Monthly Archives: October 2009


It’s the day of reckoning, judgement day, the day I complete, or not as the case may be. My solicitor has already been on the phone to inform me that I’ve completed and then five minutes later called again with a ‘hang on…’ I hope I don’t get a day like this, I’m not in a mood following a two and half hour fucking journey into work due to roadworks on Hackney road and subsequent bus gridlock. I was too preoccupied with all things ‘flat’ to get too fussed; besides, it’s a beautiful day. The leaves are plum-red, lemon coloured, punctuated by rich russet browns, the sky is blue, the light all golden and shit.

I’ve been busy; IC and I went over to see some friends down the road on Wednesday where we were treated to hand-made cocktails as one of the recipients of our visit is a barman, and last night I met up with Rosh and Doc for a few jars in Clapham before popping home via IC’s who was watching Dexter with her flatmate, Mary, the latter all wrapped up on account of this fucking cold going around. The former was a fit as fuck of course.

But essentially, I’m pre-occupied, I can’t think straight, my attention span is nil, all I can think about is cutting off all ties with that flat and the disgusting Cunt that lurks below like a sewage pipe of all shit. My hate for him burns, really, he’s worse than the Weimar Schutzstaffel.

God, sitting here waiting. Apparently I should hear before lunch. I wonder if I twiddle my thumbs really fast I’d wear off my nails. The weekend is packed, stuff to do tonight, tomoz, I may even buy a TV tomorrow if… bollocks. If. Fucking hell. Oh, my bro and Swineshead’s birthday on Saturday, I’ll see SH, my bro is in Rome.

Weekend, chart, tune, fun you have. Arseholes. I’ll post in comments if I hear anything.

Happy birthday lads. Lovely day. Balls.

30 Kids In Glass Houses Youngblood (Let It Out) NE 1
29 Athlete Black Swan Song NE 1
28 Snow Patrol Just Say Yes 27 2
27 Ian Brown Stellify 20 10
26 Mumford And Sons Little Lion Man 15 7
25 The XX Crystallized 18 10
24 Paramore Ignorance 23 11
23 Skunk Anansie Because Of You 14 11
22 The Cribs We Share The Same Skies NE 1
21 Skunk Anansie Squander NE 1
20 Paramore Brick By Boring Brick NE 1
19 Slayer Hate World Wide 17 4
18 Kasabian Underdog 19 4
17 Dead Weather I Cut Like A Buffalo 26 2
16 Echo And The Bunnymen Think I Need It Too 13 6
15 Death Cab For Cutie Meet Me At The Equinox NE 1
14 Wolfmother New Moon Rising 22 3
13 Five Finger Death Punch Hard To See 10 7
12 Massive Attack Splitting The Atom 16 3
11 Julian Casablancas 11th Dimension 12 4
10 Funeral For A Friend Wrench 6 9
9 Idlewild Readers And Writers 11 4
8 Stereophonics Ignorance 9 3
7 Green Day East Jesus Nowhere 3 5
6 Biffy Clyro The Captain 8 5
5 Rammstein Pussy 5 6
4 Ladyhawke Magic 4 4
3 Foo Fighters Wheels 7 5
2 Lostprophets It’s Not The End Of The World…2 8
1 Editors Papillon 1 8


I’ve noticed in Hackney that all sorts of people rummage through bins.

You get the types one would expect to carry on in this sort of manner, ladies with lots of bags having audible yet private conversation to their own faces, ragged fellows with hairy cheeks and swarthy skin, bearing drinking vessels and making small talk with the railings, but in Hackney you also get relatively well-dressed middle-aged fellows with balding pates and housewifey-type women with enormous gold-hooped earrings pausing to investigate the discarded items of others. It’s fucking well weird. And none of them give a tinker’s cuss who is watching them indulge in what is, frankly, a less than ideal pastime. It’s a funny old thing poverty, has this propensity to turn dignity into no more than a mere sacrifice for scraps, dregs and a fag-end.

From the bins of Hackney to the homeless sleeping on the porch of Shoreditch church, to the pair of young, smartly dressed women sat quietly weeping on the pavement at Gracechurch Street and Bishopsgate, staring at their alms cups, too ashamed to look up at the city workers -once colleagues, now a universe away- we are drenched in homelessness and poverty, so much we seldom seem to notice it, indeed, we do our best to spurn and ignore it.

So many friends have been made redundant in the past few months, some of them are reading this and have had cause to completely rethink their lives. Suddenly the prospects of homelessness, though several paces away, has taken one simple step closer. This is irrefutable fact.

Regular readers of this drivel may be aware that I’ve accumulated debt on account of the incompetence of both solicitor and my laissez faire attitude to money. Whilst in the shite I’m still a long way from rummaging through bins, I hope, but I was thinking as I sat on the fucking bus on the way to London Bridge this morning, none of us are really that far from winding up outside tube stations, cash points asking strangers for change, it’s very easy to think ‘I wouldn’t do that’ and walk past.

Anyway, those young smartly dressed women begging in The City should get off their arses and go on the game, bloody scroungers.

gg hay

Getting Brutta in and out of my minute garden requires patience and skill. The narrow gate leads to a perpendicular (and narrow) alleyway, so one must gingerly weave the bike out of the fucking gate diagonally in order to allow it to turn in the alleyway. There is about 2 millimetres room for error either way, in the mornings I drive out, in the evenings I reverse in. It’s harrowfying.

After a few cock-ups I’ve been finding it increasingly easier to negotiate, but being overly confident as I was this morning, led to a royal fuck up. I managed to jam the bike completely in the alley; I couldn’t go forward or back resulting in my preventing the passage of 2 pissed off residents as yours truly puffed and grunted on Brutta to try and unlock her from position she was stuck in. It was impossible; I’d managed to get the front brake lever stuck against the opposing wall so she was jammed with her brakes on full.

The pissed off residents did nothing to help (grumbling isn’t help is it?) when an enormous black chap joined the miserable sods and offered to help me. I had no room to dismount, so with me still on board he physically lifted the front of the bike and re-plopped me at and angle that allowed me to escape from my bondage. There is no question that I’d still be there now without his help and was dead grateful, though acutely embarrassed.

Had a splendid evening last night. IC took me out for dinner at a Vietnamese eatery a few minutes walk from our respective gaffs. The food was cheap and delicious though allowing pirated DVD sellers to gently drift about offering movies wasn’t the best idea the manger might have had. I wasn’t complaining though, the roasted pork was a fucking sensation and we were allowed to bring our own booze, which was a lot better (and cheaper) than the house stuff.

Speaking of houses, I’m shitting it over the supposed completion on Friday; I’m potentially 48 hours from getting rid of such a miserable part of my life, that flat, that Cunt, all of the horror, the horror involved I’m virtually paralysed with anticipation. However happy I am with my new place in the East End I’ll only truly feel engaged with it 100% when I’m rid of those miserable walls in the South West. Because of the sheer agony of the past few months regarding it’s selling and the financial backlash it doesn’t seem real it’s finally going ahead… I’m trying not to think about it.

On a lighter not I now have my new smaller (and illegal) number plate mounted on the back of Brutta, it has a dead neat slogan…


Jordan (reel naym kaaytee prys) has split from her ‘lover’ cage-fighter (it’s never a good job title that, though having said that neither is ‘topless wanker’ which is precisely what Jordan is) Alex Reid because he dated a ladyboy a few years ago. Mr. Reid who has been photographed on a regular basis cross-dressing, clearly has a thing for blokes in dresses, which explains why he dated Jordan in the first place.

