Monthly Archives: December 2009


Despite the snow, I ventured out into the cold last night to meet up with my bro, Harry, Frank, Red and Roger for a curry on Brick Lane. We met up in a bar packed full of cunts, a combination of failed DJ-types and City yobs, all jostling for bar position with no regard to others. Dreadful it was.

To give some sort of a clue as to the sorts of people we’re dealing with here, I witnessed some tool showing off to two harridans by attempting a one-handed leapfrog after exiting the bar I was about to enter. He caught his pills on the top of a bollard, a really solid, satisfying crunch, and fell forward in utter agony as his two companions screeched with laughter. I stopped to watch, silently smoking, just to make sure he was really hurt. His attempts at clawing back some dignity by trying to pass off the incident as some sort of deliberate comedic prat fall were curtailed by his face being whiter than the snow falling around his fucking head and real tears of agony. He stumbled to his feet milking the ‘feign hurt’ routine, which made the spectacle even more ludicrous as he was visibly close to passing out. By now the two slatterns could see through his pathetic skit and their laughter took on an altogether richer and menacing chuckle; now they were laughing at the very essence of his being as he floundered in the snow, his broken, shattered grimace buffering a scream for the children he’d never, ever be able to father as his woolly hat slid further forward over his eyes. He was hurt alright, I put my cigarette out and went to join the boys.

The curry house was full, our fellow diners noisy but in good cheer. We ordered beers and started to dictate dishes to the waiter as poppadoms and pickles appeared at out our elbows. I was already half way stuffed before a mountain of technicolor food was laid out in front of us and we dug in relentlessly. It was over indulgence on a vast scale, my hands and mouth operating at double speed in order to satisfy my insane desire to quite literally get it under my belt. Curry has this effect on me; I don’t know what it is about this genre of spicy food by there appears to be no desire to savour the flavour, the preference is getting it down the neck with minimum chewing. All the while we discussed The Godfather, Indian Jones, and touched on each of our plans for the forthcoming season after checking the general state of play of the collective. It was a fine way to see off the English leg of the Christmas period, now the serious stuff can commence.

After a day at the fucking office, there is the works Christmas party which is already down on staff due to the snow. I must be careful that I don’t get too pissed as I intend to meet IC later at her bash before heading home to finish off the packing for Italy. We’re going to hang out for a bit and at 2am or so head for Liverpool Street to get the bus to Stanstead. The flight is scheduled for 6am, it doesn’t seem at all real that I’m going, mentally I’m completely unprepared which is probably a good thing as I’m no fan of flying.

That’s if we actually go tomorrow, more snow is forecast and Stanstead, as I type this, is the only London Airport that’s both open and not experiencing severe delays. I cannot begin to tell you how much I hope the flight isn’t delayed or cancelled. The last thing I want to do is spend the start of my holidays in a fucking airport lounge.

Right, that’s it. I may post before 2010, if I do it’ll be after Christmas and my fucking FORTY FIRST (how the hell did that happen?) birthday. Breaking with protocol Gerry’s chart will have no tune, instead a Christmas treat. Merry Christmas, yeah.

30 Bombay Bicycle Club Always Like This 26 5
29 Rammstein Pussy 24 13
28 Julian Casablancas I Wish It Was Christmas Today NE 1
27 The Horrors Whole New Way 19 5
26 Goldhawks Running Away NE 1
25 Lostprophets Where We Belong 29 2
24 Green Day 21st Century Breakdown 19 5
23 The Drums I Feel Stupid 17 6
22 Editors Papillon 16 15
21 Simian Mobile Disco Cruel Intentions 28 2
20 Arctic Monkeys Cornerstone 13 7
19 The Temper Trap Fader 22 3
18 30 Seconds To Mars Kings And Queens 12 7
17 Vampire Weekend Cousins 23 2
16 Timbaland/N. Furtado/ SoShy Morning After Dark 30 2
15 Mumford And Sons Winter Winds 18 4
14 The Cribs We Share The Same Skies 21 6
13 Death Cab For Cutie Meet Me At The Equinox 10 8
12 A Place To Bury Strangers In Your Heart 8 5
11 Ian Brown Just Like You 15 4
10 Ou Est Le Swimming Pool Dance The Way I Feel 7 5
9 AFI Medicate 9 5
8 Athlete Black Swan Song 6 8
7 Depeche Mode Fragile Tension 14 3
6 Fightstar A City On Fire 11 4
5 Paramore Brick By Boring Brick 4 8
4 Muse Undisclosed Desires 2 7
3 Pearl Jam Got Some 5 3
2 Chase And Status ft Plan B End Credits 3 7
1 Them Crooked Vultures New Fang 1 6


I was mildly concerned when the snow began to get thicker. It was mid morning and I was outside the office having a fag, which is where I like to spend most of my working day. It died down for a bit then at 2 it started to come down hard, this time the white shit started to settle. At 3 I made the decision to get off home before it got dark thus making my journey, in theory, safer.

