Monthly Archives: August 2009


Yesterday evening Harry, my bro and I were drinking in a pub round the corner from my old place in Clapham North. As I sat there wiping my brain of immediate concerns I pondered my location with regard to my inevitable (if not entirely smooth) transition to Hackney and attempted to imbue some sort of pre-nostalgia into my soul about finally leaving the wrong side of the river. Something stirred, I needed a piss.

Later, a few pints hanging over my belt, the conversation turned to curry and I mentioned the place by the bridge on Clapham High Street, it’s sort of like a buffet style set-up and it’s been there for years, indeed when I first moved to Clapham some 13 odd years ago it was one of the first local takeaways I’d sampled… I then realised that I sort of missed Clapham, the more I considered this the more my hatred for my current location increased.

When I got home Cunts dad (who in fairness to him isn’t a bad bloke) had dropped off most of the information required to see the beginning of the end of the sale of my poxy dump in sarf Landan. Joy! I watched 10 Rillington Place (it’s excellent) and went to bed feeling lighter…

At 6.30 this morning my mobile went off. It was a delivery of a bunch of flat packed cardboard boxes, which I ordered yesterday at work. I have to say I’d completely forgotten about them and despite a mild hangover and the proximity of the morning they were received with unmitigated cheer. I began packing instantly.

Optimism is creeping in; there are a few issues with the solicitors that need ironing out but… I’ll stop, I don’t want to tempt fate.

I’ve a packed (no pun intended) weekend on the horizon; I intend to spend virtually all of it in my desired dwelling. Here’s Gerry’s chart and tune. Again, to remind you, Piqued is now on reduced service but that doesn’t mean I can’t wish you all luxurious long weekends does it? No.

30 Madina Lake Let’s Get Outta Here 20 7
29 Florence And The Machine The Drumming Song 30 2
28 Blue October Dirt Room 23 14
27 The Gossip Love Long Distance NE 1
26 Friendly Fires Kiss Of Life 29 2
25 Lacuna Coil Spellbound 17 8
24 Green Day 21 Guns 15 9
23 The Used Blood On My Hands 28 2
22 The Temper Trap Sweet Disposition 21 3
21 Billy Talent Rusted From The Rain 13 11
20 Europe Last Look At Eden 24 2
19 The xx Crystallized NE 1
18 The Cribs Cheat On Me 25 3
17 Jet She’s A Genius 18 3
16 Enter Shikari No Sleep Tonight 14 4
15 Dead Weather Treat Me Like Your Mother 7 8
14 Gallows I Dread The Night 16 2
13 Arctic Monkeys Crying Lightning 10 7
12 Paramore Ignorance 19 2
11 Preston Dressed To Kill 9 6
10 The Ian Carey Project Get Shaky 12 5
9 Pearl Jam The Fixer 11 3
8 The Prodigy Take Me To The Hospital 6 5
7 Ian Brown Stellify NE 1
6 The Mars Volta Cotopaxi 3 8
5 Kasabian Where Did All The Love Go? 4 6
4 Muse Uprising 5 4
3 Skunk Anansie Because Of You 8 2
2 Placebo The Never-Ending Why 2 4
1 Biffy Clyro That Golden Rule 1 6


Solicitors are on my back like Quasimodo’s hunch. They’re calling me virtually every hour asking a series of fucking to questions to which they have answers, answers I supplied to the cunts almost 6 months ago when I put my sodding flat on the market. Being solicitors every minutiae is recorded and despatched by post no doubt incurring a fee akin to the national debt of Zimbabwe. Making it worse they’re treating me like I’ve the mental age of 7 after being run over by a Dial-a-Ride bus and have this almost accusatory tone that somehow this delay in completion is my fault. But the fucking limit is their asking me to do their job. I’ll keep this short, Cunts dad has some paperwork I need, despite them having full access to all the relevant details it’s, apparently, my ‘responsibility’ to chase it up. The upshot of this means I was forced to knock on Cunts door and ask him for his dads phone number and harangue him for various details and documents that, as I speak, are delaying absolutely everything.

I can’t relax, focus on anything. Even writing this requires my concentration to burn through a miasma of paperwork, packing duties, phone calls, I feel effectively homeless as I’m torn between 3 points of accommodation, IC’s gaff, my Hackney flat and the current hell-hole I’m trying to rid myself of. It’s totally hideous and entirely confusing.

It’s not as if my diary isn’t clear either, Tuesday evening IC and I went to The Royal Albert Hall to see Michael Nyman. It was jolly good but as it didn’t start until 10.15 so we didn’t get home until some time before 1 am, though fortunately the late start allowed us to have dinner in Kensington before the concert started. It was a glorious evening offering some time-out from the brainstorm but I could’ve done without the subsequent lack of sleep. Last night Bob was in town and following some unnecessarily complicated arrangements we (Bob, bro, Frank and Jamie) met at a boozer in Clapham and swallowed beer until cheerfully pissed. Again, the late one hasn’t done me any favours and tonight I’m meeting my bro for more of the same. This weekend it’s James’ 40th, IC has some friends saying at hers who require entertaining, work is fucking shit, I’m still tired, stressed beyond belief…

…and I just spilt fucking coffee all over my nuts.


Early Friday evening I was on the tube heading East, the carriages were notably un-crowded but something was niggling me… to be frank, most things were niggling me, the largest of them resulting from an earlier conversation with my solicitor in which I was informed my purchaser solicitors had only just been in contact and that my flat technically didn’t exist voiding all the searches undertaken to date –I’d best not go into detail as office colleagues faces may come to harm. I will say this, as a direct result of this Piqued will be sporadic until the matter is resolved.

With all this crashing about me there was still something else causing concern, I couldn’t place it until, at Stockwell, I glanced up to count my stops, despite knowing perfectly well how many I had, and spotted ‘Oval.’ A tiny light flickered on, Oval… Oval… oh shit. Cricket fans.