On my way into work yesterday, an ashen-faced female police officer stood in the middle of the road quietly re-directing traffic away from a prone figure being given frantic cpr by a member of the public. The figure on the road looked like a crumpled duvet, as I turned to take the adjacent road the frantic resuscitation slowed as the sirens from an approaching ambulance gained in volume. This morning a solitary bunch of flowers tied onto a set of railings next to the where the figure lay wriggled in the morning breeze. Life is a fickle thing isn’t, one minute you’re here and all that, still, I’m okay so fuck it.

My estate agent called this morning to ask if it’s okay if my buyer ‘moves in a few boxes’ before Friday’s completion date. Fuck that! I said, even though I’ve exchanged a part of me is sensibly expecting the whole bloody thing to fall through the floor, it’s not as if I haven’t been pissed about and lied to for fucking months. My agent informed me that if I don’t exchange on Friday her solicitors will be penalised, cool, I said, makes no difference to my decision. She moves in when I get the money, that’s the way it works isn’t it? Is it just me?



Valentino Rossi, a personal friend and fellow Moto GP rider (these last two points are in fact fibs) is world champion for the 9th fucking time. Ninth! This is almost unprecedented, only Giacomo Agostini, a fellow Italian racing some 3 decades ago (Ago! Geddit? No you probably don’t…) has won more world champions. Rossi rides for Yamaha but Agostini won on an Italian MV Augusta which, ironically, is the company that owns the motorcycle wing of Husqvarna, the bike what I have a gotted.

Which brings me nicely on to Brutta. We’re having a few teething problems that I need to get off my chest. It’s a gem in the city, on twisty a, b roads, but stick it on a motorway in a straight line and it’s an arse-meat tenderiser struggling to cruise happily at 70. Seventy! The Black Bitch would happily sit at 120 with berries to spare, moreover it was comfortable. I was aware of this when I bought Brutta, I don’t need something to streak down the motorway these days, it’s just on the odd occasion I do, it’s a bit of a pisser, relegated to the inside lane like a bloody fairy.

Yesterday was one of these occasions; I donned my leathers and farted out of the city with a big grin on my stupid gorgeous fass. It was a sunny day and I’d happily pissed the extra hour up the wall the previous evening. The bike felt perfect and was doing a good job at attracting the attention she deserves. In Clapham I caught up with a chap on a KTM 690 whose exhaust note was more like an explosion, I was jealous if I’m honest, and a bit annoyed. It doesn’t look as nice but it has a bit more guts and the seat looks like a fucking bed in comparison to mine that is as wide as a lap-dancing pole and harder than a marble cock.

We got chatting at the lights, he complimented me on my bike and I returned the favour with regarding to his highly illegal pipe generating ripples in the air. We ride together for a few miles making a beautiful din, cars fled in our path at the sound of a veritable hurricane and re-assembled shakily in our wake. We split direction with waves and then I was left to face the agony of the motorway.

I suppose the advantage of being on a tall bike and exposed to the wind like carrier bag is that one does feel the freedom a bike offers, trouble is it’s almost like to much freedom, I didn’t realise than you can have to much if I’m honest. It was all worth it though; I arrived at my sisters feeling a bit sore round my nipsy and was greeted suspiciously by my niece. A delightful afternoon followed, we frolicked in the garden with my bro, his missus and the aforementioned toddler and ate Sunday lunch (roast chicken prepared by my bro-in-law who has the whole thing sussed) with apple strudel for pud. I also spent a good deal of time with my new niece and discovered I was able to stop her crying by pointing her little face towards fluffy white clouds and moving her up and down like a fucked lift. I had to leave at 4-ish as I was keen to avoid the darkness and was desperate to see the Moto GP on the I-player.

On Friday, after getting home, I waiting for Jamie to turn up. He managed to get hopelessly lost after Elephant and Castle and I had to give him onboard directions which he mismanaged at the eleventh hour, he eventually arrived at 11pm, ironically so we went out immediately, but not before I snapped the fucking key off in the garden gate lock effectively trapping us in the garden. Fortunately Matt who lives in the same block as IC upstairs had a spare (IC was away) so we were rescued allowing us access to the nearest pub, we had a couple there then went over the road at midnight for a late dinner of Turkish fare that had right posh kebabs on the menu.

We were home by 1 and spent the remainder of the evening getting skywards. It’s all a bit hazy but I recall laughing hysterically about something and Jamie snapping a string on my guitar and laughing hysterically about that as well. At some point we must have gone to bed because I woke on Saturday morningish feeling remarkably dreadful.

After Jamie went I set about doing shit. I needed to purchase a mirror among other things so I went to my favourite ‘I can’t believe they sell everything shop’ and stared at lots of things with my mind stumbling over what it was I was there for, so I bought a white jug, No More Nails and video cassette. I paid, left and then went back to get the mirror. It had a shitty frame, remove shitty frame I decided. I went home, broke the mirror into a thousand fucking pieces trying to remove shitty frame and went back to the ‘I can’t believe they sell everything shop’ and bought another one, though this time I decided not to remove shitty frame at about the same time I realised that this mirror was a foot shorter than the ideal-sized one I’d shattered.

I did manage to successfully mount the mirror with the shitty frame; it looked okay I suppose but only when close-up. I noticed that from a distance, when walking towards it, it has a fairground ripple giving the impression I was drowning underwater.

Oh, I tried to tape the Moto GP with my new videocassette; I managed to get most of the broken tape out of the machine from the cassette loader but will have to take off the top to get the rest out this evening.

Saturday evening was spent alone, ideal. Regular readers will know that I exchanged last week, which has given my flat a new dimension of ‘home.’ Without question it’s the best place I’ve ever lived, I fucking love it. It’s completely quiet yet I can make as much noise as I like (and yes, I have checked with my neighbours, I’m not Cunt) it’s clean, cosy and I like all the stuff I have in there and how it’s laid out. I recall how I used to envy people when they simply said ‘spent the reading night at home’ as that simple act of domestic comfort was, until recently, denied me. Having a neighbour who probably thinks it’s illogical to bother eating when you can just shove it up your arse makes ones entire life miserable. It’s not just the pain of being at home, it’s the prospect of going home not knowing if you’re going to have a quiet one or not and compensating for said peace by living soundlessly in a bubble of distress. I used to watch Peep Show jealous that Mark and Jez could shout at each other and thump about with being rebuked by a wall of retarded amplification presided over by preformed bollock-gland. Even in protracted bouts of silence the slightest indication of movement from below would cause ones senses to prickle to waking life with horrific anticipation. It’s fucking awful, awful and shortly, next Monday to be exact, the place that caused me so much misery will have nothing whatsoever to do with me. Indeed, money from it will flop into my account and I can carry on with my life.

