set off at 5.30 pm for my final tube excursion. By the time I arrived at Old Street I was wetter than Kenneth Williams and the sheer heat of the evening did nothing to help.

The 55 turned up late as usual, my heart sank when I saw that it was sardine-packed, a couple of people got off and the doors opened so I could get on. A wall of heat struck me in the chest; it must have been almost 100 degrees in there. The driver looked at me with an expression reserved for a chap at peace with his impending execution, I think he was out of his mind. A forest of elbows and knees erupted as the blob of passengers tried to preserve what space they had forcing me to stand by the driver who on any other day would’ve barked at me to move further down the bus, instead he looked at me and smiled weakly.

Due to the traffic I was like this for half an hour, mercy came at Shoreditch church where half the bus emptied and I was able to get a seat upstairs. It was only then I realised the fucking heating was on.

After calming down at IC’s for an hour as she packed, we went to visit my new (?) flat at the bottom of her block before nipping out for cheap cocktails and bar snacks at a local. Lovely it was. It was still 20 degrees when we got home; actually, if it wasn’t for a spot of booze I’ve no idea how on earth I’d have slept. Thanks booze.

Right, I’ve a weekend without IC, and you know what that means lads, eh?! That’s right! When the cats away get depressed and drink wine on your own. Actually I’m saving that for Saturday. Tonight meeting with some mates in Clapham and Sunday Dad and I going to Brands Hatch to watch overgrown children drive very fast. Chart, (gorgeous) tune and may your weekends be free of maggots.

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


This morning I had to get on a fucking tube train at 8.30. It was already like Egypt when I left my flat so the walk to the station was undertaken with a fair amount of trepidation… No, that’s not quite right, I had a mole at the counter.

Bizarrely, despite being air con free, it wasn’t to bad, possibly because I was expecting to step into a dog meat tagine, in fact it was preferable to stepping out of Victoria station some 30 mins later where the heat hit me like a wall, reminding me of alighting the plane at, well, Egypt.

At Victoria I grabbed an espresso in a café and walked to the passport office. I’d been given an allocated time but despite this warned that ‘my appointment time is not unique as more than one counter will be in operation.’ For the second time that day my expectations were dashed, the throngs of bustling, shouting travellers and a 2 hour queue were exchanged for a mere 3 minute wait and instant service. Just as well I’d gone in person as my cunting passport photos were no good, again. I’d already taken a ‘just in case’ set but as I’d had to get a friend to countersign the back of the photos they were unusable due to the signature being visible (apparently) on the image. Even more hair shreddingly annoying, I was told the countersignature wasn’t necessary.

After getting another set of photos taken I finally got the all clear, paid and then took the tube back to the office via Southfields where lots of arseholes with buck teeth and boaters were hanging about Wimbledon Tennis Courts. I’m due back on the same dismal route to Victoria later to collect my passport. I’m good though, just had some life-changing news which, should it come to pass as it were, will be broadcast here tomorrow.

Who’d have thought Molly Sugden and Karl Malden would be forever associated? But thanks to the icy hand of death, it is so. Both made their curtain call yesterday and another part of childhood is nibbled at by the worm of time. Bloody shame, I liked them both… actually, maybe the association goes beyond their timely passing as she was always harping on about her ‘pussy’ and he had a nose like a fucking cock.

You should recognise the bloke on bass, he had two mates, these days one fronts a famed rock band and the other is an icon, the latter often seen wearing this bands tee shirt…