Unlike the football sort who have a tendency to be louder, more earthy types, the cricket fan is more inclined to be of a certain age, well-to-do and reeking of farts. They were all, almost without fail, quietly pissed stupid. Some slept as they stood, others lay slumped in seats heads lolling intrusively into the laps of commuters heading home for the weekend, one lay face down on the floor for an entire stop before alighting at Kennigton to indiscreetly vomit red wine over the platform. By the time I reached Old Street most had evaporated in a cloud of foul air, I boarded the bus and headed to my increasingly fraught gaff in Hackney, unpacked a few things and headed upstairs to meet IC and Patty to start the weekend.

After venting my spleen about the flat situation we settled down to a long funny night that included the arrival of another pal, stinking cheese, salmon, home produced limoncello (unfortunately Moorish and lethal) and lashing of ginger b… I mean Cava and a hilarious tale from Patty about a Sicilian Police officer who, after seeing her and a female pal on a chap’s scooter (3 at once all arseholed) late one evening flagged them down. Patty and her mate legged it leaving the scooterist to face the copper alone, but before the police officer could open his mouth the cheeky bastard on the Vespa dressed down the officer for losing him a prize catch of two submissive females where upon the office apologised and waved him on!

When Saturday finally began I was feeling the worse for wear, undeterred I went down to my flat following a short shopping spree and made life-saving bacon and eggs which I ate in my fucking garden in the cunting sunshine. At 3 o clock I set off to Hoxton, IC was already in town with a pal and we’d arranged to meet Gerry to celebrate his forthcoming nuptials with the mother of his nippers. We were joined by my bro, and finally IC, and passed a happy few hours in a virtually empty boozer catching up. I decided it was wise to drink shandy, then felt it wiser to drink it without the lemonade.

Gerry and my bro went at 6 and IC and I took the bus back to what has most certainly become our local by Hackney Empire. This wasn’t a particularly good idea after the previous 24 hours indulgencies so we curtailed our stay and were home by 9 where IC and I spent a good while playing cards in my flat (?) To add insult to injury we were invited to a Barbeque at Og’s gaff the following afternoon that instantly began with Pimms… it was a ludicrously hot, about 20 people installed on a huge roof with view right across London. Lovely. Og and Mary had spent hours preparing numerous kebabs that were cooked over 6 barbeques as conversation and drinks flowed seamlessly. I spent a great deal of time chatting to a DJ chap whose views on music were diametrically opposed to mine, but we found common ground of sorts with Gary Numan of all people and I rested my case by informing him that Rick Rubin, formerly of Def Jam, now produces Slayer albums…

At 6 it was most certainly time to leave, the chasm of the working week had begun to open and there was fuck-all we could do about it. Back at IC’s we watched a movie (The Hide, it’s very good btw) and ate a goat’s cheese and roasted vegetable pie. I hate that part of Sunday, just before you sleep, the furthest point from the following Friday when things inevitably improve. Oh well, back to it as they say. I’m resigned to spend the forthcoming week fretting about the sale of shit ‘ol in Tooting.


the price

According to Popbitch, Jordan (reeel name kATiE PrIss) and Peter Andrews, have inked a deal with Atlantic Records for an Xmas reunion single. How cynical is that? I mean really, who’d believe that Jordens (rel nym Kytee PriCk ) who would do such a thing? Well, me.

I’m no misogynist, the opposite in fact, but this vile creature is enough to turn Germane Greer into Ron Atkinson. She’d do quite literally anything to shove herself into the spotlight to generate revenue for her parched little hands. Her latest business deal with Andre is the current of a long line of atrocities that have ensured she remains firmly in the public eye; she’s a fucking phenomenon whichever way you look at it. There is nothing you or I or anyone can do about that now.

It began, as well we all know, by Jordan -not Katie Price, KP doesn’t do that sort of thing- getting her tits out. I suppose the whole ‘Jordan/Katie Price’ playoff thing could be seen as some sort of stroke of brilliance, really? Most pornstars use monikers (Price is sort of one of those too –if you consider watching a vaguely angry lead with a face like a convicts boxing glove peering over two spacehoppers gormlessly shoving a kango hammer into its enormous mimsy ‘porn.’)

Fake Tits, that’s her business acumen, there’s nothing else, but somehow she’s become a role model for impressionable young girls who see this sort of a thing as ‘female empowerment’ and genuinely believe she’s a ‘businesswoman.’

She’s not, she got her tits out and then she had surgery on them, all the while courting the gutter press because she was prepared to allow the fucking paparazzi unlimited access to her private life. But even the press gets bored of this sort of carry-on and just as there was a chance she’d slip off into anonymity she gives birth to a handicapped child off some footballer.

Despite bare faced evidence of her drinking throughout her pregnancy and somehow surviving the subsequent accusations that she may have been somehow involved in her child’s disability, she PR’d herself to a ‘woe is me’ single mum and exploited the shit out of it via the unfortunate kid… but the press began to dwindle so she abandoned junior and fucked off to the jungle for a month.

I’m a Celebrity shoved her back into the spotlight with a new catalyst in the form of useless 80’s singer Peter Andre. This ‘romance’ spawned endless press and TV shows that marketed ‘biographies,’ perfumes, clothing ranges, ghost-written novels… more accessory kids she never saw, especially the disabled one, she was perpetually in the press prepared to hawk out what ever rot to keep those cash tills rolling. Then her and Pete split… so guess what? She fucked off on holiday and got her tits out with her new ‘fella’ a cage fighter who, according to the orange monotone twat, “[is] absolutely gorgeous so if anyone thinks he’s ugly they should look closely because he’s properly fit.”