Anyway, well done Valentino, looking forward to seeing you in the villa over Christmas (another fib.) Oh, I shaved my balls last night.

fat cunt

Question Time was a bit of a disappointment. It was worth a look for some wonderful moments, largely from the face of Bonnie Greer who managed to nonchalantly flatten the Nazi’s flawed comments with beautifully realised fact bullets. The conservative rep Baroness Wasi also delivered succinct, lucid and considered arguments but the fact the Tories had decided to shove on their almost only racially diverse member of the conservative party was a bit naff. Chris Hulne and Jack Straw were impassioned; particularly the latter who seemed close to tears with seemingly genuine sincerity, but whose opinions were sadly negated by with the thousands of deaths in Iraq, the only time the Nazi had a point in his favour when he suggested he’s never hurt anyone, but the Justice Secretary had blood on his hands.

The main problem I had was the leaving of unanswered questions. The Holocaust matter was never resolved, repatriation, the shit about an ‘indigenous’ population, the fact that not a single panellist questioned his use of the term ‘Red Indian…’ The Nazi wasn’t properly called to question over Islam either, as far as he’s concerned all Muslims want Sharia law and are of the same ilk of say, Abu Hamza, with whom he’s shared a platform, which frankly beggars ironic belief.

No, it wasn’t good enough, the little fat, bog-egged, gurning Nazi was unable to string a sentence together without contradictions, untruths and downright lies, yet so much shit passed under the noses of those that were supposed to be challenging his quite disgusting rhetoric it made for a frustrating hour, most of which I watched on my feet, occasionally shouting. Still, in fairness, there was so much shit pouring from his vapid little orifice it would’ve taken a year and day to unravel half of it. Cunt.

Let’s all move on shall we.

Yesterday I signed the final papers for the sale of my gaff; I met my solicitor who seemed quite decent despite being exhausted with all the nonsense he’s been subject to (I know how he feels) so that would seem to be that. I’m now waiting to know when I complete and trying not to think about it. This is made slightly more problematic without the stress-killing presence of IC who is off to foreign this weekend. I’ve no doubt I’ll find some sort of solace in the company of friends, though at this stage all plans are resting without fixation.

Brutta isn’t helping me de-stress either. This is in part due to my rear number plate which is horribly legal and the size of broadsheet. I feel like a right tit hauling this thing about and I can’t sort it until the documents arrive in the fucking post, which at this rate will be next year. It’s also in part due to the fact I can’t spank her as much as I want, I’m still running her in and until the 600 mile service she’s discreetly restricted, precisely to prevent a chap from caning the shit out of her.

Of course it’s not all bad, my journey in this morning, despite my giant yellow arse-end, was marvellous. I won every sector, in one instance passing a group of 6 sportbikes just before Elephant and Castle and passing through a hairs-gap locking them out of completion with a noisy bark of my fucking death pipe. I have to say, I’m rather surprised by the quizzed brows of fellow bikers when I draw up to a set of lights. Some chaps get very excited about Brutta as they know her credentials but these are the small minority. Most can’t seem to match the lean, tall dimensions with the thoroughly hellish noise from her rear end. The fucking din she makes going over London Bridge in front of the thousands of pedestrians hurrying to their respective offices is tear inducing… soon it’ll be far, far more intense and I can’t wait.

You know the drill, it’s Friday, after this hot-foot it over to Watch With Mothers and indulge in the The Friday Question which this week is presented by yours truly. Have fun, fuck the BNP.

30 Muse Uprising 25 12
29 Ash True Love 1980 30 2
28 Biffy Clyro That Golden Rule 21 14
27 Snow Patrol Just Say Yes NE 1
26 Dead Weather I Cut Like A Buffalo NE 1
25 David Guetta Ft Akon Sexy Chick 26 3
24 The Temper Trap Sweet Disposition 22 11
23 Paramore Ignorance 19 10
22 Wolfmother New Moon Rising 29 2
21 Weezer (If You’re…….) I Want You To. 12 5
20 Ian Brown Stellify 18 9
19 Kasabian Underdog 23 3
18 The XX Crystallized 13 9
17 Slayer Hate World Wide 20 3
16 Massive Attack Splitting The Atom 24 2
15 Mumford And Sons Little Lion Man 10 6
14 Skunk Anansie Because Of You 8 10
13 Echo And The Bunnymen Think I Need It Too 9 5
12 Julian Casablancas 11th Dimension 14 3
11 Idlewild Readers And Writers 15 3
10 Five Finger Death Punch Hard To See 7 6
9 Stereophonics Ignorance 17 2
8 Biffy Clyro The Captain 11 4
7 Foo Fighters Wheels 16 4
6 Funeral For A Friend Wrench 2 8
5 Rammstein Pussy 4 5
4 Ladyhawke Magic 6 3
3 Green Day East Jesus Nowhere 5 4
2 Lostprophets It’s Not The End Of The World… 3 7
1 Editors Papillon 1 7


In February this year I put my flat on the market, early March I had a potential buyer who ummed and ahhed for 4 months before finally agreeing to buy. Since early July the legitimate wheels have been in motion, supposedly, but it wasn’t until late August that my buyers solicitors actually replied to mine. Then came all the fucking questions, the same ones over and over which the buyers solicitors said they weren’t getting, despite them being faxed over within hours of asking. I had to fork out for the freeholders (cunt’s dad) insurance as part of the deal for the leaseholder (my buyer) and accrued addition fees with indemnity insurance and changes that had to be made to the actual deeds as, technically, my property didn’t exist.

Last night at 7.30, just after being informed my solicitor was charging me additional fees because of the vast amount of time he’s spent on my case, which he said was unprecedented, I exchanged as I stood out side a pub with my bro in the City of London. The relief resulted in me screaming ‘fuck yeah’ like an American and actually punching the heavens.

It’s a bittersweet victory though; I’ve lost over 5k in this process and the current debts have been neglected. The money I’ll get wont clear these debts either but it’ll allow me to kill one significant fucker allowing me to use that repayment money to pay off others.

So why did it take so long? The reason is simple and annoying so pay attention. A lot of firms in Manchester and Wales only have one qualified solicitor and about 50 staff. These means they can take on loads of cases, undercut the competition, but as there is only one bloke who can sign stuff off it takes an age for anything to actually happen, in short it’s a barely legitimate scam.

But this isn’t all; there was a rush to exchange before September then it all went quiet until recently. In theory I should complete Monday or Tuesday of next week. This in itself doesn’t seem suspicious until one realises my buyer in a teacher. Next week it’s half term and the summer holidays ended early September…

Of course, I fully intend to make a nail bomb when I’ve got my money, it’s only fair.

Cunts! Hurrah!


Initially Stephen Gately was a cog in a cynically manufactured boy band, a spot on a cash cow with little artistic merit and in this respect there is no ‘gaping hole’ left behind, certainly not a hole that can’t be filled by yet another dead-eyed X Factor/Pop Idol/Got talent/Big Brother etc., wannabe prepared to shed all aspects of their personality and conform, obey to the desires of their employer. In the case of Stephen it would seem that one aspect of his person that didn’t conform to the prescribed boy band brief was his sexuality.

Under these homophobic circumstances it’d be unfair to criticise Stephen for being dishonest about his sexuality in the early days of his career. It may well have remained his secret but one of Boyzone’s security threatened to go to The Sun. Sensibly Stephen got there first and ‘left’ the troupe and became a somewhat unlikely pin-up boy for the homosexual community he’d previously spurned.

