jeenz

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.