mmmhed

Saturday late afternoon, sat in Mary’s hairdressers in Clerkenwell watching vast chunks of my hair float listlessly down to hell, I watched my re-birth with a mixture of amusement and trepidation, Mary giggled behind a veil of clinking flashing steel, ‘Johnny Rotten circa 1977,’ I’d mentioned it by means of trying to describe short hair that wasn’t kempt or tidy, in this respect she did a stunning job. I’m still not used to seeing my moon-sized forehead, having hair sticking out my cranium like the amateur flora and fauna of an inner city allotment, but I am happy with this new hirsute creation. More importantly, IC fucking loves it. Go me… so I went right off after to see Motorhead.

Friday had begun slowly; IC had suffered a less than easy day in her office that had resulted in her having to work late. Nonetheless, we made it to the restaurant by 9 and were instantly cured of all weekday bothers by the surroundings, dark oak-panelled dining room with rococo finishings and the menu, Japanese fare, all looking right pretty with wine arriving at our elbows. We ate sushi, sashimi and deep fried oysters and rice, noodles… we unwound in the most agreeable manner, and I’m delighted say IC footed the bill too.

I slept in Saturday morning, IC popped off to do some work and I took time to quickly clean Brutta, conscious that I was doing a bike-clean for the first time in my garden, which made the job rather pleasurable. After some shopping I had a very late breakfast with IC and by mid afternoon I was heading west to get my head grated. The journey after my slicing was shit. I had to take a bus to Holborn, central line to Notting Hill, district line to Hammersmith, all undertaken without i-pod, book or paper. By the time I arrived at a pub lurking up Fulham Palace Road it was bucketing it down with rain. As it wasn’t even 6pm yet I was able to grab a table with the newly arrived Jerry and John and beers began to disappear in earnest. Jamie arrived half an hour later and we remained in a darkening pub until 7.30 or so before taking ourselves off to The Odeon via a final boozer, now solid with Motorhead types, and had one more.

The Odeon was heaving with large hairy blokes but for all the swaggering and gurning you couldn’t be safer if you were in a tearoom in Tunbridge Wells. Some of the blokes had even brought their kids along; at least I hope they were their kids… After wrestling for position at the merch stand I bought another beanie (I buy one ever year I see them then lose it just after Christmas) and then did the same at the bar. We saw the end of Girlschool’s set that featured a reluctant Lemmy for Please Don’t Touch (never thought I’d see that btw, marvellous) then got some more beers. Jamie and I missed the beginning of The Damned (and New Rose, annoyingly) but they tore through most of their classics with X-Factor enthusiasm, not bad for a bunch of 50 year-olds. I was particularly delighted to hear Curtain Call, a few year back one of our pals knacked himself and they played it at his funeral. At the end of the set Captain Sensible did a few seconds of Happy Talk before being literally carried off (still playing, a-ho-ho) by a bear-sized roadie. Marvellous.

After more beer Motorhead finally came on stage. By now I was separated from my crew but, beer in hand, I settled in a spot to the left near the middle. Perfect, nice and loud, no cunts leaping about and space to unwind. Seeing Motorhead is a bit like seeing funny old relatives, albeit raucous warty ones, as I’ve seen them virtually every autumn since I was 18. I find it extremely comforting when they play, the only other band that have this milk and honey aspect on my being is Hawkwind, and we’ll come to them in a couple of weeks.

After locating my mates on the other side of the auditorium, Jamie and I, now rather pissed, decided to head up the front. Following much pushing and shoving we got right up to the barrier where we were merrily crushed right under the shadow of Lemmy’s bass, I recall I was laughing my head off for about 20 minutes in this thundering din as we were subject to waves of heaving bodies crashing to and fro… By the time they finally left us following a protracted bout of Overkill I’d I yelled myself hoarse and was in possession of one of Lemmy’s picks that had been sheepishly handed to me by a little Indian security guard after it landed short of the crowd-proper. I was dead chuffed.

The fucking journey back was a nightmare, apparently I nearly got into two fights but I’m not sure of any peripheral circumstance. After a harrowfying tube excursion we alighted at Bethnal Green and waiting for an age in the pissing rain, thank fuck for my Motor-Hat. We finally arrived home where a less that sober IC joined us for a post-gig blow out and we wrung the last remaining drops out of a killer Saturday.

Sunday: after blowing off into his retching face, I let Jamie out of the garden and invited IC for breakfast, a bloody great fry-up in the excellent greasy spoon round the corner. It went a long way to fixing me for the rest of the day. IC and I spent a good few hours being pathetic and lazy and then with Mary and Matt bussed it to The City to see a friend celebrating a decade of being in London. The venue was okay looking but let down hugely by the fucking crooner music (Andy Fucking Williams and the like) played at ear splitting volume. Against my better nature I had a couple of glasses of wine (it was one of those places) and settled into the conversation, well, what I could hear bearing in mind I’d just seen the loudest band on earth the previous evening, and just as I was getting into the swing of things we left for home.

IC and I rounded the weekend off with some supper and at 10pm Mary and O came over to watch Sunshine on my new-and-not-much-used TV. The horror of Monday bubbled away in my seething guts as the film climaxed; I even regret my decision to abstain in hindsight.

No Piqued tomorrow, I’m in Birmingham for the Bike Show. Tune in on Wednesday to be subsequently bored shitless by my largely isolated peccadillo of two-wheeled things that aren’t bicycles or scooters.

yuryn

A few months ago some berk was photographed going to toilet on a war memorial. It wasn’t a statement, or even an act of disrespect or vindictiveness; he was just pissed out of his tree and took it on himself to tinkle on a wreath of poppies.

Don’t get me wrong here, what he did was inexcusable, and he was rightly arrested, charged and yesterday, following a short trial in which the weeing prick showed genuine remorse for his actions, was sentenced to do 250 hours community service.

Fair enough, right? Well not according to readers of the Daily Mail, most thought he should’ve been put in prison and a few thought he should’ve been put into prison and flogged, one thought he should’ve been hanged. Do you think someone is missing the point here?

A war memorial is to commemorate the British dead who died fighting tyranny, those poor soul who died to protect our freedom and, within this, our human rights. The war dead were fighting for our democracy, our ‘just’ society (such as it is) which is why we don’t fucking well flog people and hang them for pissing on a metaphor. To quote Fyodor Dostoevsky “The way society treats its prisoners characterises the level of its civilisation.”

While I’m on the topic, a far greater insult to the war dead is to not use your right to vote. The fields of Flanders are lined with thousands and thousands of little white crosses, each one represent a person who died fighting for the freedom of the nation, for your right to chose your government. I’m still amazed by how many people are so lackadaisical about voting by the way. Do you think that Mr. Hitler would allow you to vote? Do you? (The answers ‘no’ incidentally.)

Brutta’s speedo is working again, the bloke at the bike shop suggested I disconnected the battery and bingo! I rode home in excellent cheer, arrived home, manipulated her through the gate and as I parked her in the garden it fell off the stand and the fucking mirror snapped off on the side of the poxy shed. I saved her from keeling all the way over though, so that’s good, for fucks sake. After, I had a splendid evening with Harry and his pal Mickey. We went to a boozer just off a housing estate near City Road, a real locals gaff serving traditional British Ales of the most sublime quality, and sampled a good 6 of the buggers. At some point a pub quiz happened, we three did all right under the circumstances. Christ knows how I got home.

Oh, I see that Lemmy-faced juggernorks Jordan wants Pete back. Way back in summer I heard a rumour that a Christmas ‘we’re back together’ single was in the pipeline and the whole splitting-up thing was a cynical marketing ploy to make cash money…

Right, excellent weekend lined up. It includes Sushi with the missus, Motorhead with pals and having my bloody hair cut. The last two events contradict slightly. But before all that caper, chart and choon.