I’m still not entirely sure why there has been such a big fuss made of his death, of course it’s sad when anyone dies before their 3 score years and 10 and I’ve got it on good authority he was a nice bloke but we’ve not lost a cancer cure here to coin Bill Hicks (who himself has something to say about boy bands, see below) and Gately was no Jimi Hendrix, let’s face it. But fuss there has been, largely generated by controversy, and it’s here I feel the leftwing press has missed a golden opportunity to address institutionalised homophobia. In fact there is so much institutionalised homophobia surrounding Gately you could start a republic. This nasty seam of intolerance doesn’t get addressed as much as, say, racism and it would seem it’s still fairly acceptable to casually discriminate someone on the grounds of where they like to put their penis or tongue.

Allow me please.

Fellow journalists were up in arms about the nasty diatribe bestowed upon Stephen by Jan Moir but is it any surprise that a columnist for The Daily Mail found the whole idea of homosexuality biblically repugnant and presented a thinly disguised ‘serves the bummer boy right’ article as one would a turd to a vagina. But, really, what do you expect from the mouthpiece of cunts? Well, just that sort of thing depressingly.

The Daily Mail isn’t the only tabloid fucker in all this; The Sun gloatingly announced Stephen’s ‘outing’ in 1999 and has done most of the hand wringing after incorrectly barking out that Stephen had choked on his own vomit after a bender, when in fact the poor bastard died of genetic cardiogenic pulmonary oedema which doesn’t quite have the same seedy ring. It’s not as unsubtle as The Mail but the rhetoric that Stephen’s lifestyle was somehow to blame for his demise is palpable.

But again, what does one expect from these sorts of papers? This doesn’t make it right though and whilst The Mail got rightly trounced for its diatribe, The Sun seems to have glossed over its finger-pointing with disproportionate saccharine which even featured a front cover of the Boyzone Chief in Command Louis Walsh claiming that Stephen Gately was ‘my very, very best friend.’ What disgusting insincerity, was that an attempt at pathos?

Walsh once publicly stated that he was unaware of Gately’s sexuality when he selected him for Boyzone and has said that, had he known, he would have thought twice before picking him. He also claimed last year that, “it wasn’t cool then to have a gay guy in a band.” Cool ‘then,’ you mean way back a decade ago? I mean so much has changed hasn’t it, Louis you fat little shit, especially in the light of an increase in homosexual assaults.

No, thanks to the non-apologetic, laissez-faire attitude of people like Walsh where homophobia is a given, not something to be knocked back or condemned, then we shouldn’t be surprised people like Jan Moir and her editor even think about writing such bigoted shit let alone being able to publish it with impunity -and people like Stephen Gately don’t have to hide behind a hetro-cloak in order to further their careers.


I’ve alluded, have I not, to the aspect of my having a new motorcycle. I’ve been deliberately holding back on this to give the matter some consideration and now feel the time to gently expound on this matter further, to wit, attempt to convey a sense of actuality devoid, where possible, of emotional discourse thereby presenting, gently reader, a body of texts that’s not full of ‘fuck yeah,’ ‘cunt that!’ and ‘suck on my cock-pipe.’

The Husqvarna sm610 (known as ‘Brutta’ –this means ugly woman in Italian) is a very different creature to the Black Bitch, the 1999 Triumph Speed Triple I’ve recently sold to one of dad’s mates. A few words on this, you may find it amusing that I point blank refused to sell her to someone who I suspected wouldn’t give her the same care and attention as I did. The recipient of the Black Bitch is a vintage bike enthusiast; there can be no better home than that.

The reasons for selling have been mentioned previously. The journey I’ve been taking since moving to Hackney would’ve killed her. The City is lethal for engines, stop/starting, prolonged periods of sitting in boiling hot traffic that cook the engines, incredibly poor road surfaces and it’s full of wankers. After a few shots in and out of the Square Mile the engine had already began to indicate stress, in short, the bike was too powerful and elderly to cope with the situation on a daily basis. I stood to lose both my bike and whatever fiscal value that remained within, at the time of selling she was in excellent condition, if you’d read this post in six months time the story would be dramatically different.

I couldn’t have afforded a new bike if it wasn’t for the generous sum left to me by granddad who’d instructed me from beyond (via his will, not some séance on a wet afternoon) to ‘enjoy’ the money, ‘spend it wisely’ which I have done. Buying a brand new machine isn’t ideal, you’re giving a proportion of the money to the fucking government for nothing and the asset depreciates instantly but a second hand version of the bike that ticked most if not all the boxes wasn’t possible so I was left with a choice, buy new or get something else. At least with a new machine I have a warranty and the chance to run it in from the off which sets the groundwork for it’s future -and with this particular model I get all I need and the convenience of being able to park it in my tiny garden away from those that seek it harm (thus reducing insurance costs by almost 50%.)

Having said all that, practicality is never a good reason to do anything when it comes to matters of the heart. The aforementioned benefits were mere trim when it came to the essential reason to buy the machine I did. For a kick off it looks mental, even stood still, parked up, it looks like it’s going to hurt someone. Unlike the Black Bitch that sat squat over the road like a pitball, Brutta is tall, lean and spiky. The Bitch’s three 333cc cylinders would roar, the fucking bark of the single 600cc cylinder shakes the road and makes my pee pee go all funny. Actually, the sound alone is a good reason to buy one.

The straight-line speed of The Husky isn’t comparable to the Triumph who was much faster in the open, but the city isn’t ‘open,’ Brutta may have a third less power but it’s all-usable. The fucking thing will outmanoeuvre a chess Queen and will corner faster than a sportsbike (fact: proved it this morning when undertaking a knee-down R1) I was perfectly shocked with joy how simple it is to nail it in and out of turns, actually, I’m still running it in so am being careful, perhaps ‘tap’ is more apt.

This is cornering ability is in part due to the seat, only a few inches wide and designed so that the rider may shift his weight from the front to the rear to aid weight distribution, but the downside is that it’s not the most comfortable of bikes and far cry from the veritable chair I was until recently familiar. Still who needs a seat when one can stand on the pegs in order to literally jump over speed humps, I don’t even have to de-accelerate, on the contrary a blip of berries just before the jump, I mean hump, will clear both wheels off the deck. What fun…

…and that’s the essence of it. Fun, more fun I’ve had on bike in years. It’s like a bloody toy and takes me right back to my teens when I used to do Motocross. To sum up, it’s like 40 going on 14 and for that I’m pathetically grateful to Granddad for letting me carry on like the fucking idiot I am. Hurrah!

hed butt’n

The new Popart exhibition at the Tate Modern is a rip-off. It’s also misleading, sensationalist for the sake of it and expensive. It’s a cheap cash cow that doesn’t so much as celebrate what was the overt ‘consumerisation’ of art but jumps on the bandwagon and flies past the point. In one room pumped full of dreadful 80’s pop music and adorned with Keith Haring motifs they’ve actually opened a little stall to buy his gaudy t-shirts and badges. They think they’re being ‘knowing’ when in reality it’s just greed.

Having said that I enjoyed it in a perverted sense, it allowed me to fume-off the week and leaf through the pages of a past life as a budding art historian, a career murdered by a lack of funds and willpower, I suppose. Besides, it was Friday evening and IC and I were due to eat Japanese food in Soho.

We walked there past heaving pubs clustered with office workers drinking stoically in the faded light; the journey frequently impeded by a surprising volume of human beings stuffed in back streets and cut-throughs. We eventually arrived outside a little place, it looked a bit shabby from the outside but I was assured by various window adornments that boasted its credentials and lack of cost.

