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.