I’ve ridden in snow before; it’s not pleasant as it has this propensity to prevent one from seeing where one is going. Factor in motorists who think it’s way cool to like, not use their lights, yeah, and, like, drive so close to your twitching bottom you can feel the heat coming off their knees, you can see why it’s not the ideal weather condition in which to travel.

Throughout all of this my fucking gloves may well have been made from liquid nitrogen for all the good they were doing. My fingers were so cold by the time I reached Vauxhall it was getting dangerous as I wasn’t operating the necessary levers efficiently, like the front brake. Fortunately there is a rather large motorcycle shop by the station so I parked up and went in with a bunch of other riders who’d also come to upgrade their equipment in the adverse conditions. I can’t say I was very impressed by the pair of gloves the overly smiley member of staff presented me, they were very thin and nearly £100. I was assured, however, that they were so good he was prepared to bet me a fiver, which he took of the cost there and then that I wouldn’t come back demanding a refund.

My fingers were still smarting from the cold when I set off into the icy teeth of the afternoon, but it became quickly apparent that I’d just landed on my bloody feet, or hands if you will. They’re astonishingly good. When I arrived in the office this morning I was frankly shocked how cold it was when I took them off, my fingers, however, were as warm as buttered soldiers.

This is my last ride of the year, the next time I get on Brutta I’ll be 41, and it’ll be the first day back in the office following my impending break. Christ.

One last post tomoz and that’s it before Christmas.

Just to remind you…

peeche mood

It’s jolly cold this morning, very, very fucking cunting cold. I was rather surprised to see all the digits on my hand when I took off my gloves following the ride into the bloody office… and that was terrifying from the off, black ice black ice everywhere and not a patch for grip. The worst part was the road that connects Vauxhall with Wandsworth. It’s been recently re-surfaced so all the fucking water they pounded into the road is now sat happily over the tarmac as a sea of ice, so well done for that Highway Agency.

Anyway, I’m now able to type so here we go. Depeche Mode at the O2. I’ve not been to the O2 before, and I’d rather suck out my own kidneys through my freckle than go again. The place is reprehensible.

It began life as an ill conceived ‘gift’ to London to mark the turn of the millennium, within months it was abandoned before being reluctantly purchased by a mobile phone conglomerate who transformed it into a thinly veiled burgers ‘n’ fries theme park. It contains a music venue, a cinema, a funfair and loads of disgusting eateries and lager pissing bars that attract the sorts of people who need text reminders on how to wipe their own arses.

Despite being served by the Jubilee Line, getting there -for most normal, decent Londoners- is like a fucking trek to the Carpathian Basin. Admittedly I ballsed the journey up from the off by referring to a tube map heralding from the time of Woodrow Wilson, so after arriving at Greenwich (not the recently built North Greenwich station as specified on the ticket instructions) where I met IC, and being blatantly lied to by a so-called member of staff on the platform who assured me the DLR went all the way to our destination, we walked to a bus stop half a county away and were eventually driven at breakneck speed into the wasteland where the O2 lives, and laid our sore eyes on the enormous half-arsed tent that sits in south east London like a giant cowpat.

The concourse in had been decked out like a sort of Bavarian Street market, which stank of the sort of authenticity one would find at a medieval castle in Las Vegas. On the upside it sold mulled wine, we had some. Warming. Did I mention it was minus 20?

We went in, I swear it was colder inside than it was outside and there were humans everywhere. Shopping Mall type creatures, all looking as if they’d just discovered how to wank off. This didn’t bode well for Depeche Mode, I mentioned this to IC who looked as if she’d just eaten a plate of horse tits.

We started to drink, normally I don’t need an excuse, this time I had one. I was in the O2. Foolishly we decided to make our way into the stadium area, on the plus side there were less people milling about but once in, no re-admission, so precious cigarettes were off the menu unless we just left. I was more than tempted.

After getting asked for ID, IC was informed by some berk-ess wearing fucking fairy wings that, as an O2 customer, she was entitled to access the ‘VIP Lounge.’ We entered this freezing cold bar-area with some white plastic seats on which languished Depeche Mode fans who looked as if they’d been invited to dinner by Delia Smith, it was then I realised that Depeche Mode, despite their palpable dark side, were also a chart-topping pop band from the 80’s, and their immediate audience had probably never been outside before, let alone to a gig.

We sat there for a while as I muttered condescending comments about our fellow guests to IC, even thought this wasn’t necessarily going down well I was unable to help myself. These people were photographing the bar as if they’d discovered the inner sanctum of Xanadu. At 9pm we were ushered into the stadium and my heart sunk into my Docs.

The place was vast; the stage may as well have been in Berkshire. We sat midway up one side of a cliff face looking down on little baked bean heads surrounded by tiny human forms above and below, either side. Thousands of them. It felt more like were about to see Leeds United play the LA Raiders.