This place was a fucking revelation, huge plates of piping hot seafood in thick gravy adorned with noodles, fresh sushi, sashimi, tempura, toasted dumplings and cheap, cheap wine. The bill for 2, mains, starters, wine, came to under £30 and my cold-stopped nose had given way in delicious head clearing streams. Perfect. We made our way home back to Hackney on the bus, which took a while, and watched Peep Show on catch-up after a long big piss.

On Saturday morning I popped out to get some plants from the likely lads by Hackney Central. It may seem a bit silly to buy anything horticultural in the East End when one has the Columbia Road flower market every Sunday, but these chaps are very cheap and are in a position to dish out advice without the throngs of potential customers bearing down on them. I bought 5 little, er, plants and took them home. As luck would have it someone was chucking away a couple of blue pallets so I nabbed one and sat it down on the gravel handkerchief of the garden and set about planting my pots. It looks right nice in there now, it was jolly nice to sit on the pallet, read the paper and have a cup of tea in the cool autumn sunshine.

At lunchtime we took a couple of friends off for a late breakfast in a place by Regents Canal. IC used to work with some of the staff there and they’ve subsequently become actual pals, this used to result in free drinks but this compliment is dependant on the presence of owners. I had the Eggs Benedict as usual, one of my favourite all-time foods and this place makes the best ones in my limited experience. We wandered home past Broadway market for a cup of tea and to pick up some kippers for Sunday and drifted the afternoon away.

At 6pm IC and I took a packed DLR to Queen’s Park to visit Patti. The journey was shit so it was good to get some wine down my throat on arrival. Patti had made some Italian food that was of restaurant quality; we spent the entire evening eating and drinking which culminated in Patti’s homemade chocolate liqueur, which was fucking lethal, and delicious. But mainly lethal. The journey back is a bit of mystery but it seemed relatively simple, I have to say even by my standards I was pissed rotten. I’m not sure what time we got back but I went to bed at 4-ish, IC having passed out some time before this, and I woke on Sunday lunchtime feeling like I’d been given an organ transplant. IC had been long gone but there was a message on my phone asking if I wanted to meet her, Mary and Mike for a coffee to which I responded as positively as possible.

The walk to the market felt as if I’d been dislocated and reassembled in a Chinese sweatshop, I was fully aware that things were far from sober. After a coke Mary suggested we have a Bloody Mary in the local which I though would be a good idea to necessitate a cure. Sadly it didn’t really help. I was destined to spend the rest of the day crashed in front of IC’s TV feeling like I’d been dredged up from the Thames.

This wasn’t all bad; I was in a position to watch Jenson Button win the F1 world champion and, despite a visit from Swineshead and his missus, spent the remainder of my weekend in a state of sorry-ness. Not even the kipper and a re-visit to the excellent Spaced could help me.

I was feeling so bad I didn’t even feel like doing this.


One thing my trip did teach me is that mothballs are one of the few things that not only smell unimaginably abhorrent but also have the ability to transfer the disgusting stench as fucking taste in the horrified mouth. If sufficiently fortified I’ve no doubt this taste would make me physically sick. In my experience the only other thing that can do this is rotting human flesh, something I’ve encountered 3 more times than I’d have ideally preferred.

The restaurants in Turkey seem to use these spherical cunts as we British would use those little lemon scented cubes we chaps piss on in urinals. In warm climes I’ve no doubt mothballs are the last word in keeping flies out of ones privy but quite frankly, I’d rather they skated on my tip than have to put up with the pain of that ludicrously disgusting stink, then taste.

My Turkey experience bolted down a passing revulsion for these nasty things and I’ve come back into the UK with a pathological hatred for them, which is bordering on a sort of fear. Now I can smell them on people’s clothes, on busses, tubes and to my complete terror, in the toilets of the curry house I visited last night with Frank and Red following an ill-advised wringing of the fucking credit card. This impromptu meal came at the end of yet another exasperating day regarding the lack of any fucking development with my flat. My solicitor called and basically said that in addition to contacting the financial ombudsmen and Law Society he’s considering calling the bloody police as he think my buyers ‘solicitors’ are in fact fraudulent operators as they’re asking for the mortgage deposit before exchange, which, I’ve been informed is a bit like demanding a one-wheeled cart to draw a dead horse. Fucking mothballs.

My health is improving. I started to get ill as we were leaving the hotel Thursday week for the bus to catch the plane. It came on bloody fast, first the throat, then the weakness and finally that out of body daze that forces you towards the horizontal. I was feeling so shit I wasn’t even fussed about the flight and the final leg via public transport home (with loads of luggage) was harder than reaching the summit of Everest, yeah. I spent the Friday, Saturday and Sunday in and out of bed, Monday and Tuesday showed scant signs of improvement and Wednesday I was really not okay to go to work, so I went anyway.

That morning journey was dreadful, the bus was rammed, slow and the tube had a well-spoken lady quite literally screaming evangelist rhetoric at commuters who gradually changed carriages throughout the course of the long haul from Monument to Wimbledon. I decided to hold firm for a while but as the passengers diminished her aggression increased and I was far from able to cope with her din. Indeed, I too was forced to leave the carriage when this mentally impaired prick-ess decided to turn her vindictive invective onto me, personally. In front of 7 looking-the-other-way passengers she stood over me, pointed to my bent head and proclaimed ‘satan is among us’ as the train drew into East Putney. I decided not to act, she was of course quite right.

Oh, the bike is awesome; instead of ‘The Loud One’ she’s now officially christened ‘Brutta.’ More on her next week, and the paintballing fiasco due on Sunday, I should imagine. Gerry’s chart, a rather soporific (and dark) choon and an earnest wish your weekends are neat and tidy.

30 Ash True Love 1980 NE 1
29 Wolfmother New Moon Rising NE 1
28 Placebo The Never-Ending Why 21 11
27 Deadmau5 Ft Rob Swire Ghosts N’ Stuff 18 5
26 David Guetta Ft Akon Sexy Chick 28 2
25 Muse Uprising 20 11
24 Massive Attack Splitting The Atom NE 1
23 Kasabian Underdog 30 2
22 The Temper Trap Sweet Disposition 17 10
21 Biffy Clyro That Golden Rule 14 13
20 Slayer Hate World Wide 27 2
19 Paramore Ignorance 13 9
18 Ian Brown Stellify 15 8
17 Stereophonics Ignorance NE 1
16 Foo Fighters Wheels 19 3
15 Idlewild Readers And Writers 24 2
14 Julian Casablancas 11th Dimension 22 2
13 The Xx Crystallized 8 8
12 Weezer (If You’re…….) I Want You To. 10 4
11 Biffy Clyro The Captain 16 3
10 Mumford And Sons Little Lion Man 11 5
9 Echo And The Bunnymen Think I Need It Too 9 4
8 Skunk Anansie Because Of You 4 9
7 Five Finger Death Punch Hard To See 6 5
6 Ladyhawke Magic 12 2
5 Green Day East Jesus Nowhere 7 3
4 Rammstein Pussy 3 4
3 Lostprophets It’s Not The End Of The World… 5 6
2 Funeral For A Friend Wrench 2 7
1 Editors Papillon 1 6


IC isn’t, like me, a fucking pig. The more I like something the faster I’ll shove it into my maw, the doner kebab, for example, was virtually inhaled. But I found a chink in IC’s armour in the form of stuffed mussels, or as the Turkish call them, stuffed mussels. Don’t get me wrong, they’re very good, but IC regarded them as Manna and employed my tried and tested method of eating them as if they were about be stolen by a thief, or as the Turkish call them, bastards.