Businesswoman, mother, novelist, model… or just a manipulative sex worker. I for one won’t be looking forward to the single.

Enough of this rant! Despite domestic issues I’m in reasonable cheer. I’ve a splendid weekend with IC, which includes an impromptu stag do with Gerry (his chart follows) a BBQ and spending some time in my soon (Sweet Christ, soon) flat in East London. Maybe next week I can move there?

Splendid weekends, yes. Welcome back Skunk Anansie…

30 Florence And The Machine The Drumming Song NE 1
29 Friendly Fires Kiss Of Life NE 1
28 The Used Blood On My Hands NE 1
27 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 17 12
26 Bloc Party One More Chance 18 6
25 The Cribs Cheat On Me 29 2
24 Europe Last Look At Eden NE 1
23 Blue October Dirt Room 20 13
22 The Doves Winter Hill 13 6
21 The Temper Trap Sweet Disposition 21 2
20 Madina Lake Let’s Get Outta Here 14 6
19 Paramore Ignorance NE 1
18 Jet She’s A Genius 23 2
17 Lacuna Coil Spellbound 11 7
16 Gallows I Dread The Night NE 1
15 Green Day 21 Guns 10 8
14 Enter Shikari No Sleep Tonight 16 3
13 Billy Talent Rusted From The Rain 8 10
12 The Ian Carey Project Get Shaky 15 4
11 Pearl Jam The Fixer 19 2
10 Arctic Monkeys Crying Lightning 7 6
9 Preston Dressed To Kill 12 5
8 Skunk Anansie Because Of You NE 1
7 Dead Weather Treat Me Like Your Mother 4 7
6 The Prodigy Take Me To The Hospital 6 4
5 Muse Uprising 9 3
4 Kasabian Where Did All The Love Go? 5 5
3 The Mars Volta Cotopaxi 2 7
2 Placebo The Never-Ending Why 3 3
1 Biffy Clyro That Golden Rule 1 5


An interesting item in the news caught my brains today. A Mr. Neil Hill, 56, hanged himself after receiving a £3000 legal bill because he lost a court case for rent rises. £3000 is a large but not entirely insurmountable figure (though, in fairness, it’s more than enough to cause a few sleepless nights, especially if you’re unemployed/in debt –not that I know if this was the case with Mr. Hill) but hardly worth topping yourself over, particularly when we learn the bill was an estimate of the costs he’d have to pay, not the final bill that the beak himself said would be priced with consideration to Mr. Hill’s means.

So we’ve established already that Mr. Hill was either a hysterical pessimist, a bit of a thicky, or perhaps, perhaps… Perhaps if I tell you that after receiving the ‘bill’ (which we’ve established was an estimate prior to being means tested) he emailed his solicitors with the following, “By the time you receive this I will be dead, having committed suicide. I hope you feel very proud of yourselves. Before you send another poor old person a bill for £3,000 please think of the consequences.”

For a kick off 56 isn’t ‘old’ and the smug tone he adopts whiles attempting to sabotage the conscience of his creditors displays nothing but bloody-minded vindictiveness. Let’s also not forget that the reason Mr. Hill wound up facing solicitor fees was due a “fundamentally flawed, entirely without merit” case against Salford Council for a slight rent raise. Had Mr. Hill hot heard of no win, no fee? Perhaps he’d tried them first and they’d laughed in his round fat red face but, despite suggesting there was more chance of The Queen farting The National Anthem on Christmas Day than him winning, he’d gone ahead anyway.

So there he was, like an arrogant child punching itself in the head to punish its mother after she’d asked him to tidy his room, Mr. Hill went and stuck his head in a noose. A statement released to his family by the solicitors read, “It has been genuinely shocking and saddening and we really do extend our sincere condolences and sympathies.”

Fuck that. This world can do without people like Mr Hill. And may these words serve to underline his vile stupidity. “Even if an order had been made it would not necessarily be made in the amount claimed in the statement or necessarily been enforced having regard to the circumstances of Mr Hill. Regrettably he took a mistaken view of the law.”

What a prick! And this is coming from a bloke whose life is being made intolerable by solicitors at the moment with reference to the selling of his hole in Tooting.

I’m in an appalling mood this morning. You probably are now so here’s a special treat taken from BBC4’s Cowards…


Nothing in here today of note. Seriously, fuck off unless you like bikes.

I had an epiphany moment last night and as a direct result I’m hangover, exhausted and absurdly thrilled.

I was checking some bikes online yesterday and ruling out the ones that were impractical -goodbye Ducati, R1’s, Z’s, GSX, CBR- leaving me with two main contenders. Either a newer version of The Black Bitch or a KTM Superduke, a sort of hybrid street/moto-x machine which looks nice and ticks all the practicality boxes. In essence, it’s the right bike and more suited for my regular sojourns round town whilst able to make me smile in the countryside, even if my trips there are infrequent these days

But I wasn’t happy, KTM are Austrian and the thought of going from a British Bike to an Austrian one just isn’t right is it? No. Hitler, Lederhosen, shit beer vs Churchill, bowler hats and nutty brown ale, my fucking grandparents would be spinning in their graves… I continued to check it out online, actually they may well look good, handle well but they sound like a wet-farting schwein-weibchen. Fuck that!

It was late and I was youtubing like a fucking twat. I’d been watching a Wallander, Swedish cop drama when a light came on. A childhood memory walked in, back in the day when I used to do motocross before the accident that bust my back and blew my nerve. I googled feverishly, I knew when I saw it I’d know… And there she was…

Look at these IDIOTS!! (hurrah)


I had to get some brake fluid into work this morning. And a brake bleeding ‘kit’ (a pipe, basically.) Brakes require bleeding when air gets into the system, which can happen as a result of frenetic braking (riding through the city) combined with/and/or excessive vibration (riding through the city, particularly bus lanes which have more holes in them than the argument for the coalition led invasion of Iraq with regard to the weapons of mass destruction supposedly held by Saddam Hussein resulting in the death of thousands which, to date, has seen all the protagonists involved in what amounts as a murderous oil-field-mugging not only escape any form of punitive justice but amass piles and piles of fucking mullah, the fucking cunts) causing spongy brakes.