Rest up, wankers.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Fightstar A City On Fire NE 1
29 Wolfmother New Moon Rising 16 7
28 Mumford And Sons Winter Winds NE 1
27 Ladyhawke Magic 18 8
26 The Blackout I Don’t Care…….. 25 3
25 Kasabian Underdog 17 8
24 All Time Low Damned If I Do Ya………. 27 2
23 Ian Brown Just Like You NE 1
22 Foo Fighters Wheels 15 9
21 The Drums I Feel Stupid 23 3
20 Green Day 21st Century Breakdown 26 2
19 The Horrors Whole New Way 29 2
18 Arctic Monkeys Cornerstone 21 4
17 Skunk Anansie Squander 11 5
16 Bombay Bicycle Club Always Like This 20 2
15 Dead Weather I Cut Like A Buffalo 12 6
14 Rammstein Pussy 10 10
13 AFI Medicate 22 2
12 Lostprophets It’s Not The End Of The World… 8 12
11 Ou Est Le Swimming Pool Dance The Way I Feel 19 2
10 Biffy Clyro The Captain 6 9
9 30 Seconds To Mars Kings And Queens 13 4
8 Paramore Brick By Boring Brick 9 5
7 Editors Papillon 5 12
6 A Place To Bury Strangers In Your Heart 14 2
5 Athlete Black Swan Song 7 5
4 Death Cab For Cutie Meet Me At The Equinox 2 5
3 Them Crooked Vultures New Fang 4 3
2 Muse Undisclosed Desires 1 4
1 Chase And Status ft Plan B End Credits 3 4

unrite

I’m going to be 41 in a month. How the merry fuck did this happen? 41? I was only at school a couple of years ago, college was last month, university last week, then I started ‘working’ and whole years started to get munched in hours.

As far as I’m concerned I’m still killing time until I do my real job, trouble is I have pretty much forgotten what that was. If it was anything to do with my University Education I can forget that for a kick-off, I think I smoked/drank all that information out of my rapidly shrinking brain years/months/weeks/days ago. Looks like I’m stuck in a self-made rut without the slightest inclination to better myself, though I’ll aggressively maintain that I’m different to everyone else, gifted, special, when of course I’m just normal, or subnormal.

The realisation that one isn’t going to attain the heights of power and fame that were assumed as a given when one was 18, lolling about art class with my long hair and stupid trousers, still hasn’t hit me. Nor will it. I’ll still be writing this fucking blog until I draw my last wheezing breath arrogantly maintaining I will succeed in doing something about whatever it was. Go me!

I’ve been feeling very weird this week. I can’t put my finger on it but it feels as if I’m not within myself, as if I’m remotely viewing my conscious mind, like one of those new-fangled software devices that allows one to access office files from the comfort of your own bedsit. This oddness isn’t on all the time; I drift in an out of it. It’s a little like coming down off a not-very-smooth acid trip, or the aftermath of a weekend on amphetamines. It’s a little better today but I’m keen for it to fuck right off out of it, I’m in a bloody good frame of mind for the most part and it’s coming along and making me feel all mortal and, well, peculiar.

The fucking speedo on Brutta isn’t working. I’m trying to remain calm, everything is under warranty and I’m aware that when it comes to electronics the Italian manufacture theirs with ‘character,’ and not knowing how fast I’m going isn’t the end of the world and what have you… but it sort of emasculates the feeling of going quickly, it just rounds off the edge of the fun of well, riding like a fucking hooligan.

Anyway, at least I’m not going insane.

Bad quality, great song.

cuntrie

I was chatting to that Napoleon Cockaparte yesterday, initially about a pulled Times article by Jeremy Clarkson (posted on here below) which led us on to discuss/scream about the smoking ban and the harm it’s done to pub trade, not necessarily in terms of business, more significantly, how this has effected communities, specifically those in less affluent areas turning a sorry gaze to the lonely old widower who quite simply lived for a quiet evening pint in The Dog and Duck…

On further investigation I learnt that there are indeed two places in the UK a person can enjoy a pint and a fag, one is Annie’s Bar and the other The Churchill Room Bar, both are in the Palace of Westminster better known to us cunts as Parliament. I went onto learn that the European Parliament also implemented a smoking ban, this lasted a couple of months before it was openly flouted.

I know there are plenty of other things involving government that probably deserve far greater displays of vitriol, the hilarious Iraq Enquiry is taking place as I type this, for example, but to cynically apply a ‘one rule for them, another for us’ is, in my fucking opinion, of far greater concern than MP’s fiddling their expenses, simply because we can all do if we’re so inclined. Not all of us can have a pint and a tab in the local round the corner though can we?

As usual that plastic tit-hound Katie Price is all over the fucking news, her recent exit from some farcical game show even made it onto the BBC news yesterday. I noticed through my sore eyes that, and I’m paraphrasing here as I care less for the ins and outs of this non story than I do ball-cancer, that she spurned alcohol, when doing something or other, ‘because when she drinks she becomes ‘Jordan.’’ I then got to thinking, what a strange choice of moniker for such a creature.

As we all know Jordan is a country in Western Asia spanning the southern part of the Syrian Desert down to the Gulf of Aqaba, 92% of the population are Sunni Muslim and I doubt that the good folk of the land would take a favourable view at the exploits of their country’s namesake. Anyway, why the fuck has she chosen ‘Jordan’ the twat? Surely it’s as nonsensical as Sam Fox referring to herself as ‘Guinea-Bissau’ when she’s had a few or Joanne Guest spurning Vodka Red Bull in case she transforms into The Nagorno-Karabakh Republic.

Right, here is the Clarkson article, published here with no prejudice either way as they aren’t my words.

“I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought all week, and I’m afraid I’ve decided that it’s no good putting Peter Mandelson in a prison. I’m afraid he will have to be tied to the front of a van and driven round the country until he isn’t alive any more. He announced last week that middle-class children will simply not be allowed into the country’s top universities even if they have 4,000 A-levels, because all the places will be taken by Albanians and guillemots and whatever other stupid bandwagon the conniving idiot has leapt on to.

I hate Peter Mandelson. I hate his fondness for extremely pale blue jeans and I hate that preposterous moustache he used to sport in the days when he didn’t bother trying to cover up his left-wing fanaticism. I hate the way he quite literally lords it over us even though he’s resigned in disgrace twice, and now holds an important decision-making job for which he was not elected.

Mostly, though, I hate him because his one-man war on the bright and the witty and the successful means that half my friends now seem to be taking leave of their senses.

There’s talk of emigration in the air. It’s everywhere I go. Parties. Work. In the supermarket. My daughter is working herself half to death to get good grades at GSCE and can’t see the point because she won’t be going to university, because she doesn’t have a beak or flippers or a qualification in washing windscreens at the lights. She wonders, often, why we don’t live in America.

Then you have the chaps and chapesses who can’t stand the constant raids on their wallets and their privacy. They can’t understand why they are taxed at 50% on their income and then taxed again for driving into the nation’s capital. They can’t understand what happened to the hunt for the weapons of mass destruction. They can’t understand anything. They see the Highway Wombles in those brand new 4x4s that they paid for, and they see the M4 bus lane and they see the speed cameras and the community support officers and they see the Albanians stealing their wheelbarrows and nothing can be done because it’s racist.

And they see Alistair Darling handing over £4,350 of their money to not sort out the banking crisis that he doesn’t understand because he’s a small-town solicitor, and they see the stupid war on drugs and the war on drink and the war on smoking and the war on hunting and the war on fun and the war on scientists and the obsession with the climate and the price of train fares soaring past £1,000 and the Guardian power-brokers getting uppity about one shot baboon and not uppity at all about all the dead soldiers in Afghanistan, and how they got rid of Blair only to find the lying twerp is now going to come back even more powerful than ever, and they think, “I’ve had enough of this. I’m off.”

It’s a lovely idea, to get out of this stupid, Fairtrade, Brown-stained, Mandelson-skewed, equal-opportunities, multicultural, carbon-neutral, trendily left, regionally assembled, big-government, trilingual, mosque-drenched, all-the-pigs-are-equal, property-is-theft hellhole and set up shop somewhere else. But where?

You can’t go to France because you need to complete 17 forms in triplicate every time you want to build a greenhouse, and you can’t go to Switzerland because you will be reported to your neighbours by the police and subsequently shot in the head if you don’t sweep your lawn properly, and you can’t go to Italy because you’ll soon tire of waking up in the morning to find a horse’s head in your bed because you forgot to give a man called Don bundle of used notes for “organising” a plumber.