The same cannot be said for the bread. Let me stop you right there if you’re thinking the bread was bad, on the contrary it was very good, but bread with every meal, everyday? And lot’s of it? Because that’s what happened, hey, by the time we left we thought we wer aktually turnings into a bread!!! Aahahaha. GR8.

The day following the riot IC and I decided to hotfoot it over the Galata Bridge to Taxim and visit the ‘Modern Art Gallery’ which was a dirty rotten lie. In many respects Istanbul is about 10 years ‘behind,’ Turkish Modern Art could’ve come from 1990’s Goldsmiths but it was still very interesting seeing how the YBA’s were being re-hashed without all the phalluses and pickled fish, in fairness there were a couple of really nice pieces but nothing to set the world on fire. The gallery was virtually empty so it would seem that no one is that interested anyway. Fuck it then.

We headed over to the ancient Galata Tower for lunch but it was shut (for lunch) so we nipped round the corner to an empty café for some freshly cooked fodder, and beer. This part of town was poor and a bit ramshackle but the food was great and the weather was right nice, if a bit too hot. The local beer incidentally is bloody nice too (and cheaper than tap water.)

IC and I encountered poverty quite a few times on the trip, it wasn’t overt but if you took the time to get properly lost in back streets by the Grand Bazaar ‘real’ Istanbul made itself known. These markets were quite different from the tits and teeth Bazaars, and seemed to comprise of shops selling endless quantities of cheap cloth to the throngs similarly attired like bobbins. Fake goods lined the narrow streets and for the first time we didn’t get hassled, not one iota, these folk weren’t interested in tourists, they knew they had nothing to offer us.

The last meal on the last night was an expensive affair, well, relatively speaking. We dined in a very posh linen crisp fish restaurant on a sumptuous terrace overlooking the sea of Mamara where we chose the dead fish we were to be shortly served. Once again we got the wine for a song but the fish was a bit on the wee side, though delicious. Throughout most of the meal some old hag took it on herself to stare intently at us, I don’t think this went unnoticed because when she scuttled off the manager gave us a free pudding. No idea what it was, a sort of yoghurt thing but it was right nice.

One of the best things about Turkey was the lack of British people there. Nothing worse than being abroad seeing your fellow countrymen barking orders at locals all greased up on the local moonshine. The one we did encounter was a cross between Keith Richard and a penis. IC and I were having coffee outside of a posh furniture that doubled-up as a coffee gaff when a man with a hat and bare feet (the alarm bells were ringing from the off) began to nasally enthuse at the wowness factor of our being there, for some reason. He even dragged the shop owner out, who he was draped over like a soiled prophylactic, to let him bathe in the WOW of it all. IC and I sipped our coffee glancing nervously at it other with fixed grins. The Englishman started to go on about classical music, I knew before I said something about the Last Night of The Proms that I shouldn’t, English nearly blew his balls off when I did, then rushed back in the shop to take advantage of the owners sublime music system (and coffee) before actually patting me on the head, which IC didn’t like one bit. The classical recital he put on was live and began with applauding that English and Owner replicated with irritating enthusiasm, it was time for IC and I to get away, we hurriedly paid for our coffee as English played air-violin with imploring eyes, the wanker. As we were leaving English ran after us to say farewell and, for the sake of something to say, I asked him how long he and the shop owner, with whom he was taking substantial liberties if I’m honest, had known one another. ‘Oh,’ said English swishing the air, ‘I met him yesterday.’

I suppose it’s encounters like this that make a holiday a holiday, but I’d be happier without them, still, for all the negatives there are always dozens of positives. Looking back now the best part of the trip was a spot of luck regarding the hotel. Every night from the roof terrace IC and I bore witness to the most magical sunsets I’ve ever seen, they were almost silly beautiful, in perpetual change as if we were captured in a giant kaleidoscope. From where we sat we could see Asia, two seas, architectural hymns to god, seagull poo… sipping wine, plonked in a part of the world with more historical significance than just about anywhere, 360 view, drinking. And smoking. The evening prayers that bounced off the landscape were now just perfect.

Oh, I just picked up my new bike…

turc too

Sultan Ahmed Mosque, commonly known as The Blue Mosque, the source of my morning alarm, is regarded by many as the jewel in the crown of Islam, until recently it was one of the Seven Wonders of the World, apparently. A visit was essential, I’ve never been in a Mosque so it seemed canny to bust my cherry on what is regarded as the best one there is, hey, why settle for Spumanti when there is champagne on offer, right? Fuck yeah. First off, the place is enormous, really huge, it make St. Paul’s look like a privy.

Anyone can freely enter the grounds that surrounded the magnificent dome dressed in any way they ruddy well like. On entering the dome, however, guests are asked to keep arms and legs covered and one must remove ones shoes. American visitors thought it was okay to just cover their shoes with the plastic bags provided for carrying ones footwear which incensed me, not subscribing to religious doctrine is one thing but some fucking respect is another entirely. In fact I was so angry I accidentally dropped my shoes on the ‘no shoe zone’ which was a little counterproductive.

I wasn’t quite expecting the Mosque to be as awe inspiring as it was, it’s achingly beautiful (called the Blue Mosque because of the vast quantity of tiny blue tiles than line the interior) and the atmosphere quite humbling, emotive, even. Within there was a line that visitors were not permitted to cross and beyond lay the stained glass and electrifying script that glowed before a handful of devotees. When we walked back into the sunshine IC and I were both rather moved, I donated to money to the upkeep of the building and a man took my money with smiling gratitude and a little wink which was right nice. I was so chuffed I bought a fresh pack of tabs and on a whim, a lighter featuring stick people having oral sex.

The sunshine came as a welcome relief, on the second day it rained in short violent bursts forcing me to purchasing a vast umbrella for about £2. We didn’t mind much, it was still warm and anyway, we had stuff to see indoors.

The Basilica Cistern is one of the best things I’ve seen. Built by the Romans to supply water for the city (by 7,000 slaves, apparently) this huge subterranean water tank supports the city above on dozens of enormous columns (Ionic, Doric and Corinthian architect fans) semi-submerged into the crystal clear water below. Lately it’s been jazzed up, each column is lit up by eerie orange lights and a walkway meanders through the crepuscular cavern, ethereal music chimes in the background, it’s magical but in a not-so-funny sort of way, spooky too. The highlight is a pair of carved Medusa head’s chillingly positioned horizontally at the base of the columns at the far end of the well giving it even more of a haunted touch. I relished in the shudders.

We journeyed over the North bank to visit the fish market and were harassed by a bunch of local eateries that sit virtually on top of palettes of Bluefish, Bream and Bass, some still flicked their tails and gulped warm air in defiance of their fatal awakening. We chose a very rustic looking place on account of the menu and sat outside only yards from the river bank. Battered mussels and Bream were cooked to fucking perfection, no fuss or fancy, belt and braces top quality food that would’ve cost a bloody fortune at Sheeky’s or Bibendum, bill came to under a tenner.