On sitting, one of the fat girls in front of us, unable to control her teenage excitement (despite the fact she was nearly 50) gushingly asked IC and I if it was okay if she ‘stood up and danced,’ her porcine pal who was clinging onto her like a whale, then started to babble something about her pals connection to Dave [Gahan] how she and Dave were connected, over and over. I’ve no idea what my face did at this point but she suddenly looked horrified and informed me that I was nasty. Which was somewhat ironic as it wasn’t I that looked like Jo Brand on fire.

Finally Depeche Mode came on stage. Remarkably, with the lights down, we could suddenly see much more than anticipated and, despite being sat in the mouth of K2, the sound was splendid. In addition to this, they were excellent, the set continued to improve with every song. We were even able to ignore the pathetic behaviour of the ‘girls’ in front of us who spent the entire gig photographing their own incredulous expressions of pathetic joy at being in the same ‘room’ as Dave [Gahan.]

IC and I ducked out during the encore in order to get the tube before it became a pipe packed full of Hello readers. The journey home was an expedition in itself, it was so nice to get home I cannot tell you with blubbering tears of exultation.


I wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of that raspberry who shoved a marble and metal model of Milan Cathedral into the gob of Berlusconi. The Italian premier has *ahem* ‘alleged’ connections to the mob, my betting is that Massimo Tartaglia won’t be around for long. Despite my sort of revolted glee at watching Berlusconi quite literally having his teeth smashed in, it’s not really the way business should be conducted. I’m no fan of the victim, not by any means, but there is no need for that sort of thing.

Similarly, the news is ripe with barely concealed fury following a reprisal incident involving a burglar. To cut a long story short some knife wielding moron broke into a millionaires gaff and tied up him and his family in order to go on the nick. But one of the sons escaped and alerted his uncle and the intruder was chased out the house and beaten to within an inch of his pathetic existence with a cricket bat and hockey stick by the now freed homeowner and his bro. The Beak gave the millionaire and his brother 2 years and the would-be-burglar, left with permanent brain damage, ‘got off.’

Again, I’ve no sympathy for the criminal who, it seems, has made a bit of a career of this sort of thing. But, however a bitter pill this may be to swallow, two wrongs don’t make a right, and violence never solves anything. I’m not saying the intruder should’ve been given a handjob after having the tables turned on him, I’m sure I couldn’t resist a few well aimed blows to his front penis, but to beat him so hard when he’s already incapacitated you break a cricket bat over his head is moving into potential murder territory. When you really look at that aspect of it you could almost see that two years is quite a lean sentence, though, of course, having some bloke waving a knife about in front of your loved-ones is a tad on the provocative side.

The Seasonal comings and goings continue in earnest, last night was the turn of Rosh to bare witness to my heavy drinking, and tonight IC will have to sit quietly and watch me slurp away in front of Depeche Modes set at the O2. Both of these things have, and will, necessitate much fucking about on public transport. Yesterday morning I had to take the bloody bus/tube to work in order to get the train after to meet Rosh, and then I had to take the train/tube to Liverpool street, fork out 30p for a tinkle, before taking another bus home. Hours wasted. Hours.

My morning journey today was certainly helped by bumping into IC at the bus stop, but after hitting Monument I was once again forced to face the quite dreadful District Line all the way to fucking Wimbledon. Going in that direction you can see evolution in reverse, the sprightly gait of the city-types, all laptops and Gucci, passing through the bespectacled accountants of the West-End, the shop assistants at Kensington before heading down, down, with the cleaners and job seekers from Earl’s Court, finally arriving at Wimbledon in a barely filled carriage consisting of a furious me, a hundred thousand discarded Metros and a couple of primates smeared in fake-tan.

Speaking of fake tan, I was just then, now that Peter Andre is no longer consorting with that cunt, Jordan (real name, That Cunt, Jordan) can he fuck off back to Australia? His rubbery gormless visage is nearly as infuriating as the perpetual exposure humanity has to his ex-wife’s comedy tits. His already managed to contaminate the British gene pool by having offspring with his pimple-faced X, if we’re not careful he could do this with someone else, who, let’s face it, isn’t going to be a Scrabble champion.

I notice there is an Internet campaign to get Rage Against The Machine’s ‘Killing in the Name of’ to number one. It’s a great song, but I think we can do a bit better. Come on reader, lets see if we can’t make a shot of this…

PS. Due to my Christmas plans this year I’m due to arrive at Milan at approximately 8am on Saturday morning, I’m going to buy a bunch of marble and metal models of Milan Cathedral. If anyone would like one please let me know. Keeping up with traditional I can gift-wrap them with your face.


The less said about the Hawkwind concert the better. ‘Fucking shame’ will do for starters. I met Jamie outside this O Neil’s pub-thing and had a pint, actually, I’d got to Shepherds Bush early (vile place) and was already one down courtesy of this bar that thought it was in fucking LA, Jamie and I caught up amidst the usual concoction of grebos, weirdos, tramps, punk, skins and people we knew.