The Black Bitch is at that difficult age where things start to go awry. To be frank it’s had a relatively easy life despite the odd thrashing but too-ing and fro-ing through the city everyday (which will be the norm when I do finally move, for fucks sake) is the worst-case scenario for any machine, let alone that aged lady of mine. At the moment she is worth a few grand but if I’m not careful I’m going to wind up with a worthless black lump. Yet another worry to pile on top of my frazzled brain.

I did fuck all yesterday and in the evening save eat, watch TV and sleep. All I can think about is packing, unpacking and sorting out loads of bloody things out relevant to packing and unpacking, all the while the big ‘it might not happen’ caveat pops up and pisses debt and credit card terror into proceedings. It’s a fucking riot.


Friday, lunchtime. My bike alarm suddenly goes off outside the office. Sensing the worse I belt outside to find my bike horizontal with my colleagues motorcycle on top and a lorry driver wringing his hands, eyes like headlamps. Shitting it.

I can’t contain my horror, seeing my naturally vertical Black Bitch reclining in such a way sends waves of shock through my system causing swears of astonishment to come out of the top. The lorry driver holds his hands up and chants a mantra of apology as my larger and more menacing colleague appears out of the gloom and joins in my chorus of disbelief. The lorry driver looks as if he may cry.

He’s gone and clipped the rear of my colleague’s bike in a 16-wheel lorry pushing it over onto mine which in turn has fallen, like very expensive dominoes and much less fun. My colleagues brake lever and mirror have been severed, the former component is pocking out my front mudguard but, to my incredulous mouth, my bike hasn’t fallen completely flat due to the handlebars making contact with a wooden door subsequently saving my indicators, mirrors, levers and paintwork. Small comfort, enough to take the edge of the dread and allow pragmatism to take over.

We pry the bikes apart and return them to their upright position. My mudguard had a crack in it, a new one is about £300 but as it’s not in a stress point and easily coverable with paint I let it go. I couldn’t be pissed with the sheer hassle of it; I’ve enough on my plate at the moment with regard to my domestic situation. The lorry driver offered to get the components for my colleague’s bike and set off muttering a flurry of apology. He was back an hour later, I fitted the new components and tried to put the awful image of seeing my pride and joy decked out on the concrete.

5 pm Friday, I shot over to Hackney from fucking work in under 40 minutes with another pannier of stuff for my (new?) flat. I hastily showered, changed and set off in the sunshine to meet an old mate down from up t’North with his missus and boy, Pirate, in tow. We were joined by Rosh, Merve and IC, of course, and set about catching up as Pirate drew felt tip squiggles over our hands and arms. Following a few ales and much giggling IC and I went back to my (new?) flat and there we stayed until the morning. I’d been trying to avoid sleeping in there as I was unwilling to tempt fate and extend the psychological connection, which I’ve done. Bollocks.

Saturday morning, more shopping for the flat (fuck-it, it’s too late now) and lunch at IC’s before we headed off to Bow via Victoria Park for a walk in the hot afternoon sunshine. The park is beautiful, incidentally, a real relic of Victoriana, apparently Queen Vic herself was instrumental in its making after a report suggested that such a space in the East-End of London would be good for the general health of its residence… from one queen to a pair, we arrived a party run by a couple of splendid chaps at 5-ish and indulged ourselves in the free-flowing supply of Prosecco and shifting tide of guests, 4 hours later both IC and we were nicely sozzled and figured it was time to go home, which we did via the pub, like idiots.

Sunday, hangover. Despite this IC, Mary and I made our way slowly to Columbia Road. IC and Mary seem to know virtually everyone and the journey there and back was laboured by having to stop quite literally every 5 minutes to natter with someone or other. I bought some outdoor flowers for my garden which I potted in the afternoon as IC and Mary soaked up some sunshine. We then foolishly decided to make Amaretto sours before indulging in some Cava. Mary left IC and I playing poker but we were to join her shortly in the pub, something we’d agreed not to do. It was still warm when we arrived and we popped a couple of half priced cocktails under our belts. Before we finally got back home we hired a dreadful film (perfect ‘no, not work tomorrow’ fodder) that we all watched in a heap of food and limbs.

This morning I collected my stuff from my flat and pointed my Black Bitch South-West and shot off. The traffic is greatly diminished by the holiday season making the ride immensely enjoyable. But the Black Bitch isn’t going to survive the daily routine, sooner or later she’ll be put out to pasture, something I’m loathed but required to do.

I’m sat here waiting for my agent to call me to give me a completion date, it’s fucking awful.

As we wait, Happy Birthday Hawkwind, 40 today…

un x pektd furi

I rode into work from Hackney yesterday morning, a journey that requires me to ride right through The City, over London Bridge, down to Vauxhall, pass by the Thames via Battersea then up to Earlsfield before alighting in fucking Wimbledon. It’s a frustrating, exhilarating ride, the former as a result of traffic and traffic lights, the latter because of the thrill of the chase, the physical aspect of riding as quickly, and as safely, as possible right through our capital city, North East to South West.

It’s to become a regular fixture in my working week, 45 minutes there and 45 minutes back and for most part I’m looking forward to it. Of course the weather and traffic will make life awkward on occasion, it’s not a particularly safe activity, but I get to ride. I arrived at work buzzing, adrenalin throbbing in my veins, a marked departure from the 5-minute pop from my shack in Tooting to my desk, and despite not seizing the subsequent day, it felt as if I might…

Last night I packed some more stuff into my panniers for the new (?) gaff in Hackney. I’m going to leave here and go directly there and not return to Tooting until Monday evening, which suits me just fine. I suppose it’s too late to try and pretend that I’m not already connected to my new gaff.