Throughout our stay we regularly visited the Grand Bazaar and the slightly more gentile Spice Bazaar. Both are ostentatious riots of colour, heat and activity, particularly the latter which was much smaller though less intense, largely because real life business was being conducted there. As with the restaurants traders would leap out at you with theatrical grins and unsubtle one-liners, ‘Hey **** (a reference to a particular tattoo) let me talk to you, hey, I just wanna talk ,****..!’ I was referred to said tat so often on my trip I started to answer to it as if it was my god-given name. In a way I found it sort of endearing.

The markets are a place to lose yourselves for a few hours, in the case of the Grand Bazaar quite literally. On one occasion we took a wrong turn and found ourselves in someone’s ramshackle house after being ushered up by a less-than-comely youth under the misapprehension the market had another level, we found ourselves overlooking the top of the markets with a young Turk staring at IC with a nasty grin and a skewed twinkle in his eye, who, without breaking his malevolent gaze, began demanding money, we rapidly retreated pursued by a now less-than-friendly native.

Most of the stuff sold in the markets is much the same, trinkets, coloured pottery, shisha pipes, sweets, but prices vary widely, you can pay more than double for an item seen seconds before in an adjacent stall. The Spice Bazaar was my favourite and incredibly cheap for spices, obviously. You could buy Saffron for a much less than a tenth of the price in Supermarkets in London and Iranian Beluga Caviar was about £18 a pot. It was visually stunning too, mini mountains of multicoloured spice peaked precariously over their sacks without caution to the passing throngs, it says a lot for the Turkish this, there’re extraordinarily trusting in that part of town (allegedly it’s a different story on the North bank) and apart from the incident cited, at no point did I or IC feel threatened or any way unsafe day or night.

We lunched out every day and ate out every night; for the most part the food was sensational. I managed to eat loads of lamb koftis and kebab meat, the latter a bit disappointing in many respects as most of them mix lamb and beef and due in part to the lack of crap contained within they felt surprisingly listless to the spicy elephant legs you get over here. Having said that it was a different story on the streets, kebab stalls were everywhere and in a display of uncharacteristic tolerance I decided to have only one ‘dirty’ kebab, though it took me a short while to locate an ‘authentic’ one of just pure lamb. I did on the last day and by the love of god was it worth it, served in a sort of flatbread with salad and chilli sauce I almost wept tears of fucking joy as I ate it. No shit kids, I’d go all the way back there just to have another. I was so bloody happy I asked to guy to give me his trademark wrapper for posterity which the hero gently folded and presented to me as if the finest ermine in Christendom. It sits happily attached to my fridge with two pretty Islamic Fridge magnets and a rubber tit.

One of the nicest meals we had -outside of those described- was in a little place by the hotel. There was a small snag though, the owner was a lovely Muslim chap who wouldn’t sell us alcohol but agreed to let us bring our own wine in. I think he regretted his decision as soon as IC and I turned up pissed a couple of hours later waving a bottle of Turkey’s finest. Of course he didn’t have an opener (he breathed with a sigh of relief) so I went back to the shop to get this issue resolved and returned. He politely asked us if we wouldn’t mind keeping the wine on the floor of his restaurant throughout our meal. His lamb koftis were out of this world.

Bit more tomorrow. I’m still bloody crook but feeling able to face a day in the office, maybe. On more thrilling news, my new bike will be ready for collection this week. Sadly this fact is offset by the lack of anything from my fucking solicitors. Cunts.

A treat for Dead Kennedy fans right here…


ALLLLLLLLAAAARRRRRRRAGGGHHHHHH, HEEEEEEMYYYUNUNUNUNEEEEEEEAARRRRR and so forth. Six am on the dot every day from a sound system that would make Motorhead blush, astonishing noise that could be heard reverberating around the whole city for a good 20 minutes, every morning, every day.

Prayers happened 5 times a day, 6, 1, 4, 7 and 8pm from a multitude of Mosques. But the longest by far was the morning, after a few days IC and I would wake in anticipation of it. At first it was annoying, but there was also something rather beautiful about it. In many respects this is the essence of Istanbul, a city of opposites and tolerance; it’s both clean and shoddy, irritating and awe inspiring, shit and lovely all packed into one small corner of the world -I’m no traveller but of all the places I’ve visited this was the one that snatched the breath from your lungs in the most unexpected of quarters.

Istanbul is literally divided into two; the north part is all commerce and industry, it’s like any other modern city, office blocks punctuated by bars and cafes with the odd cinema, theatre and gallery. The traffic is perpetual and it’s noisy seemingly without reference to the more archaic occurrences over the Galata Bridge to the south. On the Tuesday a very 21st century riot kicked off after students protesting against the G20 summit were inexcusably assaulted by the local constabulary, you may have read about it in the papers… In the south no one even knew about this until the following day, if at all.

We arrived on Saturday after a reasonably relaxed flight and were plopped into midsummer weather at lunchtime after losing a couple of hours over Europe. After a minor standoff at passport control in which all the UK bods were forced to pay 10 fucking Euro for a visa stamp (I didn’t have 10 Euro to hand and demanded to know why I was being charged passage when IC was able to wander through with impunity.) After being frogmarched to a cash machine by an official we found ourselves outside the airport surrounded by a sea of coach and cabs without a clue how to get to our hotel. We knew the district the accommodation was in so began to ask which coach we needed to get to our destination. Each time we asked we were ushered towards grinning cab drivers until we discovered we were actually being directed towards a very specific coach surrounded by grinning taxi drivers… said coach took us to Taxim (capiche?) where once again we found ourselves in the midst of yet more coaches and cabbies (and 72 hours later the venue for the riot.) IC and I decided against our better nature to get a £20 (45 Turkish Lira) cab to the hotel, unaware as we were then a tram costing 75p would have virtually dropped us outside the door.

It was 4-ish when we checked in, hot and tired but full of that weird exuberance when finding oneself, quite suddenly, in a different country with people doing different shit and not speaking the Queens lingo, or in the case of IC, The Pope.

The staff were friendly and only too keen to help a pair of knackered tourists, bit too keen actually, the young bloke on reception seemed intent on showing us every fucking hillock, but he was okay, even more so when he got IC and I a bottle of wine and sent us onto the roof terrace. This was the best part about the hotel, the rooms were clean and featured a nice en suite but were a bit subterranean and small, the terrace on the other hand offered a 360 degree panorama of Istanbul with the Blue Mosque a quarter of a mile off and The Golden Horn even closer. We sat there sipping Turkish wine (which to my utter surprise is bloody lovely) and generally feeling a bit chuffed with ourselves.

After the wine we hit the city. Istanbul is very walkable, indeed most of the major places of interest were no more than a 20 minute stroll from the hotel. As soon as we stepped out every shopkeeper, restaurateur, cafe owner did the same thing and began pitching us with smiles and accommodating gestures in the direction of their wares or services. It wasn’t too bad round the hotel which was located in Sultanahmet on a quiet cobbled street a few hundred yards from the Egyptian obelisk where the harassment began to ratchet up a notch, gently at first but with increasing intensity all the way to the Galata Bridge where mawkish maître d’s lurking in the dozens of fish restaurants that line the underside virtually throw themselves at your feet in order to halt your progress… It’s a price worth paying mind you, however irritating it might be.