It was evident on entering the venue that we’d be having problems, for a kick off most of those attending were tall and fat and getting around the place was problematic, in addition, the place was packed and The Shepherds Bush Empire, whilst easy on the eye, isn’t conducive to the watching-of-bands. Hawkwind rolled on, I’d forgotten about their latest member, a sort of faux biker bloke, a charisma-less pain in the arse but in hindsight, the least of our woes.

The set they’d chosen was dire, for some bizarre reason they decided to play most of their turkeys, and love them as I do, Hawkwind have a habit of getting it just as wrong as they do right. In fact, they played only two decent tunes, Magnu and Right to Decide, and even the latter wasn’t as good as the version I’ve stuck on the end of this drivel. Jamie and I left before the encore, we’d had enough. It was time to face the awful journey back in the freezing bloody cold.

On Friday afternoon I went to visit my mum in hospital, she had her hip replaced on Thursday so I thought it best to visit and make sure all was well. On the way to the hospital the fuel pipe came off Brutta again, this time I was doing 50 or so and the jet of petrol streamed merrily all over my boots and leathers. In the hospital I smelt so bad that the nursing staff thought I was a gas leak, twice. My journey back from the hospital and then, later, home, were fraught with images of yours truly going up like Michael Jackson’s head.

At home I showered after dumping my bike gear in the shed to fumigate, almost as soon as I was sorted Peter showed up on his Triumph. He and I hadn’t seen in other for a while but took to our reunion as a proverbial duck to that water. Needless to say the weekend began with a few drinks, we were joined by Red who jumped into proceedings and by the time we went upstairs to collect IC we were well on our way.

At around 10 Peter, Red and I went to the Turkish place and had some meat-based delights, following a right stuffing we hopped on the bus and headed for the outskirts of Hackney to meet up with IC, Mary and Co in a club. Mary was DJ-ing so she’d attracted a large crowd of friends and acquaintances. In addition to actually dancing, I spent a good deal of time bouncing about the place ‘socialising’ for want of a better word. All the while drinks were popping into my hand and down my neck, I’m not sure what time we left but I do know we were home by 3 following a cheery bus ride.

Undeterred by our predicament, IC, Red, Peter and I continued chatting and imbibing. I was aware of the foolhardy nature of our wanton behaviour but cheerily reminding myself that it was now appropriate to employ the ‘it’s Christmas’ clause, despite a few broken glasses and slicing up my hand, we pushed on until 6.

The following day started at 12, Red had already gone (the poor sod had to work) so Peter and I went for breakfast at a local café. It went some way to sorting me out but Peter was clearly swallowing his greasy meal and bile simultaneously. He was so bad that when we returned home he went back to bed. At about 3.30 Peter was probably all right to get back on his bike and make it back to Brighton in one piece. After he left I showered and sorted myself out and at 5-ish went upstairs to see IC who much to my horror (and I have to say delight) had just opened a bottle with one of her pals. Of course I spurned her kind refusal for a drink until the ‘it’s Christmas’ caveat rung into my brain and off I went.

IC, Pru and I stayed in the same spot for 5 hours, which flew past, and it was a lovely evening, even better when we found ourselves in the same Turkish eatery I’d frequented 24 hours earlier. Sensibly, possibly for the only time that weekend, we called it a day after that. I have to say, sitting here now, I’m feeling a little ragged, so much so I’m currently eating the chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle that’s been sat in my drawer since 2005. It’s fucking lovely. I think.


Shoreditch High Street, just before the junction at Commercial Road, sat at the lights. Waiting. My engine suddenly starts to rev faster, yet I’m not controlling the gas, the revs die down just before the lights change, I engage and move off, the rear wheel spins on itself and slides the bike violently over to the left, I correct this rude gesture and the bike fishtails to the right. Fuck. Classic signs of a flat tyre. Fuck… I point the bike at the nearest pavement and mount it. Instinctively I switch my head behind me to check the tyre, it’s fine… but something else caught my eye in between the front of the bike and the back, something so unexpected I just gawped at it as if it was a thirteen-headed purple giraffe shitting out chins onto an umbrella. From below my right leg a fucking river of liquid was literally pissing out all over my engine and boot and pooling under the bike, Christ, petrol. I couldn’t work out what to do if I’m honest, but something in my mind screamed ‘fuel pump’ which led me to switch off the engine halting the deluge.

I dismounted to examine the matter in more detail, my mind already taking further steps with regard to possible solutions, the immediate problems surrounding a lack of transport and lots of very rude words including the ‘c’ one for ‘cunts.’ To my astonishment the second union of the pipe leading from the tank was just unattached. Loose. It was simply hanging there dripping petrol like a limp dick might piss, for example. I pushed the pipe back into its counterpart and it clicked weakly into place. It was as worryingly simple as that. And worried I most certainly am. I’ve checked the component, it has an internal collar that locks over the male pipe that in turn leads to the carburettor, and I’m not sure how it came off as it requires one to physically release the securing clip. Fuck.