You can’t go to Australia because it’s full of things that will eat you, you can’t go to New Zealand because they don’t accept anyone who is more than 40 and you can’t go to Monte Carlo because they don’t accept anyone who has less than 40 mill. And you can’t go to Spain because you’re not called Del and you weren’t involved in the Walthamstow blag. And you can’t go to Germany … because you just can’t.

The Caribbean sounds tempting, but there is no work, which means that one day, whether you like it or not, you’ll end up like all the other expats, with a nose like a burst beetroot, wondering if it’s okay to have a small sharpener at 10 in the morning. And, as I keep explaining to my daughter, we can’t go to America because if you catch a cold over there, the health system is designed in such a way that you end up without a house. Or dead.

Canada’s full of people pretending to be French, South Africa’s too risky, Russia’s worse and everywhere else is too full of snow, too full of flies or too full of people who want to cut your head off on the internet.

So you can dream all you like about upping sticks and moving to a country that doesn’t help itself to half of everything you earn and then spend the money it gets on bus lanes and advertisements about the dangers of salt. But wherever you go you’ll wind up an alcoholic or dead or bored or in a cellar, in an orange jumpsuit, gently wetting yourself on the web. All of these things are worse than being persecuted for eating a sandwich at the wheel.

I see no reason to be miserable. Yes, Britain now is worse than it’s been for decades, but the lunatics who’ve made it so ghastly are on their way out. Soon, they will be back in Hackney with their South African nuclear-free peace polenta. And instead the show will be run by a bloke whose dad has a wallpaper shop and possibly, terrifyingly, a twerp in Belgium whose fruitless game of hunt-the-WMD has netted him £15m on the lecture circuit.

So actually I do see a reason to be miserable. Which is why I think it’s a good idea to tie Peter Mandelson to a van. Such an act would be cruel and barbaric and inhuman. But it would at least cheer everyone up a bit, in the meantime.”

smiff

Morrissey is going to be on Desert Island Discs. Sweet Christ, One of the Famous Mancurian Arseholes is going to be on BBC Radio 4 for a protracted and humourless moan from stretched questions fired from the less than competent Kirsty Young. I heard an extract last night as I was making some tea, in response to a question involving Morrissey doing ‘normal things’ which, less face it is red rag to an already contemptuous bull, he snorted the following, ‘what, like feeding ducks in the park?’ I could almost see the twat swaggering towards me, little fists clenched in preparation to stick one on me for daring to suggest by proxy he does poo and wee wee like the rest of us ‘normals.’ Kirsty went on to explain she was thinking more in terms of ‘settling down,’ he unconvincingly objected in a pseudo fit of pique about how the thought of such things (having human company, love, etc., basic requirements of the human condition unless one is in a fucking coma, like his fictitious girlfriend) make him want to ‘explode,’ with what I’m not sure.

In the space of 20 seconds I went from sanguine temperament to a ball of venting fury. Who let this cunt into my room? Roy Plomley would be spinning in his grave like Lewis Button’s drive shaft. I for one won’t be listening but even I am intrigued to hear the pillocks response when Kirsty mentions that, like all guests, you get the Complete Works of Shakespeare and god help her, The Bible on your Desert Island as a given. His teenage response is inevitable, right? This could be the first time BBC Radio 4 has broadcast a dirty protest.

Despite the aforementioned whinge, I’m in excellent cheer. IC is back and this morning I had a bloody killer ride into work. I won all 6 stages of my imagined competition by performing acts of derring-do (apparently ‘derring-do’ is a ‘pseudo archaism,’ it originated from Chaucer, was misunderstood by Lydgate, picked up but misprinted by Spenser and then employed by Sir Walter Scott, this series of misunderstandings have created a word meaning ‘reckless courage.’) on Brutta. I decimated the competition including an act of surgery on a KTM Duke, my nemesis, who even popped a little wheelie when he was behind my pipe in order to claw back some dignity as I shut off the traffic I’d past and farted away into the grey yonder.

plai

Yesterday was a complete write off. I went out once to get some lamb and sprouts, how on earth I managed that is a mystery. Using these ingredients I made so much roast food I was unable to move afterwards. I sat in front of Spiderman 3 like a booze-soaked heap of slag dreading the Monday that dawned in darkness concealing pissing-howling rain.

The cause of my malaise began on Saturday evening when I went to East Hackney to see a play starring one of my pals. I’d had a swift pint before the show, one during the interval and then after the evening began proper. The play was quite good (I’m not a fan of theatre) though certainly saved by the two leads. As it was the last night the small cast came together to celebrate a successful run, at some point James joined us and we stayed until closing. I’m not sure how this came about but it was I that arranged for 3 cabs to take us all to Shoreditch, on arrival I found myself the unlikely lead for a group of about 9 and had to make a ‘yeah, I know it round here’ decision as to where to go that wasn’t rammed solid. I took a punt with Jaguar Shoes, it was rammed stiff but James managed to discover the downstairs was virtually empty, with couch-seating, and there was bar down there. A complete result that lead to my being given a round of applause, bizarrely.

We stayed for a few hours before being moved on to the street. We had to wait ages for a cab but managed to get hold of a 7-seater people carrier after a while to take everyone back to my gaff. Four of the group I only knew by association but the strangers were kind enough to pop off and buy kebabs and they returned with one for me, a chicken one with red lumps of meat which I picked at in horror. We smoked and drank in earnest. James and I had the hysterics about something (this may have been at the expense of one of the strangers, I’ve no idea but one girl clearly thought I was a tit.) By 5.30-ish 5 of us remained, my mate, his two friends, James and I. All quite fucked up teenage style. My mates’ two friends slept on the sofa bed, my mate on the floor over the discarded cushions and James with me in the bed.

I’m not sure what time I let the 3 sleeping bodies into the day, at some point James set off too, blinking into the morning… I went back to bed where I stayed until mid-afternoon and woke feeling like I’d been embalmed.

On Friday I had a few in my local with Paul but, aware of how Saturday might lead, took it easy when I got home. Besides, on Saturday morning I had to take Brutta to Bermondsey in order to drop her off at the bike shop for her maiden service. I then took a cab to my brothers, the busses were all fucked up and I had little choice but to take the cab fare on the chin. We spent a few hours playing Batman and watching Jackass before the bike shop called me to inform me Brutta was reading for collection. I’d decided to leave the restrictor on until the engine is fully run in, which will be about February time, however, she’s noticeably quicker which comes as some relief. Of course I managed to get home, shower and get out in time for the play or most of the above would’ve been blank

Awful to hear of those floods in Cumbria, two people have died already and apparently almost 50 people are missing, this doesn’t mean they’re dead, merely unaccounted for. 900 or so properties have been devastated by the water and the heart has been torn out of beautiful little village, but perhaps what is more of tragedy is the unfortunate place-name. I know the river is called The Cocker and the village lies at the mouth of The Cocker, but for fucks sake, Cockermouth?

Ladies and Gentlemen, here’s Gibby…

bak orf

Sorry this is late, and short

My back is up the spout again so I decided to take the day off, the ride wasn’t going to help and anyway, I can easily work from here.

Summary: IC away which is a dead-ringer for shit, my bike needs its service tomoz (if my back is still like this I may have to postpone) and I’m making cottage pie as I type this. I’m starving.

Bye. Some power poop below…

NO.
ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Idlewild Readers And Writers 17 7
29 The Horrors Whole New Way NE 1
28 Stereophonics Ignorance 19 6
27 All Time Low Damned If I Do Ya (Damned If I Don’t) NE 1
26 Green Day 21st Century Breakdown NE 1
25 The Blackout I Don’t Care (This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things) 30 2
24 The Cribs We Share The Same Skies 21 4
23 The Drums I Feel Stupid 26 2
22 AFI Medicate NE 1
21 Arctic Monkeys Cornerstone 23 3
20 Bombay Bicycle Club Always Like This NE 1
19 Ou Est Le Swimming Pool Dance The Way I Feel NE 1
18 Ladyhawke Magic 13 7
17 Kasabian Underdog 15 7
16 Wolfmother New Moon Rising 11 6
15 Foo Fighters Wheels 9 8
14 A Place To Bury Strangers In Your Heart NE 1
13 30 Seconds To Mars Kings And Queens 16 3
12 Dead Weather I Cut Like A Buffalo 12 5
11 Skunk Anansie Squander 8 4
10 Rammstein Pussy 7 9
9 Paramore Brick By Boring Brick 14 4
8 Lostprophets It’s Not The End Of The World… 5 11
7 Athlete Black Swan Song 10 4
6 Biffy Clyro The Captain 4 8
5 Editors Papillon 3 11
4 Them Crooked Vultures New Fang 18 2
3 Chase And Status ft Plan B End Credits 6 3
2 Death Cab For Cutie Meet Me At The Equinox 1 4
1 Muse Undisclosed Desires 2 3

close callz

Excellent news, according to the BBC, drinking every day is good for your heart. There was other stuff in the report about liver disease and strokes and shit, but the heart! They did the test on some people for a bit and that was the result. In short, you’re guaranteed to not die if you drink too much. It said so on the BBC.