There are so many restaurants under the Galata Bridge that offer the same sort of fare it’s largely impossible to tell one from the other outside of the quantity, or lack of, diners. Trying to examine a menu always results in hard-core pitching but as Istanbul is by and large a Muslim city we quickly learnt to edit the fellows not serving booze and take our chances with the ones that do. The trick is play them at their own game, ask for free wine, it usually sees them off, but on a couple of occasions we got just that, at worst we always won a discount of some sort.

Once a decision has been made the neighbouring competition melts away and we could relax. The view of the river and the banks littered with cafes, markets and Mosques are sublime enough to negate description and the food is fucking amazing, everything fresh and local, the bridge-eateries are only a few feet from freshly landed fish. Over the top of the bridge, day and night, fishermen crowd both sides of the bridge with lines cast into the clear water below. This means that diners are treated to a curtain of silvery nylon line punctuated by the odd descending hook and the occasion rising bluefish with his fate sealed tight.

Once seated the waiting staff, unburdened by pressure of new business, are chatty, friendly and genuinely interested in their rather scruffy diners. I have to say, by and large, the Turks are friendly and decent, from the piss poor tinker right up to shop managers in the posher parts of town… having said that it’s easy for me to say that being a cock-proud bloke, IC was subject to lascivious gazes, salacious winking, comments and on one occasion a foolhardy grab to the point she almost began to envy the karakul burka-clad sisters.

On the first night we ate and drank to our hearts content and after a day’s travel slept like the dead until being blasted off our mattress by the rapturous cacophony from the Blue Mosque. Christ it was fucking loud, almost as if the bloke was lying next to me with the business end of his loudspeaker attached to my ear.

The hotel breakfast was not to my liking, salty weird cheese and spongy meat; I didn’t fancy cereal so we more or less gave it a miss. The Sunday weather wasn’t too clement either, strangely overcast but humid, IC and I didn’t really care though, we had a mission to explore.

More tomorrow. I should explain that if this reads dreadfully it’s because since I returned on Thursday evening I’ve been knocked sideways by a bastard cold and doing anything is aggro. Oh, Jerry’s chart won’t post on this fucking machine but fear not, it’ll be posted soon and I’ve a choon from the current.

I hope I don’t die, by the way.


No Piqued for a week, there’s a huge, badly written archive if you get bored, actually, I was looking back on something a few weeks ago and it was peppered with all bad shit, missing words. Stuff like that.

I had to take public transport last night, and again this morning. It’s a dour experience, in particular the final leg of the journey home. I alight in the city after a miserable 40 minutes on the tube and have to hang out the place like a tart waiting for the bus. It’s no problem getting a bus out of Hackney in the morning but getting one back in late afternoon is a right bastard if you’ll pardon my fucking language. Of course it’s rammed full, full of cunts. Probably.

Right, Gerry’s chart, a tune and have good weekends, and indeed the following week. Spare a though for me in Istanbul. RIIIFFKKIII!

30 The Gossip Love Long Distance 23 6
29 All Time Low Weightless 29 3
28 Hockey Song Away 28 4
27 The Cribs Cheat On Me 20 8
26 Foo Fighters Wheels NE 1
25 Arctic Monkeys Crying Lightning 18 12
24 Biffy Clyro The Captain NE 1
23 You Me At Six Kiss And Tell 22 4
22 Steel Panther Community Property 25 3
21 Gallows I Dread The Night 16 7
20 Bat For Lashes Sleep Alone 19 3
19 Green Day East Jesus Nowhere NE 1
18 Pearl Jam The Fixer 12 8
17 Muse Uprising 14 9
16 Weezer (If You’re…….) I Want You To. 21 2
15 Placebo The Never-Ending Why 10 9
14 Deadmau5 Ft Rob Swire Ghosts N’ Stuff 15 3
13 Mumford And Sons Little Lion Man 17 3
12 Echo And The Bunnymen Think I Need It Too 27 2
11 Paramore Ignorance 7 7
10 Ian Brown Stellify 6 6
9 The Temper Trap Sweet Disposition 5 8
8 Lostprophets It’s Not The End Of The World… 8 4
7 Biffy Clyro That Golden Rule 4 11
6 Five Finger Death Punch Hard To See 9 3
5 The xx Crystallized 3 6
4 Funeral For A Friend Wrench 13 5
3 Rammstein Pussy 11 2
2 Skunk Anansie Because Of You 2 7
1 Editors Papillon 1 4


Technically, the Black Bitch is still mine but I’m not allowed to ride her anymore, so effectively, I’m bikeless. I don’t think I’ve been bikeless since I was 18… apart from the occasionally protracted service… but that doesn’t really count as I still had a bike, it was just being fiddled with and I could lawfully ride it at any given moment. Now I’m actually bikeless, it’s a bloody horrid feeling, akin to impotency I should imagine.

Yesterday evening the Black Bitch was taken to the folks so it may be parked up off road, she was then locked and covered until such time she’s purchased by another fellow. Following a light grilling from my parents with regard to their perception that I may be involved in Satanism (I’m not kidding, incidentally) a bemused Piqued was dropped off at the station to catch the train, the bus, to home. It was a horrific journey, the train full of teenage Hockey players who made such an ear-shredding din I was forced to change carriages. And the fucking bus was well late.

I don’t watch Eastenders anymore, please check link to WWM on right and enjoy the rantings of those that do, but learnt that tonight a certain Boris Johnson makes a ‘cameo’ appearance on the soap. It seems to be causing a bit of a fuss and I’m not entirely sure why…

Well I am a bit; apparently Ken Livingston was denied a spot on the show when he suggested it to the BBC so the Corporation are being accused of political bias. I suppose I can see something in this but, really, what sort of prick would go from anti-Boris to pro-Boris based on his popping up on a soap opera? Judging by the preview on the BBC homepage, in which a clearly self-conscious Johnson attempts to act (check out that just-washed jerky head movement) it may do him more harm than good by highlighting what a fat toe-curling twit he is. Other arguments levelled at his BBC appearance are around the ‘he should be doing his job’ ilk. On the one hand this is fair-enough but for those of us living under his blonde bouffant it’s business as usual. Boris has done fuck-all for Londoners apart from stopping me from drinking on public transport and encouraging me to put mine and others lives in danger by allowing me to blast down bus lanes (as discussed in previous entries) when I’m not bikeless, of course.

So what if he’s on Eastenders, Neighbours, Emmerdale, Crossroads, Albion Market or what ever TV-bilge he cares to lend his talentlessness. At least it keeps the tit out of County Hall making up cynical and stupid dictates in lieu of actual transport policy that would allow me to get from Hackney to Wimbledon in less than the two fucking hours it took me this morning by crammed, public transport. That did smelled of dirty bottoms.

Oh, flat latest. During the day I had yet another row with my insouciant solicitor who seems to think it’s perfectly acceptable to not harangue the shit out my buyers legal ‘team’ when they curtly inform her that faxes are treated as post in terms of a 48-hour turnaround. In short, they now have every last shred of documentation required to initiate the exchange, but can’t be fucked to do anything about it. I’m sick to the back teeth of this shit and am haemorrhaging money like a menstruating primate with a serrated knife in its neck. Cunts!