Yesterday I morning had to have a meeting in the West End with my boss, it was by and large a successful affair, so he took me to J Sheekey for lunch by means of celebrating a rather good deal with an arts organisation. I was back in the office by 2-ish feeling a little woozy from the wine, itself plonked on top of a hangover from the previous evening following a little dinner party at some friends in that Hackney. After work I dashed into the revolting Wimbledon to finish the Christmas shopping, vicious it was, an awful experience with fuckers stood about trying to sell me everything from gaudy phone covers to hair straighteners.

At 6pm I took the train the Clapham to meet Frank, first time he and I have had a quiet pint for bloody months and we caught up on our respective lives, during which I dumped a pint of beer all over my pills. Mercifully I was wearing black and was feeling relaxed enough to not really give it much attention… though on the tube journey back I noticed that someone in the carriage smelt like a Glaswegian drip tray.

Two weeks today and it’ll be Christmas, doesn’t seem real. I’m phasing in and out of ‘feeling it’ which I imagine is a vibration from when I was a kid. There are split seconds when it fully engages, and despite my state of perpetual cynicism, it’s rather nice.

I’m off to see my mum in hospital after I’ve posted this; she’s just had her hip replaced. I’m really quite pleased I’m spending Christmas in Italy, IC’s mum can get about to make the dinner, my mum is going to be fucking useless.

Right, chart, tune, good weekends…

30 Timbaland ft Nelly Furtado and SoShy Morning After Dark NE 1
29 Lostprophets Where We Belong NE 1
28 Simian Mobile Disco ft Beth Ditto Cruel Intentions NE 1
27 Lostprophets It’s Not The End Of The World… 20 14
26 Bombay Bicycle Club Always Like This 18 4
25 Biffy Clyro The Captain 13 11
24 Rammstein Pussy 21 12
23 Vampire Weekend Cousins NE 1
22 The Temper Trap Fader 27 2
21 The Cribs We Share The Same Skies RE 5
20 The Horrors Whole New Way 19 4
19 Green Day 21st Century Breakdown 16 4
18 Mumford And Sons Winter Winds 24 3
17 The Drums I Feel Stupid 15 5
16 Editors Papillon 11 14
15 Ian Brown Just Like You 17 3
14 Depeche Mode Fragile Tension 25 2
13 Arctic Monkeys Cornerstone 14 6
12 30 Seconds To Mars Kings And Queens 9 6
11 Fightstar A City On Fire 22 3
10 Death Cab For Cutie Meet Me At The Equinox 7 7
9 AFI Medicate 10 4
8 A Place To Bury Strangers In Your Heart 6 4
7 Ou Est Le Swimming Pool Dance The Way I Feel 8 4
6 Athlete Black Swan Song 4 7
5 Pearl Jam Got Some 12 2
4 Paramore Brick By Boring Brick 5 7
3 Chase And Status ft Plan B End Credits 1 6
2 Muse Undisclosed Desires 2 6
1 Them Crooked Vultures New Fang 3 5


My alarm failed to deploy this morning; this caused me to be rather late, I arrived at work round 10 feeling calm-ish and reasonably relaxed as I was spared the usual slurry of the rush hour but I also felt confused and a bit weird, for I had been witness to the comings and goings of those who don’t work, on the surface, those unemployed creatures who’d arisen before lunchtime to go about their non-business.

I’m used to passing through the city avoiding the slickly suited financiers and secretaries rushing to their respective offices, they’re inclined to an upright confident gait despite the nefarious financial institutions to which they’re associated. After 9.30 it’s very different story. The suits are replaced with a sportier genre of attire and the modern equivalent of the mudlark dash in and out of the dwindling traffic like shiny rats. Doubtless, many of these creatures are themselves part of the city payroll but it’s obvious that others are what you might call ‘the hub.’

After I’ve been through the motions of Elephant and Castle and Vauxhall I’m faced with the horrors of Battersea, by far and away the worst bit of my journey. The professional drivers of the previous hour have already arrived at their destination and what’s left are lunatic mothers in tanks, maniacal van drivers and scum in battered hatchbacks that care less for the rules of the fucking road than I do The Pox. What’s worse than having to ride alongside these bastards is when I’m forced to stop at one of the three or four junctions between Battersea power station and Wandsworth roundabout, the ones that allow me to observe the pedestrians in Sarf Landan in more detail.

A whole new world had opened up, save the odd fat-arsed mother puffing on a Superking with her perpetually one-and-a-half year old blob hidden under the hood of a plastic perambulator, the streets resemble Precinct 13. Things ambled and limped past my harrowfyed eyes as I sat burbling at the traffic lights, these beings could only have either been going to or coming from the local doctors surgery or hospital. It’s one thing to see some young cunt on benefits swaggering off to the nearest betting shop (after 2pm) and another entirely to be baffled beyond rationale by an approaching ‘thing.’ Fair play, this one had survived thus far despite walking at the angle of a keyboard slash but I was more puzzled by how it successfully consumed a Snickers in two bites without the need to puke on it first.