My ex-buyer hasn’t bothered getting in touch with my estate agent to make a counter offer, this would seem to be typical of her laissez-faire attitude and the one that led to her losing the flat after arseing me about for most of the year. I’ve been scanning peripheral news stories in South London for information about some tit jumping behind a train. Anyway, my guilt is fully assuaged; my gaff is back on the market. Fingers crossed, he types weakly.

Brutta is loosening up. She’s due for her first 600-mile service (and de-restriction) on Saturday and recently has begun to show signs of the locked potential within. My journey to and from work is becoming more like a track-race than a commute conversely leading to some rather hairy moments when split-timed forays in and out of the ribbon of vehicles lucks-out. The difference between Brutta and The Black Bitch is that the former can be flung about mercilessly, and because I’m relatively tall over the traffic the mesh of cars, cyclists and busses is viewed less like congestion and more of a code in which one must forcefully engage.

This is all well and good but I seem to be having increasing degrees of difficulty with, ironically, other bikers. It’s fine when we’re travelling in the same direction. Most proper motorcyclists (those on larger, sportier machines) will let me get on with it; they know that whilst they have straight-line power they’re unable to flow through congestion as I can. Some of them (after they’ve caught up) even ask after my bike at traffic lights, a Supermotard, you see, makes sense in the city. The wankers on Scooters, most of them fucking learners, need to be taught that that they can’t win, once educated by example most allow me to move on with impunity.

The biggest problem is bikers coming in the other direction, not the wankers on scooters but chaps on Sportsbikes. From the front Brutta is quite unassuming, she could be anything from a 125 to a 600, and as my machine is rarer than hen’s teeth (there are only 9 in the whole of London, only 3 exactly like mine) from their POV the chances that I’m moving as fast as them in the opposite direction is slight.

For the second time in a week I’ve nearly dyed my leather pants accident brown when, whilst overtaking a line of vehicles sat stationary at a set of red lights, the lights have changed, I’ve nailed it and met a biker approaching in the other direction having done the same thing on his side of the road. Of course, he thinks I’ll yield as he assumes I’m smaller and slower than he, but of course, I’m accelerating as quickly as he is…

I discovered, under these conditions, that if I brake very hard the back end will sit up (I mentioned this in a post a couple of days ago but as it’s happened twice already, most notably this morning, it’s worth further investigation.) In a controlled environment it’s called a stoppie, when done to escape my melding with a fellow human being it’s called ‘out of control prick on a bike.’ The snag, when one isn’t in control of riding on ones front wheel, is there is a good chance one isn’t parallel to the road. This means that when the rear lands it’s going to naturally steer itself straight, which may not be the same ‘straight’ as the bike is pointing, thereby forcing a violent ripple to shudder through both machine and rider, to wit, me, as the lore of physics takes charge of proceedings. I fucking shit myself so I did. Close? A Rizla would’ve been too fat.

I love it.

Pride comes before a fall as they say, check out these berks, the last is my favourite.

khrist, mor

My solicitor was the first on the phone. The cash had been my account for no more than an hour and I’d already spent all but about £400 paying off numerous creditors, the few ones that remain will simply have to wait until, and this is the first time you’ve heard this, I sell my flat.

He’d called to tell me he’d been over to the estate agent in order to pay the agents fee from the deposit of the failed purchase. In the estate agents was a ‘hysterical woman,’ it didn’t take him long to realise that this was my ex-buyer. The call was a very simple warning. Brace yourself…

A minute after my solicitor had slunk off the line my agent called. He sounded troubled, as if he’d found a lump on one of his clockweights that wasn’t knotted ball-skin. ‘She doesn’t get it’s gone,’ he said breathlessly, ‘she doesn’t understand.’ I had one of those hot moments, if I’d been a lady I’d have swooned.

Apparently her solicitors had advised her, on approach to a legitimate ‘this is it’ deadline, to not contact the agent. This is just plain weird, I may have already suggested that if she paid some of the debts accrued by my moving in September when I was told exchange was imminent I was prepared to give her another fortnight. Why on earth this was advised I’ve no idea. I then discovered the reason her mortgage was rejected was because someone had fraudulently tried to access her account between exchange and completion and her credit rating had fallen out of the window and hit the deck with a splat.

My agent suggested some options. Either I give her another fortnight and sell her my property less the deposit I’d already received, or I sell the property at the current market value (it’s gone up by 10k since I agreed to sell at the price we agreed way back in the fucking Spring) less the deposit I’d already received, or I just tell her to fuck off out of it. If I took option one I’d have relatively gained nothing, option two and I’d have gained a bit more, option three and I’d be able to re-sale from scratch and gain a lot.

There is no reason on earth option one was an option, I’m not a charity and I’ve lost thousands as it is in solicitor and agent fees and having to pay both mortgage and rent. Option two was an option, I would have covered the monies lost by her faffing about and the flat would be sold, out of my hair for good. Option three meant I’d have to go through all of this shit again but I stood to gain much more in terms of revenue. My agent then told me he already had four people interested in viewing my gaff and it wasn’t even back on the market yet.

The thought of her distress was playing on my conscience despite having no reason to feel guilty about any of this as I’m 99% sure she was halting exchange to suit her schedule, though the matter of her credit rating and reprehensible legal team gave me cause to shoot myself in the foot and give her one more chance. I’ve offered option two, if she declines then I can walk away with my head held high-ish knowing I’ve been decent about the whole thing. Having said that I hope she doesn’t take my offer, little does she know by not buying I’ve saved her from a fate worse than Ebola. Or Cunt, if you will.

My agent was candid and advised me to move on, of course he benefits by a new purchaser as he gets a new set of fees (he’s already been paid out of her deposit, he’ll gain nothing if she buys now) but after working with this chap for almost a bloody year now I’ve grown to trust him to a certain degree, and we’re talking about an estate agent here. Indeed, he’s lost out too, he dropped his fees by half a percent when she welched on the original deal in order to get the balance back to where we were.

Family, friends, colleagues are telling me I’m better off out of it, and I agree. It’s just I want to sleep soundly, after all, it’s one thing to offer advice and another to live with the consequences of acting upon it.

Nonetheless, the fact I’d been able to pay off a few nasty debts was a cause for celebration in its own right, despite the questionable though perfectly acceptable source of their resolve. So I took IC out for a spot of dinner last night, a Turkish eatery in Hackney, her choice I hasten to add as it’s essentially a proper kebab shop with seating and waiter service. Christ have mercy it was good, cheap, plentiful and delicious. IC had the chargrilled king prawn kebab and I had the Doner, of course -not one of those typical elephants legs, proper slices of spiced grilled lamb that had been handpicked in house from the bone then built onto a giant spit. We split a bottle of Turkish red and ate slowly until farting full. Even with a starter of Tamara the bill came to under 25 quid. Sensational.

An unabashed, non-ironic rock ballad… I almost feel apologetic

casssh

I got the deposit of the dead-flat sale in my account, at last, I’m back to square one and despite the odd outstanding debt I’m solvent to a certain degree. My estate agent has already been on the phone regarding the sale of that Sword-of-Damocles property that lolls in loathing over that Perianal Hematoma. I’ve a viewing lined up already; two in fact, oh please sweet sigh of nature, this time rid me of my bad fortune. Wash me clean of Cunt.

The money was supposed to arrive yesterday and when it didn’t I became rightly paranoid, I mean it’s not as if I’ve been fucked from here to Timbuktu with regard to the whole sorry mess. Nonetheless, I rode home swiftly last night, nearly offing myself in the process after a misjudged bit of overtaking which caused the bike to stand-up on its front end, to enter a tight schedule involving the purchasing and preparation of food for dinner with Swineshead, the redoubtable writer/editor of Watch With Mothers (link right as usual.)