After packing my panniers I wandered the Tooting place sizing up the moving duties, I spurned wine and other boozy delights so I could worry about it with impunity. The biggest of the pissers is the bed, which I’m going to have to dismantle, and fragile shit. So many glasses and breakables and I point blank refuse to sit there wrapping every bloody thing in bubble wrap. Bubble-wrap is for wankers.

Cheerio Les Paul. The man that invented the electric guitar, multi-track recording and overdubbing -arguably he was the man that invented rock music. Without him we’d still be hitting rocks with sticks and Gerry’s chart would be fucking awful.

Good weekends all.

30 Pink Funhouse 28 2
29 The Cribs Cheat On Me NE 1
28 Maximo Park Questing Not Coasting 17 9
27 Athlete Superhuman Touch 30 2
26 Mpho Box N’ Locks 21 4
25 Silversun Pickups Panic Switch 18 8
24 Pitbull I Know You Want Me 27 2
23 Jet She’s A Genius NE 1
22 Marmaduke Duke Silhouettes 15 8
21 The Temper Trap Sweet Disposition NE 1
20 Blue October Dirt Room 19 12
19 Pearl Jam The Fixer NE 1
18 Bloc Party One More Chance 16 5
17 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 13 11
16 Enter Shikari No Sleep Tonight 24 2
15 The Ian Carey Project Get Shaky 22 3
14 Madina Lake Let’s Get Outta Here 11 5
13 The Doves Winter Hill 8 5
12 Preston Dressed To Kill 14 4
11 Lacuna Coil Spellbound 5 6
10 Green Day 21 Guns 10 7
9 Muse Uprising 20 2
8 Billy Talent Rusted From The Rain 4 9
7 Arctic Monkeys Crying Lightning 6 5
6 The Prodigy Take Me To The Hospital 9 3
5 Kasabian Where Did All The Love Go? 7 4
4 Dead Weather Treat Me Like Your Mother 3 6
3 Placebo The Never-Ending Why 12 2
2 The Mars Volta Cotopaxi 2 6
1 Biffy Clyro That Golden Rule 1 4

(Oh, today’s vid, great song but the lead singer seems to think he’s Dave Grohl (god forbid, Kurt Cobain in places) and has just had a haircut and some new ‘I’m a ‘rock star’’ tattoos which the camera lingers on to emphasise his ‘rock star’ ness because, well, frankly he’s not. He’s completely devoid of charisma, it’s actually quite incredible, but what you will notice is rising, swelling anger at his futile attempts to convey his ‘I’m a ‘rock star,’ honest’ ness. When in truth he’s a Scottish twat who’s lucked out.

I wasn’t going to post the music vid as a result of the above but it’s infuriated me to such a degree I thought I’d ruin your day too. What a prick…)


I’ve two homes, two. This is far from ideal but needs must. Until last night I’d spurned the Hackney gaff until I was totally sure the Tooting-hole-sale thing was a definite, or as near as dammit. After a conversation with my agent earlier this week it seems that I’ve every reason to feel a little more optimistic about completing the sale at end of August.

Last night I jumped the gun, a bit. Following another stultifying dead day at work I shot back to the Tooting property and gathered together some cooking utensils and clothes and stuffed my panniers solid before setting off for the East laden like an American Pioneer. It was muggier than the Hornsea Pottery, ten minutes later it pissed down like the Shoreditch tramp collective and I was soaked to my nuts. I arrived at Hackney damp in the sunshine and, for the first time, attempted to park the Black Bitch in my garden. It’ll fit through the front gate, sure, but the adjacent alleyway is too narrow to afford a decent turning angle. This means I’m resigned to park the Bitch on the road, which is far from ideal. Oh well.

After covering up the BB, I entered the front gate, walked the short distance through the garden, descended the random concrete stairs and let myself in my flat still frozen in time from Saturday’s cleaning effort. It’s a basement flat and whilst the garden is a suntrap of sorts the flat itself is rather dark, again, not ideal but nothing disastrous, especially when one considers the myriad number of benefits. I’m on the opposite side of London from Cunt for a kick off…

I unpacked my stuff and took a shower. Making psychological connections via physical interaction (i.e. tempting fate) with a place that isn’t definitely mine yet isn’t ideal; I have to say the shower was fucking ace… and the heated towel rail works. I washed some clothes and bedding, more to enquire of the competence of the machine than anything else (better than my current affair by a massive degree) and mentally arranged furniture, dangerous pre-emption. Just don’t take a shit, I told myself, once I do that I’ll have marked my territory and the place will be mine when it’s not quite yet…

IC arrived, unfortunately not feeing 100%, some sort of undiagnosed malaise but she managed a few glasses of Cava by means of celebration, again, a premature but necessary undertaking, and I cooked fish and spinach in the kitchen as we discussed the complex weekend arrangements. We ate and after a while took ourselves off to IC’s flat to sleep. There is a bed in the (my?) flat (a sofa, a table, some chairs) but these will be removed when I’m good to move my stuff in. In addition to the psychology, I don’t fancy sleeping on ‘someone else’s’ bed, besides, it’s fucked. Having said that, if I hear from my estate agent regarding a completion date before the weekend, I may try sleeping in there, we’ll see.

This morning IC left for work and nipped downstairs to change into my bike clothes, just before I left I was forced to comply with nature and take an enormous shit in my bog. Blast. That’s done it. I’ve marked my spot. If things go wrong now I’ve made an a faecal rod for my back…

Look, this isn’t my normal fare but it’s worth it just for the beginning… the songs quite pretty too *ahem*


Warning. Contains Rant.

