Monthly Archives: January 2010

chil

Thank god the weekend is upon me, it’s been a bloody stressful week in the office, but despite a lot of grief and losing money left right and fucking centre, I did finally (yesterday at 3.12) finish off this cunting project.

I can now relax and put all my energy into shitting myself about the sale of my flat. Yes, I still have a gaff in Tooting, a place I’ve not seen since the start of September 09, yet am still paying for. Of course I can’t afford this and my rent, any wonga left over from the deposit from my ex-buyers pathetic attempts at procuring said flat is long gone. And I’m fed up to the back teeth from assurances of estate agent and solicitor that I’ll be exchanging ‘within the week.’

In spite of all this I had a thoroughly pleasant evening. After a spot of cleansing I settled down for a mammoth session of a little known Australian series called ‘Underbelly.’ Astonishingly it’s based on real events, it’s highly addictive viewing and worth getting by any means necessary, including offering yourself for cash-money.

A weekend is spread before me like a Turkish rug o’ many colours. Tonight, men come to my place to play on the PS3, and I should imagine, partake in accessories. Tomorrow IC and I fancy a London museum, which precedes a party near Carnaby Street in the evening. Sunday we have a bunch of films to observe with our puffy eyes, I’m hoping to spend most, if not all, of this day on my sofa. Very well, but let’s not jump the gun here, allow me to savour what’s to come with out thinking about fucking Sunday, please.

My ride into work today was irksome but punctuated with charming snapshots of life. The fluorescent lollipop man being thanked by kids as they crossed the road, a woman in a van picking her nose by Liverpool street, office workers in the city trying not to spill hot coffee as they rush to their desks, the thousands of black grey commuters crossing a Tuner-lit London Bridge like an invading army, sour-faced mothers, dead-faced drivers, a biker nodding at me, a baby in a pushchair gawping at Brutta in amused astonishment, accelerate, brake, a wave, traffic-lights-amber, gridlock with no exit, cyclists weaving, roadkill, buses indicating, a finger, full beam, fuck off! beeeeeeeeep!

Lovely.

Chart, choon, have fun mofo’s.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 AFI Medicate 27 11
29 Fightstar A City On Fire 24 10
28 Muse Undisclosed Desires 26 13
27 The Courteeners Cross my heart and hope to fly 21 5
26 You Me At Six Underdog 29 2
25 Ian Brown Just Like You 20 10
24 The Courteeners You Overdid It Doll NE 1
23 Goldhawks Running Away 18 7
22 Ash Space Shot 19 4
21 Kasabian Vlad The Impaler NE 1
20 Chase And Status ft Plan B End Credits 17 13
19 Phoenix 1901 25 4
18 Mumford And Sons Winter Winds 14 10
17 Massive Attack Paradise Circus 22 3
16 Plan B Stay Too Long 15 4
15 Them Crooked Vultures New Fang 11 12
14 Muse Resistance 23 2
13 Hot Chip One Life Stand 13 5
12 Depeche Mode Fragile Tension 8 9
11 I Blame Coco Caesar 12 3
10 Flyleaf Again 16 3
9 Timbaland/N. Furtado/ SoShy Morning After Dark 6 8
8 Biffy Clyro Many Of Horror 7 6
7 Placebo Bright Lights 5 5
6 The xx VCR 9 2
5 Marina And The Diamonds Hollywood 4 4
4 Editors You Don’t Know Love 2 6
3 Pearl Jam Got Some 3 9
2 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh 10 2
1 Alice In Chains Your Decision 1 5

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barmar

Barak Obama has spoken in his first State of the Union address. Good. It’s good because since he came into power we’ve hardly see hide nor hair of the fellow. Unlike his predecessor, Monkey Brains, Obama seems to have decided the best way to govern his nation is to sit in the Oval Office with his door shut to the outside world. He’s a bit of a disappointment really, Guantanamo Bay is still open for business despite assurances it would be shut now (he didn’t mention this at all yesterday) his attempts at Healthcare and banking reforms were a fucking joke to be perfectly honest and the war is still raging in the Middle East with no end in sight.