At 8 SH turned up and we prepared ourselves in earnest for the 3D stuff proffered by Channel 4 by shoving a load of Spaghetti Bolognaise into our maws. The pile of food landed on my empty stomach pushing out a load of farts. The 3D stuff began at 9, by 9.05 after 5 eye-watering minutes of watching the Queen gallivanting about my right eye was leaking out of its socket and I had a pain down the side of my face. I’m not sure if this was down to the rather clumsy 3D or the fart air.

SH was in a similar boat, though we made it through that and Darren Brown who followed. At times it worked very well but for the most part it was a fucking mess of naff psychedelia. Largely it was a very disappointing affair but we found ourselves sniggering through out. I think we were whacked from methane.

I’ve a lot of things to do as a result of the long awaited injection of cash. After this I’ve a bunch of cheques to send out and at lunch a personal visit to the fucking Halifax to kill off a loan I took out eons ago. It’s been bleeding me dry for years and now is the time to kill it stone dead. After all this I’ll still have nothing to show for the past horrific months, though at last I’m coming out of the mire of debt incurred by my being pissed about… Still, can’t really complain too much. I’m certainly better off than my idiotic ex-buyer.

Enjoy this won’t you.

surplyz

I was having a very late, late lunch with IC on Friday afternoon when I discovered that the flat hadn’t completed. My solicitor called after we’d devoured a Cornish Cock Crab, Haddock Rarebit, Brown Shrimp and a bottle of Prosecco in J. Sheekey, a fine fish restaurant off St. Martins Lane. I took the news in a sedentary fashion, largely as I was informed that today, in about an hour, I’ll have my buyers deposit shoved into my account. It does mean that I have to sell the fucking flat again but as I’d already got used to this rather unpleasant fact, and the Prosecco and food were sitting happily in my stomach, plus the acquisition of cash-money for doing nothing save tearing out my hair for the past few months, I was quite relaxed about it.

IC and I had spent the earlier part of the afternoon being wowed by the Anish Kapoor exhibition in The Royal Academy of Art, which has been transformed into a sort of sculptural fun fair. It’s nice to go and see something that doesn’t demand faux intellectualism, its just joy from start to finish involving an almost childish sense of wonderment. In this respect one leaves feeling uplifted and re-charged, it’s fucking ace, go and see it, there’s even a bloody cannon in there firing big red wax lumps against a wall! And bendy mirrors and shit. Woot!

It was IC’s birthday on Thursday, following a grinding day in the office I rushed home via the garage to get some air for my tyres, though instead I ended up changing the rear wheel for a couple of clueless women, and arrived home to frantically set about preparing for the evening. Unknown to readers of this tripe, I’ve spent the past few weeks planning a surprise party for IC who on occasion reads this, hence your hearing about this for the first time. I shifted furniture and laid out all the bits and pieces I’d been discreetly collecting over the previous weeks and readied myself for the first of the guests to arrive.

Because IC lives over my flat I had to be very careful to make she didn’t spot her friends arriving, this meant I had to send out very specific instructions to the invited. I can’t be pissed to go into detail but they had to be in the flat by 7.50 or wait until later. By 7.50 there was about 10 people in my flat tucking into the booze, enough folk to make the whole thing work, so I went upstairs to get IC in the pretence of taking her out to dinner, now I was faced with the sticky matter of getting her downstairs.

I’d been preparing a lie about my fridge not working, so at exactly 7.55 a friend texted me for the purposes of making a text-beep. I then told IC that we had to go downstairs to move the fridge into the garden as the landlord ‘who’d just texted’ was passing by with a new fridge. As expected this didn’t go down tremendously well but she bought the fib and reluctantly agreed to help me. This was the most dangerous moment, walking out with IC and the chance of bumping into someone approaching my gaff, but my fears were in vain, I even managed to get her to walk in chez-Piqued first and the deal was done. Marvellous. In the course of the evening more friends arrived and by 9 there was almost 20 of us.

Can’t say I’ve hosted a party before, it’s quite hard work in many respects though fun in a transitory way. Seeing people getting on, everyone interacting with someone, it’s quite rewarding when all’s said and done and best of all is that IC was dead chuffed. I ordered a whole load of pizza which arrived at 10-ish only to disappeared faster than Valentino Rossi, I thought I’d over-ordered to be honest but when everyone left at around midnight there was 3 poultry slices left. One of IC’s friends had baked a cake, well a Bakewell Tart (like me IC isn’t a massive cake fan) so we ere even able to do the whole happy birthday/candles shit, throw a nice fat present into the mix and the evening was deemed an enormous success.

Following the delights of Friday IC and I returned home from town (in a very sobering rush-hour) and readied ourselves for the evening. Mary was DJ-ing in a club on the far side of Hackney, at 10 we took the brand new bus to the venue and the evening began in earnest. I have to say, I’m not really a clubbing sort, but the music was better than the dance stuff I loathe. By midnight the place was packed, I decided to remain on the side of the bar away from those throwing shapes though a spot of alcohol did see me attempting to get down on it. Fortunately for me there was a chap in a similarly less-than-smitten frame of mind so I was able to side-step the shame of having to boogie for the sake of it in lieu of conversation. IC took mercy on me at around 1am and we set off into the howling, pissing rain for home.

Remarkably I was alright on Saturday, I finished off cleaning the flat from Thursday and IC and I went out and had a bloody great fry-up in a café by Hackney Central. The weather was fucking awful but I didn’t really mind, I was eating bacon, sausage, eggs, black pudding and beans. And hash Browns. With a nice cuppa. Following a bit of shopping I spent Saturday afternoon taking it easy, pottering about the flat and what have you. In the evening we went to the local and met a bunch of friends who’d come for the second wave of IC’s birthday celebrations. Loads of people showed up and we took over half the pub, a happy few hours disappeared with pals and we left when the pub closed at midnight. IC and I went home and watched Easy Rider.

I slept until 1pm on Sunday, much needed rest following the hectic days before and we had a late breakfast of kippers before settling down to watch Spiderman 2 on the tellybox late in the afternoon. At 7.30 we set off for a favourite restaurant in Hackney, the final stage of the birthday celebrations and successfully fought off the horror of the looming Monday with wine and fine tucker.

I’m still waiting for this fucking money to reach my account. My solicitor called early this morning to assure me I’d have the money this morning… It’s no longer the morning. I’m wondering if there will ever be an end to all this shit. Still, it was a bloody good weekend, just be nice to pay myself back.

Oh, I’ve had no time to proof read this, if it reads more dreadfully than usual I accept no responsibility.

This is ace. Just pics, no vid.

HB IC

Lemmy-faced Jordan, reals nayms Katie Prick, the tabloid prostitute with breasts made of non-biodegradable synthetic rubber, is going to be making a second appearance on ‘My Career has taken a Nose Dive, Let me Humiliate Myself in a Heavily Guarded Australian Jungle-Studio Type Thing For Fiscal Gain.’ According to the screeching red-tops some cunt has decided she’s worth paying over 5 times the salary the other poor witless-fucks are getting, despite the fact she’s not in it from the outset as she’s in LA having her huge fanny rebuilt from Whale spleen, or something.

Anyway, in the midst of her perpetual monotone life-interview with anything bearing a conduit to an audience of over 3, the humourless tit drone claims she’s been getting a bit of bad press of late and wanted to get paid the fortunes of Croesus in order to show the ‘world’ (i.e., the sort of people who watch IACGMOOH, Boneless-Bucket types, essentially) the real her. She’s leaving her children motherless for a month by the way. What? Oh, nothing.

The oil warning graphic on the bike, on further investigation, isn’t an oil warning light at all, it’s a ‘coo-eee, Piqued, I need an oil change,’ which I know already (this is why I’ve my 600mile service booked in next week already, as said, I know my shit, yeah.) I was rather taken a back when I discovered this, the Husqvarna SM610 is quite an agricultural machine when all is said and done, for it to inform me that it needs an oil change is rather like a country bumpkin making an appointment for a colonic. Bottom line is that I’m no longer worrying about Brutta and have been enjoying her tremendously. She’s definitely loosening up as the engine runs-in and after the service next weekend when the restrictor comes off she’s going to be proper mental…Yeah.