In three successive junctions strange human animals trundled, loped and undulated under my screwed up face. ‘Where do they come from?’ Was the question my brain had looped into a foul mantra. To put it bluntly, ‘Ugh.’

I’m afraid Piqued will be winding down now, I’ll post again on Friday and a few more times before the 19th then that’s it, save the possibility of something before 2010 to describe the Italian Christmas that peeps over the horizon.


David Cameron, that dough-faced hooray-henry has finally come up with ‘a policy,’ if you can call it that. And it regards the situation in Afghanistan. In the face of public opposition with reference to the so called ‘war on terror’ in the midst of the Iraq-War enquiry (due to be resolved in fucking 2011) Cameron said that (should he get into office) a cut in personnel would be ‘pretty unlikely, ‘ though he was sure about a few other matters, that he’d appoint a national security adviser, set up a war cabinet, and make Ministry of Defence service personnel wear uniforms instead of suits. So, in short, it’s ‘pretty likely’ that should Cameron make office we’d be no better off than we are under the current incarnation of wankers.

I read this in the Observer on Sunday and my brain boiled with fury, it wasn’t so much the iron-fist-in-velvet-glove of the paradox between the ‘pretty likely’ and the ‘set up a war cabinet!’ it was more that I could imagine him saying ‘pretty likely’ in that fucking public schoolcunt accent whilst holding a glass of champers prior to having his attention snapped back to the Polo game and yelling ‘hurrah!!’ when his old House Prefect, Tobes Finkle-Blimpentharp who used to bugger him inside out after chapel, mallets a goal. As for making all the service personnel wear uniforms, well that’s just bloody fruity.

My motorcycle boots have finally arrived and they’re quite a thing of beauty. Italian hand-made fellows which, for under £200, seems almost absurd. I wore them home last night in the pissing rain and despite not being designed to be 100% waterproof they were barely damp. I’m chuffed to bits with them.

In addition to my boots, the slow trickle of Amazon-bought bits and pieces for friends and family is trickling into my possession. It’s rather odd because it has the effect of making me feel strangely ‘Chrismassy.’ Maybe this is due to my not being here for Christmas this year and my brain advancing proceedings, or the fact that I’m well ahead of the game with regard to getting gifts sorted and with the pressure lifted I can indulge in Delia, Nigella and Hugh’s Christmas carve-up with nothing to separate me with their project essence of the season, which remains something entirely from the imaginings of some fat twit in an office off Aldwych.

This tune has been going round my head after it featured on a TV show recently. I can’t recall what it was but it was probably used when someone was squeezing a lemon, or something.


It’s my sister’s birthday today, so in order to celebrate this auspicious occasion, IC and I trundled out of Hackney with boiling eyeballs and, after a minor bit of mucking about of public transport (my fault,) arrived at the folks in time for lunch.

This was the last major gathering before Christmas, for the first time in my life I’m not going to be at the family homestead for Christmas this year, I’m off to Italy with IC to spend it with her folks, which is nice. Lunch happened amid the usual bout of giggling and burping (the odd fart for good measure) and the wine helped soothe my not-as-bad-as-I-predicted ‘over. In addition to all this my eldest niece, a worldly 2 and a bit, seems to have forgotten that her Uncle isn’t the incarnation of the Horned One and she actually took a bit of time out from her hectic schedule of destroying wooden-block towers and throwing marbles to come over and show me her tummy.

At 5-ish IC and I, my bro and his missus, left them to it and we headed back home in the dark evening, the prospect of fresh whole crab and maybe a splash of vino to defend our fragile spirits against the impending Monday, the one I sit in now writing this crap.

It’s a world way from the louche frippery of a Friday afternoon, when all that faces is the weekend, a seemingly endless strip of unmitigated delight with all stuff in it designed to entertain and titillate. IC started ours in the Vietnamese down the road, it’s cheap and delicious and blessed by not having a licence that means that I can bring my own stuff (which is probably better and helps reduce the bill further.) I like nothing more than to spend Friday evening in a low-key restaurant with IC quietly digesting the week and preparing an appetite for the days ahead, it’s always these few happy hours that are the focus of my mourning on Sunday fucking evening incidentally.

Saturday happened, IC and I went out to grab Sunday’s seafood and did a tiny amount of Christmas-related shopping, we returned home for breakfast and I took off to clean Brutta who needed her rims degreasing. Woof.

During her service a couple of weeks back she had her chain lubricated, the mechanic had been quite generous with the application of the product and it’d flung itself onto the inside of the wheels and was stuck there like shit on a blanket. Getting it off was a cunt, if you’ll pardon my potty mouth. It took almost 2 hours, the use of a specifically purchased specialist product and much rubbing and cursing. The result is fine but it’s a job I’ll have to repeat multiple times in due course, which isn’t nice.