Instead he focussed his speech on ‘employment.’ That’s nice, and of course employment is essential for the health of a nation and society at large and what have you, but in the grand global plan of things, the plan that is overseen by the USA with regard to war, death, famine, environment, death, torture, war, death etc., the question of Coleslaw Penchowlsky losing his job as bog cleaner at his local Walmart isn’t the first thing that springs to mind in terms of ‘priorities.’ In short, if you need any evidence that the USA is run exclusively by bankers, lawyers and the CIA, I think you have it right there. Obama’s intentions, I feel, are genuine. Unfortunately he’s no power to achieve his aims, you see folks? The pres ain’t running the show.

Anyway, what do I care, I’ve got a leather shirt. That’s right, ‘a leather shirt,’ off IC. She gave it to me last night before we went out for dinner, out the blue it was. It’s one of those things you get that are as good as new shoes when you’re 7, you know, when you go to bed wearing them because you just don’t want to take them off. When you do remove them you examine them in detail, smell the leather, poke the rubbery sole and the squish that soft bit that supports your instep. No, at 7, nothing is as important as your new shoes… I think you get the picture. Anyway, this leather shirt, it’s fucking marvellous, I don’t think I’ll ever take it off, ever.

We went to the local boozer for dinner, I suppose you could call it a gastro pub but that would do it a disservice, these days ‘gastro pub’ is choc-full of wanky connotations, it’s a more of a proper pub with a restaurant serving well above average pub grub. I opted, unusually, for the aged-beef burger with bacon and fucking cheese. It’s not my normal fare, I think the hum of fresh leather turned me, but it was beautiful.

Oh, did I mention my leather shir….

*bang*


vyce

I’m in a contemptible mood, in addition to a fractured ride into work (cold, arseholes at every junction, pop-up roadworks etc) I walk into the office with my fingertips leaking nitrogen and am instantly thrown into the crushing jaws of a fucking cock-up that wasn’t my fault but somehow became my responsibility. A bit like getting bollock cancer, or hitting a woman when all drunked-up on homemade cider.

I finally caught up with my bro in the boozer near Monument last night. We’ve been there before; it’s a nice little place with good (albeit a tad costly) beer but, on the downside, stuffed full of city-tits. They are an awful collective of red-faced guffawing cunts, the types of people that look at you as if they’d just stepped in something, a bunch of shameless bankers, every last man jack-off of them. Nonetheless we happily popped a few in, though going outside for a fag was a pain. Every time we left our spot some fat-arsed corporate was sat in our seats on return, despite the placing of our bags over the required stools. For the last pint we just gave up and shivered outside, it was bloody freezing. I don’t think we’ll be returning anytime soon.

I’ve got to get on, forgive the semi-post


gran

Swineshead came over yesterday evening to indulge in a spot of spaghetti bolognaise and killing. We went fucking postal, we knacked cops, gangsters, drug dealers, innocent members of the public and zombies. Throughout I cheerfully imbibed and we both got intensified. By the time Swineshead left, I could see gravity.

The day at work was fraught; I’m on sodding deadline for one of my fucking projects, which results in my being stalked by the gov’nor. For me it’s unnecessary pressure but it has an uncanny effect on my colleagues, it’s as if I delegate the grief to them and I just sit at the desk bouncing farts off the tit that sits behind me waiting for the clock to hit 5 so I can jump on Brutta and fuck off home.

Once I’d arrived back at the Twatcave I kicked off my Sidi’s and leathers and went directly out to the shops to gain ingredients for the evening meal and a copy of Resident Evil 5. I popped by to see the still not-too-well IC with some Almond Slices and rushed down to the flat to prepare the food and leave to stew on the stove as I showered and made good of my habitat.

This morning I had to take public transport into work as I’m seeing my bro for a few beers this evening. It wasn’t the like horror experienced a few weeks ago when we were under the frozen fist, but it was pretty dire nonetheless. Like anything else there is a knack to getting it right, first priority is the route itself, which I think I’ve finally sussed. Then comes the best time to catch the right bus with regard to saying in bed for as long as possible, after this, preferred places to wait on the platform for the tube, ideal places to sit on the train, of course, there is vast amount of luck involved in proceedings too. This morning I was sufficiently ahead of the game to grab a coffee but I lost out due to train delays on the final leg. See? That’s how it goes.