But things aren’t all good. I spoke candidly to my estate agent yesterday; my buyer can’t get the mortgage sorted in time. Looks like I’ll have to go through all this flat selling shit again. I suppose I shouldn’t be too pissed off, I stand to gain in the long run but my (albeit tenuous) link with that potty I used to live over remains intact. I just want to send some turds over to him in the post, that’s all, is that too much to ask?

On a lighter note though, it’s IC birthday today. Tonight I’m taking her out and tomorrow we’ve the day off to cavort about town willy-nilly. Happy Birthday IC. Legal at last.

Tune in on Monday to see how things turned out. If you want to of course. No pressure.

Whilst this may not be IC’s sort of thing it’s quite a big deal this, and sort of ties in with yesterdays post…

poppy

Ninety-Three years ago today, four years of war ended with the signing of the Armistice Treaty by Germany and the Allies.

By the end 9,721,937 soldiers had died on the battlefield leaving 21,228,813 wounded. Of the dead 885,138 were British; of the Allies only the French (cheese-eating surrender monkeys anyone?) and Russians lost more troops, the latter by almost a million. The defeated Germans lost 2,050,897. All the above figures are purely military, not civilian. If we were to include them as well the total of deaths in First World War would come to a staggering 16,543,185 human beings.

There are no longer any surviving British soldiers of what is called The Great War, from here on in living witnesses to the abject-absolute horror of what happened near the start of the last century are consigned to the history books. One of those survivors was my Grandfather. He was 15 years old when he went to the front to look after the horses, but because of his size he was soon issued a Lewis Gun (made by BSA who are better known by civilians for making motorcycles) and was ordered to a post in a trench in The Somme.

The Lewis gun was a ‘light’ machine gun which meant that if you were physically able it could be moved around, but not sufficiently for a soldier to be able to nip into no mans land and back to the trench for bacon and eggs what-ho (as if.) It was common for two Lewis Guns (you can see one in action at 2.06 in the film below) to sit at either end of a given Trench and crossfire into the enemy, such was the power of the weapon men could be cut quite literally in half.

In this respect he was fortunate as he didn’t have to go over the top, though he was witness to thousands of his colleagues and friends being cut down and, doubtless, responsible for doing the same to the enemy. Fuck alone knows what he saw; he never spoke to my dad about it (though dad remembers granddad slam dunking granny onto the bedroom floor confusing a moonbeam with an incendiary one night) and I only learnt of what it was he actually did when I was about 12. He explained the Lewis Gun and ended with what could be described as an anecdote, which was the getting of a black eye from a flaying pair of legs, ‘just the legs.’ When he was interviewed a year before his death by the historian Lyn Macdonald he didn’t give much away to her either.

Fortunately for me (and probably for him too) he got trench foot and was dismissed from duty and it was here he met my granny working as a nurse in a nearby military hospital. Ironically, if it wasn’t for The Lewis and Trench Foot it’s unlikely I’d have been.

Perhaps the most depressing aspect of all of this is the legacy of the conflict. The millions dead and wounded, the waste of young lives, the sheer hell of warfare, yet we’re all still at it. When all is said and done, war is a complete and utter waste of virtually everything. To think how much the human race has progressed in those millions of years, one would’ve thought we’d be beyond this sort of thing now.

I shall leave you with the sublime words of Wilfred Owen, killed in action a week before The Armistice.

“Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!–An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.”

bad lite

The oil warning light has appeared on my bike. As anyone with a clue about engines will tell you with wide staring eyes and manic pointing, the ‘oil warning light’ is a bit like finding a lump in your testicle, or in your tit if you’re a lady.

One of the reasons the Black Bitch was sold was because the oil warning light was flickering when she got hot in the city, Brutta’s light is permanently on. In one respect I’m beside myself with worry but on another, I’m being pragmatic, I’m employing my vast knowledge of motorcycles to think outside of the crankcase.

The telemetries on Brutta are digital affairs and so far the clock has had to be reset 4 times because it keeps randomly telling me the wrong time, in addition to this the flash relay that controls the indicators seem to have epilepsy. In short ‘Italian Electrics,’ every wiring loom comes free with ‘mamma mia!’ Being the pragmatist I am, I can’t say I’m surprised, I had a Ducati in my 20’s and the electrics on that were hilarious. Still a small part of me hoped that modernity might have ironed these things out. Anyway, I’d much rather it was an electrical glitch than something genuinely wrong with the lubrication system; such things have the ability to kill the engine stone dead… The oil is clearly visible in the sight glass, the engine sounds peachy and there is no smoke from the exhaust, I called my mechanic to make sure my instincts were pointing in the right direction and he suggested they were, still, it’s of mild concern. Actually I’m still bloody worried. Fuck my instincts.

I suppose it’s time to give you a flat update *groan* I’m supposed to be completing on Friday but estate agent and solicitor are both unsure if it’s going to happen whilst remaining grimly optimistic. As I have explained, if I do complete on Friday that’s it, done. If I don’t, I get my buyers deposit, a conscience and the fucking shit-hole goes back on the market. Obviously if/when I sell it the second time round I’ll have doubled my money, more than doubled as the value of my gaff has increased… I don’t want it though, I want out on Friday. I don’t want the (I-know-I-shouldn’t-feel) guilty conscience or the extra stress of it all. Having said that, if I sell early next year without too much fuss for an extra 10k I’m sure I won’t feel this way…

Anyway, at least my bike is… oh FUCK.

snugg

It’s proper cold today, like the first real winter day we’ve had since the last one buggered off in March, or whenever it was. It was a bit of a shock rising from my tomb-like flat and approaching Brutta lying under a puff of the passing morning fog. She took her time starting; I’m not prepared to rip her wide open and hit the ignition, it’s terrible for a cold engine, so I have to gingerly ripple the gas on the button and when she fires prevent the revs from rising too high. It’s a very different affair from the Black Bitch who had an automatic choke.

The ride in was strangely civilised, there is a bus strike today so the roads were quiet and uncongested, I was warm in my gear but on the edge of getting cold round my neck and face, something I’ll have to rectify shortly. I rode cheerlessly away from my weekend, winding through the streets that had until recently been pathways to leisure and enjoyment. Mondays really are cunts.

After work on Friday I took the District Line in the pissing rain to Wombledon, I’d some time to kill before meeting IC in the South West. I bought some socks and some leather gloves in preparation of the coming months of cold, rain and rosy cheeks before taking the tube to my destination. IC and I then nipped over to Tre and X’s gaff to be warmly received with wines and in due course, food -on account of the latter we were served Middle Eastern fare that was fucking lovely. The evening was both thoroughly enjoyable and distressing in equal amounts, the protagonist of the food had been witness and victim to some profoundly disturbing experiences in his home country, I’m afraid that they are unrepeatable here but you wouldn’t believe me anyway so you’ve not missed out.

By the time IC and I left before midnight we were both quite sober which made Saturday easier to deal with than usual, though I would’ve been happier undertaking the long journey home with a skinfull. The first day of the weekend was marvellously duty-free, one or too things to acquire from the local vicinity, spot of cleaning, lunch with IC (I got some of those hot-smoked trout and crab things from M&S that are fucking outrageously tasty) and then Swineshead popped over and we spent the afternoon gassing and listening to music like what them teenagers do and that.

At 6 I prepared myself for the evening. Oz had invited some guests over to his gaff round the corner for a night of black, all the guests had to wear black, and all the food served was to be black. Possibly because the invitations were so elaborate IC and I didn’t actually read the information on them, so we arrived an hour early. It wasn’t a problem though, whilst the host was dashing about outside of the venue, Mary was resident in the process of making final touches, we had booze to keep us going, as I said, it wasn’t a problem.

