Monthly Archives: October 2009

‘plete?

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.

ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
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

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poure

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…


cheakikun

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?

CUNTS.


mowtoe

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.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
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


xjanyj

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!