The fucking papers were in apoplexy yesterday. Starters, the tragic tale of Baby Peter regurgitated in the nations faces like a wino on an ipecac drip after the names of the perpetrators were released to the baying press. Now we have human specimens rather than effigies to demonise it’s like he was killed all over! We, the public, just can’t get enough detail on the minutiae of the poor sods demise can we? Yesterday all the tabloids subject the country to pages and pages of paedophilia, torture, and murder, accusing fingers were again pointed at over-worked and well-meaning social workers, some of whom resigned months ago, to such an aggressive extent they almost exonerated the actions of the cunts that murdered the child. Our tabloid press is a national disgrace, did you know that?

You could argue that these sorts of gratuitous stories appeal to natural curiosities in our psyche; most of like a good horror movie, if not, the sophisticated and gentile murders that propagate Sunday night TV offend no one. We regard killing with a mixture of disgust and curiosity, so whilst wholly unnecessary to re-report these horrific crimes with such voracity, it shouldn’t come as any surprise that The Sun, Daily Mail had a bloody field day.

But there is never any excuse, ever, to make shit up. Despite over indulging the public in details, the Baby P thing happened. What doesn’t happen is, and I quote ‘beggars earning up to £200 a night to supplement their day jobs.’ It then goes on to say they are office workers (‘with homes’ the cunts!!) supplementing their income. Now, I’d be a fucking tit to sit here and say all beggars are homeless, of course some of them are merely making a quick buck, but to suggest beggars are earning £73k a year (that’s from The Sun) is fucking immoral.

Homelessness is a despicable thing, I can’t think of many things more awful than not having somewhere to live, to have nothing. I occasionally give change to homeless people, to beggars, maybe on occasion I have given my change to a person less deserving but that is a risk I’m prepared to take, I can go home you see. How can these ‘reporters’ sleep in their North London homes at night? What benefit is there to society at large to come up with such shit? Fucking cunts!

I need some of this to relax…


Harry and I met in a boozer by Clapham North and took in a few pints as the sun went down. It was still clement enough to sit outside and chat, smoke but one is becoming aware that the summer is beginning to shrink into the West. We’re not done yet but the edges are just beginning to curl.

By 10pm we set off and walked to Clapham North to catch the tube. The fucker was closed, planned engineering works that neither he nor I had planned. Harry bid me farewell and stepped into the night, I walked a couple of paces to the bus stop surrounded by shops and familiar buildings -a decade earlier this part of town had been my home. Nothing changed. All was strangely silent.

Clapham North had been much more of a home to me than Tooting ever was; it was pertinent that, when the fucking bus finally arrived, I could physically see the path to my temporary downfall. I watched a dark and silent London approach to wrap itself round and past my belligerent frame seated top front of the bus with arms folded. I should never have taken this direction, I thought, or perhaps, maybe I should’ve? Who knows, I might not have met IC if I’d headed East earlier…

I relaxed and settled on wishing it all farewell, fuck it all, I said out loud by accident as we hissed through Balham with its shops steel-shuttered shut, I felt the clouds of Tooting disperse, soon this place will be no more than a stain on a map, not my home.

On a completely different topic, one of my colleagues just interviewed a gentleman in his 60’s who pissed himself mid way through. He didn’t get the job.


Mouse shit, not much but enough to make my stomach turn over like a cement mixer.

It was Friday evening; IC and I were manically cleaning my new gaff in readiness for the (fingers-crossed) move due to take place shortly (?) I’d already chemically assaulted the tops of the kitchen cupboards, little islands of deathmetal filth, and was cheerlessly working down to the lower cupboards when the offending excrement was spotted with my musophobic senses, two tiny turds, possibly quite old. Fuck, though.

I mentally noted to take action the following day but for now, we continued cleaning with some music and a spot of fizz to keep our spirits up, it was Friday after all, fun-Friday, after a short while, just before the sun dropped behind the estates of Dalston, we had food and drinks back at IC’s gaff and kicked back, to use the vernacular.

Saturday began in a flurry of activity, 101 things to do. I had to buy a rainbow of cleaning and hardware products, bicycle parts, food and get a bunch of keys cut. Priority number one was fill the gap in the poo-cupboard by the cooker with expanding foam, half of which I got all over my favourite jeans that dried to resemble a five man spunk team. A couple of hours later I was exhausted, sweating and unable to get one of the freshly cut keys into my fucking front door. Following lunch and a mammoth floor-cleaning project, IC took a rest and I changed the levers and cables on her bicycle in the sunshine –in my new garden (?)- periodically re-visiting the key cutter to resolve his shoddy work on the front door key. Five visits later it worked. After a very satisfactory morning and early afternoon work we set off for South London.

For nostalgia purposes IC wanted to visit my local for a (hopefully) farewell drink. The place was full off pissed up South Africans, all of whom were large, loud and aggressive, so we drunk fast and left for home. Early evening we popped by my local curry house, the only aspect of Tooting I will miss, and stuffed our faces with an enormous pile of sublime chilli-based dishes and nattered enthusiastically about the new flat (?) We waddled home, I shat out my digestive system and we enjoyed ‘Harry He’s Here to Help,’ a rather low-key psychological thriller what is foreign and that. Before bed I stooled the Bristol scale.

Sunday, I woke up, plopped (fair lit my ring so I did ) and we set off for deepest darkest Surrey to visit my niece for her second birthday. My sister picked us up from the station and took us off to her newly converted gaff with fields and trees visible to the naked eye. Parents, bro, his missus, bro-in-law, his sister and kids and, of course, my niece greeted us on arrival. In the space of two months in the eyes of the latter I’ve gone from being John Wayne Gacy to Iggle Piggle and she has gone from a petulant horizontal to a keen vertical driven by perpetual chatter and giggle.