Guests arrived, most of whom I knew by sight or association. At 8pm sharp the food arrived on silver trays and as briefed, it was black. It was also exquisite, as an act of altruism on the part of the host who’d even used a couple of his friends used as waiters, it was quite a privilege to be a part of proceedings. There were 5 courses, bear with me, black olive tapenade with anchovy on toasted black bread | paté with pickled walnut on toasted black bread: black rice negari sushi with aubergine and black sesame miso | black rice sushi roll with mackerel and red cabbage kimchi: sepia spaghetti nets with whitebait tempura and caviar | soy glazed duck with plum sauce and hijiki on charcoal biscuit: refried black beans with brandy prunes on dark chocolate wafer | black pudding with onion and kalonji chutney on chocolate wafer: ginger wine and vermouth jelly with black tapioca | blackberry and amaretto jelly.

IC happily ate everything served without paying much attention to what it was she was eating, this resulted in her getting terribly excited about the liver pate… she’s a vegetarian, incidentally. Fortunately she didn’t mind at all.

All the courses were accompanied by prescribed drinks, black of course, who would’ve thought that Prosecco and Dandelion and Burdock would be a bloody revelation? After much talking, giggling and by now, gentle swaying, the evening finished on the roof with a few fireworks, IC and I were home at some point after midnight and in bed by 3-ish, pissed.

The hangover on Sunday was noticeable; in fact I’m not entirely sure I wasn’t still a bit squiffy from the previous evening. We had to get from the East-End to Surrey to meet my family for lunch by means of celebrating my bro’s birthday last week. We arrived a bit late after a long, cold journey and immediately ate. Roast beef and all the required veg, just what I needed. The whole family were present, ten of us in all which included both my nieces, one very much coming into her own as a little girl (I can’t believe how much she talks, she’s barely 2.) The other phased in and out of sleep and crying, I walked her about when she yelled, like with her sister I’m able to stop her crying by sort of swinging her in my arms… No doubt, like her sister, she’ll be terrified of me in a few months. Hurrah!

It was lovely afternoon, my eldest niece almost allowed me to play football with her but I blew it by freaking her out with my newly acquired black leather glove. I also discovered she’s an imaginary friend called ‘Aggie.’ No one has a clue why her friend is called that but he’s a boy and apparently pushes her over on occasion, which quite freaked me out. Dad managed to ace the afternoon by farting a foot away from IC’s head as he stood up, I thought I was going to have a seizure laughing at that. Marvellous.

IC and I had to leave at 5-ish because of the revolting journey home, which coincided with my hangover kicking in and a fucking panic attack punching me up the throat. It was dreadful and lasted until I had a bloody shower some 2 hours later. The gloom of Sunday descended on me. I fucking hate it. IC and I had a light supper and left me to my own devices, thank god for Top Gear on the i-player is all I can say.

Buy this!

boyo

The Police in Wales have been watching too much TV. Reading that shysters rag The Metro in my cattle truck of a Tube this morning I was so unsure that a particular story was a wind up I had to check with the BBC to make sure it wasn’t. It wasn’t.

Astonishingly, Dyfed-Powys Police, an outfit that sounds like a Stroke victim trying to swear with a mouth full of hospital porridge, actually responded to claims by psychics that 32-year-old Carlos Assaf had been knacked by gangsters as opposed to death by suicide, specifically, hanging. The psychics, employed by the deceased’s family, claimed he had been strangled after being forced to drink petrol and bleach, by gangsters. Apparently the ghost of Carlos told them all this. I promise I’m not making this up.

Instead of laughing the fucking crazies out of the police station the Welsh Trotters spent over 20k investigating these frankly ludicrous claims. Even the beginning of the official statement from the Police sounds like the beginning of the fucking X-Files, “The revelations of the mystics were brought to our attention via the family.”

‘The mystics,’ ‘relvelations,’ for fucks sake! Anyway, they checked the deceased body again and, surprise, surprise, found neither petrol or bleach in his system. Or gangsters. Personally, I would’ve thought that as his body was discovered suspended from a weights bench following a bitter row with his girlfriend the previous evening, it was most likely he may have committed suicide? No? FOR FUCKS SAKE!

Thank Christ it’s the weekend, as usual it’s rammed full, bit too full if I’m honest but I’m sure I’ll find a few minutes to relax. At least there’re is nothing desperately needing doing on the home front.

Still waiting for news on my buyers mortgage, when will this end? (next Friday)

Right, you know the drill, have fun an’ all.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Miike Snow Black And Blue NE 1
29 Slayer Hate World Wide 19 5
28 Arctic Monkeys Cornerstone NE 1
27 Paramore Ignorance 24 12
26 Kids In Glass Houses Youngblood (Let It Out) 30 2
25 Chase And Status ft Plan B End Credits NE 1
24 Echo And The Bunnymen Think I Need It Too 16 7
23 Athlete Black Swan Song 29 2
22 The Cribs We Share The Same Skies 22 2
21 30 Seconds To Mars Kings And Queens NE 1
20 Five Finger Death Punch Hard To See 13 8
19 Funeral For A Friend Wrench 10 10
18 Paramore Brick By Boring Brick 20 2
17 Massive Attack Splitting The Atom 12 4
16 Julian Casablancas 11th Dimension 11 5
15 Muse Undisclosed Desires NE 1
14 Dead Weather I Cut Like A Buffalo 17 3
13 Kasabian Underdog 18 5
12 Green Day East Jesus Nowhere 7 6
11 Stereophonics Ignorance 8 4
10 Skunk Anansie Squander 21 2
9 Wolfmother New Moon Rising 14 4
8 Idlewild Readers And Writers 9 5
7 Ladyhawke Magic 4 5
6 Rammstein Pussy 5 7
5 Foo Fighters Wheels 3 6
4 Biffy Clyro The Captain 6 6
3 Lostprophets It’s Not The End Of The World…2 9
2 Death Cab For Cutie Meet Me At The Equinox 15 2
1 Editors Papillon 1 9

hag

It was jolly nice to hook up with Frank, Harry and my bro last night. We met in a traditional London boozer (I suppose these days that could imply Walkabout or Weatherspoons, but not on ‘ere for chrissakes) and em-boozed on proper fruity ale. The conversation zigged-zag about as it does and in due course briefly touched upon politics where I was rather surprised to find my drinking buddies fairly calm about the prospect of a Tory government. I have to say I’m fucking not.

I’m no fan of new Labour, of politicians come to think of it, but I’d rather the current mob than that rubbery-faced cunt Cameron and his boys club any day of the week. In addition to having absolutely no policy to speak of they’re not even good at criticising new labour, indeed, they were so keen for the ‘war on terror’ to take place they virtually put a tin hat on Blair and pushed him blinking into the middle east. Every time they come up with an ‘idea’ it’s so roundly condemned by political commentators and intellectuals you can almost hear them going scarlet with embarrassment and running for nanny’s skirts. The latest incident, hot off the toilet floor, with regard to Tory policy following the Lisbon Treaty is best exemplified by one of their own recently resigned MEP ministers. He said David Cameron’s pledge to hold referendums on future treaties was like “installing a largely ineffective burglar alarm when the family silver has already been stolen.”

This is typical of the Tories, screaming and shouting when it’s too late, the old locking the stable door after the horse has pissed off, died and being used in Chorizo. They really have no point at all, I’m not sure what they’re actually for outside of upsetting me to the point of flinging my own excrement about. They’re such a vile collective, they don’t even have that affable incompetence like the current lot. I mean take William Hague, that little bald tit who, in October was roundly condemned following the Conservatives’ decision to enter a European parliament coalition with a Latvian party, some of whose members participate in an annual service commemorating Latvian units of Hitler’s Waffen-SS, and a Polish politician, a personal friend of Hague, who has questioned the need to apologise for an anti-Jewish program during the second world war. That’s not even holocaust denial, that’s holocaust nostalgia.

I’m still speechless with way the media didn’t really seem to fussed about this, and speaking of speeches, surely his speech at 16 at the 1977 Conservative Party Conference (suspiciously absent from youtube, it was on it a year ago, now it’s gone completely. If you’ve not seen it you’ll know why The Tories are very, very keen you don’t) would’ve been enough to see him beaten for weeks on the penis with birch, if he didn’t like it so much.

Anyway, I got home safely. Oh, just officially sold the Black Bitch, can’t say I’m feeling very happy about it. This cheered me up though.

kween

Apparently the new mortgage survey has already taken place, my frazzled estate agent called (well he emailed, he doesn’t call these days, can’t think why) and said they were ‘very positive,’ which is good as I had visions of that place being overrun with fucking rodents like Hamlyn with the ceiling smashed all over the floor. I’ve been given a definitive deadline now, either I complete on Friday the 13th (ho ho ho) or that’s it. Mercifully I’ve got money from the sale of my much beloved Black Bitch so I’m okay until such time I get either the money from the sale of my gaff or my ex-buyers deposit.