But I was richly rewarded for my labour; in addition to a job well done it was time to kick off Saturday night. I met IC upstairs with Mary and Mark and we sharpened ourselves for the trip to Kentish Town via the London Overground from Hackney. On arrival we hit a perfect Victorian pub and following a few beers arrived at The Forum to await Fever Ray. Being brutally honest, this isn’t my usual fare, but I was quite blown to bits by the show. We were right at the top of the venue with our backs to a well-stocked bar and freedom to move with impunity, green lasers fired round my gaze and the music surrounded my essence, piss-pot perfection.

After the gig we went back to Hackney with time to spare and found ourselves comfortably sat in the Turkish Restaurant that happily resides a few minutes from home. I chose the perfect kebab, a long chargrilled kofta wrapped in Turkish bread and rammed full of shredded cabbage, according to IC I was so happy to have such a thing in my possession I insisted on singing hymns of praise during and after its consumption. Despite my less than keen state of mind at the time of eating I’m drooling right now thinking about the fucker.

So, another perfect weekend is consigned to history. This blog may be dreadfully written and presented but at least it goes someway to remind myself that, yes, I did have fun. And that kebab was sensational.


I’ll be perfectly honest, I have a hangover.

Last night Neil, Mark, Paul and I went off to the beer festival opposite the Hackney Empire. Having never been to a beer festival (I went to a wine tasting last year with IC and Dan and that was cheerful chaos) I wasn’t sure what to expect. The venue was vast, after running up two flights of stairs we found ourselves in an enormous hall quite literally surrounded by kegs of ale and strange men who smelled a bit funny.

We had to pay for our glasses but were given the chance for a refund if we returned them, not likely that, the glasses were marvellous. We were given a booklet with all the booze on offer and got stuck in, halves to start with, we actually wanted to sample some different varieties as opposed to just getting plain pissed. After an hour it was apparent we were doing both well.

Our fellow drinkers seemed to be polarised into two main groups, old men with red gormless faces and round beer guts, and short bearded old men with fucking unborn twins, in short, Viz’s Real Ale Twats which occasionally came to mind and caused me to laugh without warning. They were all nice though, keen to recommend beers as if ambassadors for their hobby, which was getting arsed on nice fruity ales. This made for a very congenial atmosphere and we four joined in with gay abandon.

I drunk beer from the south coast to Scotland, Neil was keener on sampling the foreign beers, at one point he picked up this German syrup that was 32% alcohol, dreadful it was. The best stuff I had was from The Hog’s Back brewery near where my sister lives and this stuff from Sheffield, I’d like to recall what it was but, ironically, by drinking it my memory was wiped clean of it’s name.

The Festival shut at 10.30 so we nipped round the corner to The Pembury, itself known for a fine selection of brews and popped in one more in before wobbling off home, each of us clutching our freshly acquired glasses like little kids back from a party.

I woke this morning, as I do every weekday, to the dulcet tones of Today and was immediately enraged. I learnt that the government spent over 107 MILLION on financial crisis advisors… is it just me or isn’t that the most ironic thing you’ve heard since discovering Hitler’s granny was a Jew called Schickelgruber?

Packed weekend ahead, I can’t wait.

Chart first, bucket after.

30 The Blackout I Don’t Care…….. 26 4
29 Foo Fighters Wheels 22 10
28 All Time Low Damned If I Do Ya… 24 3
27 The Temper Trap Fader NE 1
26 Skunk Anansie Squander 17 6
25 Depeche Mode Fragile Tension NE 1
24 Mumford And Sons Winter Winds 28 2
23 Dead Weather I Cut Like A Buffalo 15 7
22 Fightstar A City On Fire 30 2
21 Rammstein Pussy 14 11
20 Lostprophets It’s Not The End Of The World… 12 13
19 The Horrors Whole New Way 19 3
18 Bombay Bicycle Club Always Like This 16 3
17 Ian Brown Just Like You 23 2
16 Green Day 21st Century Breakdown 20 3
15 The Drums I Feel Stupid 21 4
14 Arctic Monkeys Cornerstone 18 5
13 Biffy Clyro The Captain 10 10
12 Pearl Jam Got Some NE 1
11 Editors Papillon 7 13
10 AFI Medicate 13 3
9 30 Seconds To Mars Kings And Queens 9 5
8 Ou Est Le Swimming Pool Dance The Way I Feel 11 3
7 Death Cab For Cutie Meet Me At The Equinox 4 6
6 A Place To Bury Strangers In Your Heart 6 3
5 Paramore Brick By Boring Brick 8 6
4 Athlete Black Swan Song 5 6
3 Them Crooked Vultures New Fang 3 4
2 Muse Undisclosed Desires 2 5
1 Chase And Status ft Plan B End Credits 1 5


Cold-steel rain greeted me as I left the office last night. It was coming down with such force it was actually raining upwards. Brutta and I set off in a horizontal waterfall; her light lit a silver curtain of stair-rods and a jet of piss streamed forward from under my front mudguard. I’d never seen that before, Brutta was doing a wee-wee in public. I forced a smile because I’m fucking hard.

