Monthly Archives: November 2009

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