I took another shit and tucked into the wine with the buzz of my nearest and dearest about me -I may be a little fucked up but don’t let anyone tell you I come from bad blood- and had a massive trog that nearly turned me inside out (I do love a curry but I’m always aware the sacrifices I have to make subsequently) and after a quick poo settled down to enjoy a barbeque with the whole family sat round a table in the garden. It was hot and sunny, wasps attacked and were despatched or fought off with varying degrees of success, my bro told us how at 10 when greedily guzzling back a 2 litre bottle of 7-Up the carbon dioxide caused him to faint, I nearly stabbed my niece in the face with a serrated knife when trying to release Macca Pakka from his box, dad farted and I had another fucking poo which brought tears to my eyes.

By late afternoon the party wound down, it was back to the station and, just before home, IC and I took advantage of happy hour and had a quick cocktail on a roof terrace before arriving back at my soon-to-be vacated (?) flat for kippers and a movie, The Hangover, which has been hyped out of the known universe. Still, it did the trick for a Sunday night and the weekend was happily seen off.

Now I’m waiting for the estate agent to call so I can begin the horrific process of packing and physically moving. As much as I am dreading it I want it more than my next intake of breath. It’s time to go, yeah.



It really has been a slow week on Piqued. This is largely due to the state of my brains as a result of my impending move. As of Saturday I started renting my new gaff in Hackney but I’m still living in that shit-box in Tooting and awaiting the date of the sale completion.

I put the fucking place on the market in January and after months of estate agents and prospective buyers traipsing through my grief-stricken one bedroom hell-hole finally, way back in sodding May, accepted a vaguely competent offer from a prospective buyer, who, if true to their word, should be sainted on the basis I get to vacate my seat over the farting-honk of Cunt.

At the beginning of this week my agent called me to inform me we were good to go, ‘just a couple of more weeks.’ It’s worse that the end is in sight, and this has been exacerbated ten fold by a visit to my new gaff last night which sits empty and pristine with its mouth wide open ready to accept my bounty of possessions. I want to be there so much, close to IC and in a town that over the past year I’ve come to view as my natural habitat. But I dare not actually move just yet until I am at least 90% sure the purchaser is going to complete the sale. The thought of moving in to my new place and, god forbid, having to move back to Tooting after the sale collapses would fucking kill me. I am, however, prepared to risk the financial burden of paying a mortgage and rent for a few weeks. Factor in the physical aspect of moving, packing, shifting, unpacking and all that shit, well, you understand why I’m a bit preoccupied.

Had a bit of a breather last night though, over to friends for some sushi and wine and met a splendid chap who, ironically with regard to yesterdays post, knew Kurt Cobain. Fair blew my head off that, no pun intended. Tonight I’m going to clean my new flat, it’s spotless anyway but IC thinks it’s best to give it the once over and maybe I’ll spend a few nights in there next week, though I’m trying hard to psychologically not move in just case. Fucking hard though, I’ve already done the last pint-thing with Frank at the local as, coincidentally, he’s moving out the area on Monday then tomorrow back to Tooting for (hopefully) one last blast and a genuinely fond farewell to the beloved curry house with IC, then over to my sisters gaff on Sunday for my nieces second birthday.

Speaking of farewells, John Hughes of Pretty in Pink, Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller et al is cooking for The Kennedys and that fat bloke that sung ‘Just one Cornetto’ has pigged-out on his last gelato.

Gerry’s chart and a tune (no vid but the song is so good… it’ll be no.1 I’m sure) from within follow. If you’re still bored go to Watch With Mothers in a bit (link right) and listen to Swineshead and I chewing the fat, including me explaining how Gerry’s chart actually ‘works.’

Have good weekends suckers.

30 Athlete Superhuman Touch NE 1
29 The Maccabees Can You Give It? 19 7
28 Pink Funhouse NE 1
27 Pitbull I Know You Want Me NE 1
26 Raygun Just Because 27 2
25 The Twang Barney Rubble 22 6
24 Enter Shikari No Sleep Tonight NE 1
23 Shinedown Second Chance 17 11
22 The Ian Carey Project Get Shaky 26 2
21 Mpho Box N’ Locks 21 3
20 Muse Uprising NE 1
19 Blue October Dirt Room 16 11
18 Silversun Pickups Panic Switch 13 7
17 Maximo Park Questing Not Coasting 10 8
16 Bloc Party One More Chance 14 4
15 Marmaduke Duke Silhouettes 7 7
14 Preston Dressed To Kill 18 3
13 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Heads Will Roll 8 10
12 Placebo The Never-Ending Why NE 1
11 Madina Lake Let’s Get Outta Here 11 4
10 Green Day 21 Guns 12 6
9 The Prodigy Take Me To The Hospital 20 2
8 The Doves Winter Hill 6 4
7 Kasabian Where Did All The Love Go? 9 3
6 Arctic Monkeys Crying Lightning 5 4
5 Lacuna Coil Spellbound 3 5
4 Billy Talent Rusted From The Rain 2 8
3 Dead Weather Treat Me Like Your Mother 4 5
2 The Mars Volta Cotopaxi 1 5
1 Biffy Clyro That Golden Rule 15 3


I hope you enjoyed your short trip across cyberspace yesterday to visit relatives.

Anyway. Not much in ‘ere today, I’m up to my nuts in it –but just a quick mention about ITV who bought Friends Reunited for 175 million quid 4 years ago and sold it today for 20 million to the bloke that owns The Beano. Your business acumen is about as good as your TV output you towering heap of cretins, hopefully this’ll finally see you consigned to history.