Within 3 minutes by boots were taking on water, the tips of my supposedly waterproof gloves were seeping and I was even getting rain on my forehead from the miniscule gap in my visor, gingerly lifted to allow the vapour to evaporate from my glasses. But the rest of me remained dry for the whole journey home. Even the dreadful waterproof over-trousers that covered my leathers did a sterling job. I have to say the ride was actually rather fun. When it’s raining in oceans like that it’s a lot less slippery than you’d naturally assume as the tyres are allowed to cut through the water as opposed to sitting over it when it’s drizzling, for example. The snag comes in the visibility factor, riding becomes more of an instinct thing simply because you’re unable to read the road as one would when the river Thames isn’t in your face.

There seems to be a lot of unnecessary fuss over this Tiger Woods business. I can’t help thinking that if he was a white fellow this matter would be rightly designated to the sidebars of a red-top. Instead even quality news merchants (such as Today) are dedicating valuable column inches (or airtime) to something of no particular importance, though in the case of the BBC I’d argue that they’re merely reporting on the furore over the pond, maybe.

American has always liked to display its ‘land-of-the-free’ credentials via its non-white citizens. But there is a caveat, the non-white person in question has to make a success of themselves and then move to the right neighbourhood, transgress fully into white society, that sort of thing. If you think I’m sounding trite then look at the way America treated the predominantly black citizens of New Orleans a few years back. No one gave a flying fuck about them did they? Thousands died unnecessarily and the USA didn’t lift a finger.

Woods has found himself very much an ordinary black man in America. The tabloids are having a field day; gloating barbarous spleen is being vented with barely-hidden hatred because he’s had an affair, he’s fucking evil! Now watch as all of his sponsors scuttle away from this vile beast, his so-called friends melt into the ether as he’s kicked all the way down.

No youtube today, instead, a link to this wonderful site which will help to lift you after reading today’s miserable offing. Oh, I’ve just seen a grown man driving his car wearing a santa hat, what a wanker.


I ate dreadfully yesterday, cut loose from the routine of the working week, I arrived bleary-eyed at Euston station to discover, almost by accident, that I was eating Burger Kings XL with bacon and cheese. I had one once on a trip to Spain, I’m not sure what circumstance inspired this encounter. It was rather nice, saltier than the Channel and unable in anyway to assuage my hunger, but I can’t say I entirely regretted my encounter.

I was due to set off to the bike show at the NEC in Birmingham with dad when the burger happened, we climbed on the 8.56 East Midland train and it set off, rattling through the frosty countryside for a good two hours until stopping in a freezing Midlands rail station allowing us access to what turned out to be a rather disappointing visit.

The recession seems to have bitten the motorcycle industry in the posterior. Not even Harley Davidson or fucking Honda were there, Ducati couldn’t be pissed to get a proper stand and dangled its bikes out of reach over the dribbling throngs, well, I say ‘throngs’ the crowd was a shadow of what we’re used to dealing with. The stands that were there, the likes of Triumph, Suzuki, Yamaha, Kawasaki et al didn’t really inspire much either, a few ropey Brolly Dollies handed out some stuff, it all seemed rather ‘we’d rather be elsewhere,’ and came as a bit of blow to the old man and I who’ve been going to the bike show for decades and had spent a not inconsiderable amount of time stuck on a poxy train getting there.

I wholly failed in my mission to get a much-needed pair of bike boots, even the merchandise section was crap, none of the major Italian manufacturers were in attendance, no Sidi or Dainese, both of whom were due to receive the benefits of my ex-buyers stupidity. Lunch allowed me to continue my shit-eating regime. I ate an ‘Italian-Spicy’ Subway (last time I had one of them was at the bike show a few years back) which involved bread you could virtually inhale. Mid way through I belched out something that resembled rotten leather and called it a day.

Back at the show I visited the new incarnation of Brutta, it looked dreadful, even if it is a little pokeier than my current beast I’d settle for mine ad infinitum. I then noticed than the Italian Tricolour was absent from the tail fin and learnt that Husqvarna’s Italian owners are in shit, which doesn’t bode well for the future of Brutta in terms of spares and servicing. Balls.

Dad and I left at 2-ish following a confusing 3 hours, it wasn’t all bad, we saw a few things that lifted our spirits and it was nice to spend some time with the old man but I was quite happy to get back to London and settle into the cosy pub off Borough in order to meet my bro, Harry, Rod and Ted for a couple of warming ales and a catch-up.

I’ve news on the flat front. Apparently it’s being sold again, the buyer is paying in cash and both agent and solicitor inform me that it should go through before Christmas. I’m not holding my breath of course, once bitten and all that, be bloody nice to be shot of it mind. We’ll see.

I could murder a kebab.