Yesterday was a little fraught, after a day in this ‘ere office I rode home in the damp via roadworks kweenand set about running around in the style of Henry Hill a la Goodfellas which included racing to the shops, preparing a fish pie before rushing upstairs to IC’s gaff and fixing a puncture, untangling the chain, in time to make sure aforementioned pie wasn’t alight in the oven, taking a shower and making space for a good 5 minutes worth of plop.

IC and Mary came down at 9 and finally I could relax. We even ate at the table like adults in favour of leaning over ourselves and shovelling matter into the front of our heads like greedy crows. I was thinking as we ate and watched TV after, that I could never have done this sort of thing in that place I’m trying to wipe off my shoe. Of course I did, but I could never fully relax, always conscious of noise, of giving that little retard cause to believe he had some sort of audience resulting him making obscene noises in the guise of ‘music,’ if you think my hatred for Cunt has dwindled since being away from our shared front door then consider this, if anything it’s got worse as it’s been unleashed with impunity. I no longer have pretend that’s it’s okay.

I’m having a few teething issues with Brutta, the most annoying is that she’s, well, a bit gutless. The chances are that this is due to her engine restricted on account of her being running-in, but I’m concerned that following de-restriction she’ll not improve to the sort of levels I expected. I’ve no qualms with her in The City, I can weave her through gridlock like a bicycle but when the road is clear it’s just not fucking rocking out. The whole ‘fighting to keep the front wheel down’ I was expecting seems a long way off. Anyway, we’ll find out soon enough, the first service is due in a couple of weeks.

The nutter in the office is on one today. He’s wandering about humming and going up to people to enquire of their knowledge of Quantum Physics, he’s just asked me if I’ve seen ‘Murderland.’ I don’t know what that is, so I simply told him to piss off.

One of the first ever speed metal songs, fact.

*shrugz*

Boris Johnston, that blonde-haired porky pig prick has decided to dig up The City, all at once. Broadgate, Borough, Elephant and Castle all gridlocked, if it wasn’t for my use of pavements and blue language I’d still be at Monument. It would’ve killed The Black Bitch no question. Even using the tools of illegality it took me almost one and half-hours to get here, this journey usually takes me 40 minutes. Sweet Christ… At one point I nearly took out a bunch of bus passengers when the driver allowed them off in between stops as I was violently undertaking and shit, it was accident-brown close, I called him a ‘hairy fat cunt’ and even made sure he’d understood every word, he looked disappointingly bored at my tirade, what a blasted fool, dear reader (s).

Probably comes as no surprise but I’m in a fucking horrific mood if you’ve been keeping up with house-selling developments. The latest is, apparently, a survey is being conducted in the ex-flat right now so my buyer can get a new mortgage. Still not sure how we get to completion and then everyone finds out that the stupid cow has told porkies on her application in order to secure the loan. Yesterday I was given the option of taking the deposit right there and then and putting the flat back on the market, but, despite how I may come across here, I’m not a complete shithouse and I value my ability to sleep soundly. The other option was to give my buyer the chance to sort the matter out, she’s 9 working days to do so or I’ll be forced to do what I could’ve done yesterday, now if I so wish.

If this does happen I’ll be better off, not only do I get the deposit but since I accepted her offer my flat has gone up by about 10k, with her deposit I’d make 40k or so, but that’s after going through the whole selling-the-flat business a second time and, frankly, I don’t think my nerves can take it. I’ll get much less than half of this if we complete in the next 9 days so you’re witnessing, to a certain extent, an act of altruism and crass stupidity in one shot.

I took my woes off to the pub yesterday and hooked up with Liam, Jim and Paul for a pub quiz in a boozer in that there Hackney. We did dreadfully, the questions were abhorrent and we answered accordingly. Our team morale wasn’t helped by my spilling half a pint of London Pride all over Liam’s nuts. It was one of those awful slo-mo moments, almost as if I could’ve rewound and reversed the inevitable. We came last, just about summed up my fucking day.

On a lighter note… oh, there isn’t one. And you can whistle for a youtube goodie an’ all.

fan, shit

Friday. I didn’t cunting complete when I was supposed to.

This means that if I don’t complete by 12th November I just get 16k, like that, given 16k for doing fuck all outside of shitting coal for the past few months. As for the house, it goes back on the market and we start again. As property prices have increased all this turd could work in my favour but, as illogical as this may seem, I don’t won’t the hassle. I want shot of that fucking place more than I want an extra 16 fucking grand. That’s how bad it is. I can’t face going through all this crap again.

Despite the hell of Friday, I soon slipped the moorings of my anxiety. There was a work-office do which leaked free booze, I cheerlessly imbibed, then a little less cheerlessly as I realised it was Friday after all and the weekend that lay ahead was all rather jolly. I managed to cadge a lift and took a bus to the sodding tube which, horrifically, passed through Tooting on its way to Old Street. I arrived home at 9-ish more than a little merry, showered, ate and went up to meet IC.

Straighter now, part 2 of the evening started with another bus journey to Shoreditch and a club mercifully free of crowds. IC and I spent most of the night outside chatting to friends, it was weirdly clement, we drank at a steady but not irresponsible pace which distorted all known time, no idea when we left but we succeeded in getting home with no trouble at all sometime in the wee hours.

Saturday began shakily, I had some basics to get hold of, paper, milk, that sort of caper. I need to revive with breakfast before I made the fucking silly decision, after weighing up my newly arrived at circumstances, to go ahead and buy that TV anyway, on the credit card, the one I’d intended to buy if everything had worked out. Figuring I’ll be okay anyway type thing… After a bit of bartering I got a bloody good deal, the shop is round the corner from my flat so IC and I were able to see what was on offer, pop back and research the options and come to a sensible conclusion, however irresponsible it was to buy the fucking thing in the first instance. The bloke in the shop even helped me carry it home, a rather terrifying few minutes of my life as we had to walk down a packed high street at dusk bearing a breakable, awkward and, let’s face it, highly nickable bit of technology.

It was a doddle to install, a case of switching it on and there it was, ready to go. I have to say the picture and sound are jaw-dropping, I don’t regret my decision for a second (yet?) though I’m terrified I may if my solicitors are as bent as my buyers. Fuck it all, IC and I spent a short while being amazed before popping off to visit Swineshead and his missus, it was the formers birthday and we were in excellent cheer.

In addition the discussed we were joined by Flannel, Jane, Arnie and a pile of pizzas, the best take-out ones I’ve had which I descended upon like a howling pack of ravenous pigs. Being Halloween SH had set up some classic horror movies which divided our collective attention in bouts of conversation, worked like a charm. At midnight it was back to just us 4, we decided to open the helium balloons to do the whole silly-voice thing which had blissfully hilarious results. It was actually like being 5 again; in fact we were enjoying ourselves so much we didn’t leave until after fucking 2am which, after the previous evening, was the second insensible thing I’d done that day. The ball was rolling now.

On the way home IC and I bumped into a mate returning from a nightshift, he needed beer, I had beer so he nipped back for one leaving IC and I and the behemoth TV which begged to be used. Despite being a little bit bog-eyed at this point we watched Paranormal Activity, not the best time to focus on a movie I’d been dying to see since hearing about it but it was a minor success, a certain aspect of it right freaked me out and I paid the price for my curiosity last night when trying to sleep in my gaff alone.

We went to bed at around 6 and woke on Sunday at 12-ish. I took in the last Grand Prix of the season and did a spot of shopping for supper. I felt rightly awful but it passed quite quickly passed and for the first time in age, I spent most of the afternoon slumped in front of the box feeling 99% at home, the 1% is still tied up with fucking solicitors, I’d love to beat it out of them.

I’m now waiting again. It seems I’ve been waiting for 6 months. It’s enormously upsetting and because we’re in the ‘quite literally any second now’ aspect of completion…

…WAIT

Just heard from my solicitor… my buyers mortgage has been declined. I’ll explain the consequences after I’ve chewed off my arm.