If you’re bored go here and see whose on the plinth, only after you’ve seen today’s you tube offing, hey it’s free, yeah

Still miss him/them. Blast.

click 2 go

There is a Piqued today, it’s just not on here as it’s a feature regarding something I heard this morning and was more suited to a subsidiary of Watch with Mothers. I don’t mean ‘subsidiary’ to come across as pejorative I hasten to add.

In the meantime, Thom Yorke, you’ve given these chaps a bloody leg up… All will make sense later. The article will be posted at 1pm today so tune in

potti mowth

I’m not known for my use of blue language but I’ll make an exception when it comes to this morning’s weather. It’s completely ruddy awful. That’s right. And to add insult to injury, if one goes to the BBC website it clearly states that the day will be furnished with sunny intervals and not weeing rain as what it is all now and that. I think I’ve poured scorn on the weather service in the recent past but now I’m going to say what I really think by using the language of the sewer. The BBC weather department are a bunch of twitting idiots!!

Last night I bumped into that fucking Cunt who will soon no longer be my neighbour. Lately he’s been quiet-ish, which is fucking brilliant, but sadly 7 years too late –though at least my guilt is assuaged regarding its sale. It’s very hard to speak to a barely functioning human who has singled handedly ruined your home life, turning your modest dream of property ownership into a living nightmare, so imagine my utter disgust when out of crowd of people yesterday evening (I was cheerfully ambling to the pub to meet Frank) a gormless dark-glassed clad face flapped open its insidious gob and proceeded to grunt sounds at me in lieu of English communication.

From what I could decipher as I stood there like a coiled spring dreaming of ling chi, there was some sort of rudimentary enquiry as to the date of my leaving south fucking London, a compliment on my appearance, how much I must like motorcycles because I was wearing a leather jacket (let it go readers, just let it go) and something about Putney which I assume was because he was under the illusion I was moving there as all the while my IQ fell out of my eyes. This must have been evident in my face and reticence because quite suddenly he scuttled off glancing back at me in a visage of perplexity and I could smell clean air again. I hate him as much as I love my penis.

The tattoo is healing nicely but I’m still not easy with it. Frank, who acted in a sort of rational capacity in the early and late stages of its design, felt that -whilst the design was marvellous- it hadn’t translated to the curve of the arm, and I’m inclined to agree. It does have a feeling of its not being quite finished probably due to its (over?) schematic construction. It’s still hard to tell though, until it’s scab free (nearly there) and I’ve had a chance to have a proper drink with it I’ll have to be philosophical. Maybe that’s why I’m a bit disappointed; I don’t really feel for it… or maybe that’s just because I want to be in my flat in Hackney, and not living over a creature that would reason the best way to save on toothbrushes is by stuffing Dominoes pizza up its arsehole.


I still don’t know. I’m getting used to it, I don’t feel sick about it and the general consensus is that it’s ‘beautiful’ though I was asked a by a few bods if it was finished, this largely revolved around the lack of colour and the schematised design (that I sweated blood over) though one dear soul asked me if I’d like to design one for them which countered strange observations. Most importantly, IC likes it and was perplexed by my disappointment, as it was virtually identical to my original design.

On Friday I didn’t really have enough time to celebrate, IC’s pal Kara is over from Spain meaning I had to come from fucking Tooting to Hackney, nip out for a few pints in the gaff I had my 40th birthday knees-up, then go back to my south London box as there was no space in the East for a badly decorated piss-pot. I alighted the tube at midnight and bought most of Tesco Local with System of a Down exploding in my ear which I quite deliberately decided to leave running at the checkout much to the displeasure of the cashier. I was fully aware of how disrespectful and rude I must have appeared and opted to, like, not give a shit? I’m so hard sometimes I actually shock myself. Eat that Tesco, yeah, especially the tireless staff who works endless shifts on a basic wage… I shuffled off home guiltily clutching bags of stuff I didn’t want or need. Go me.

I ate pizza and watched Wallander on the I-Player as wine and tabs flew about my fastidious mouth. I awoke at 11am feeling remarkably well and ate a behemoth bacon sandwich that had been prepared with a surgeon’s precision. Back off to Hackney at midday with The Guardian, empty of news, to arrive at IC’s for one-ish. We had coffee and wandered off to Broadway Market via London Fields, which was almost empty. Kara, who is 6 months pregnant, IC and I wandered among the large quantity of sockless arseholes picking out a few of the dwindling remaining stalls that sold essential items of worth as opposed to £25 pots of regurgitated Chinese seaweed and horse milk. After buying some bread we had a snack at a café by the canal and popped over to collect Ann before arriving in the usual boozer by The Empire for 6.

By 9pm there was 8 of us merrily taking advantage of cheap cocktails and each other’s gossip. Saturday slowed to a splendid halt and ended in IC’s kitchen with a drunk game of chess that I won, I mean lost, twice.

On Sunday I collected the papers and spent the morning soaking up the news and editorial. Mary, IC and I set off at 11 to have coffee and passed through Columbia Road to buy some flowers on the way to our lunchtime date with some friends. We stayed for a couple of hours nursing Eggs Benedict and Bloody Mary’s and arrived back home by 4 completely knackered, so much so I even fell asleep like a lazy dad.

After helping a friend move in upstairs from IC and Mary’s gaff (incidentally, as of Saturday I’m renting the flat below IC and Mary, I’ve yet to get a completion date for my place but it’s all looking good –when I’ve such a date I’ll move out of Tooting once and for all) I made a nut roast, spinach, roasted tomato and potato for 4 and we ate watching a fucking dreadful (new) Woody Allen film that actually annoyed me. What the hell has happened to him? It’s as if he’s trying to americanise the European existentialist films of the 60’s. We get the the humourless, misogynistic dirge but they’re as fake as Disneyland. Woody Allen films should be about Woody Allen.

Like this.