Oh forgot to mention on Monday that, as of last Sunday, Piqued turned three years old. This means that we’re now walking, talking, riding tricycles and eating loads of fucking cake.


fod

The man was stood up now, demanding to know where his food was. ‘If we don’t get our food in the next 10 minutes,’ he said to the diminutive Vietnamese waiter, ‘we’re leaving without paying.’ ‘How fucking rude,’ I said to IC and Petra, we were freshly arrived and were feeling a little smug because we’d been permitted to drink our own wine despite the eatery having a license. The fact we were in a restaurant was something too, all the other places on the Kingsland Road were packed solid, this one wasn’t. Of course I accepted the food might not be quite as good as the popular ones, but having a bit of space, a bit of P & Q away from the Shoreditch types on a Saturday night was an acceptable compromise. I stilled any alarm bells that might be ringing. The waiter came over to take our order, we opened our wine and the rude man went back to his seat. Ten minutes later he was gone.

My weekend started in IC’s flat with Mary, Petra and Mark. The latter wasn’t really feeling up for the club in which Mary was featuring in her capacity as a budding DJ. We had a few wines to get us in the mood and, after meeting Oscar at the busstop, took ourselves off to the bar in Dalston.

It was empty when we arrived which suited me fine but by the time Mary took to the decks the place was full. As I’ve previously mentioned, the electro thing isn’t really my bag but some of it is more than listenable to. The booze helped to sharpen the senses and a pleasant evening unfurled, I undertook a spot of dancing with IC and spent a good while nattering to Euan at the rather pricey bar. As is common with these things time passed quickly with my wallet flapping open and shut like a fishwife’s mouth. I’m not sure what time we departed but the bus was packed solid, bed happened shortly after, I think it was 4.

The hangover was curbed by a fry up at the marvellous café round the corner at around lunchtime, before returning home to play Grand Theft I bought a few bits and pieces from the Co-Op and gave Brutta a minor wipe over. At 4-ish IC and Pru came down to watch Harry Brown. One of the best movies I’ve seen, highly, highly recommended. Mid way through we needed some Cava to help us cope with the incredible tension. The Cava thing went on until 8 or so when we reluctantly decided to go to Clerkenwell to see off one of our crew for some farewell drinks. It was en route we spontaneously decided to get some food.

After about 20 mins 2 of the 3 starters arrived along with my main course, a rather over cooked but nonetheless tasty shredded duck with pancakes and a few strips of cucumber. I waited for the final starter and my companions’ main dishes but nothing happened. I was encouraged to eat my food which was pretty much cold by now. Still, it was okay; I smothered the ingredients with chilli sauce and wrapped it in the pancakes. An hour later still no food had arrived and I was a bit pissed.

Suddenly a sweating man appeared from the kitchen with a small plate of what looked like deep-fried breaded prawns and chilli dip. I explained to the chap we’d not ordered this, we’d ordered grilled prawn on udon noodles, which this clearly wasn’t. To my and our collective surprises he then insisted it was. I assured him that on account of the lack of noodles and the fact the prawns (if that is what they were) were certainly not grilled, it most definitely wasn’t what we ordered, and could he go away now as he was making me feel a little irritated.

But he didn’t go; instead he stood there and told me a barefaced porky. Apparently, he said, in Japan ‘udon noodles’ really means the way deep fried prawns are positioned on a plate, thus. He pointed again at the dish and thrust it under my nose. I think the reason I didn’t grab the plate from his hands and fling it against the wall was because I felt a bit sorry for him. Nonetheless, I won’t have someone taking me for a tit so I simply asked for the bill and then told him I’d been to Japan and I knew exactly what udon Noodles looked like, and what he was bearing wasn’t udon noddles, or grilled prawn for that matter. I jabbed a finger against the side of the plate to make my point and he smiled and went off.

The bill arrived (completely wrong) the necessary amendments were made and we remained seated to finish off the last of the wine. As we were leaving the poor bastard in the kitchen ran up the stairs with one of the missing starters, about two hours late, and offered it to us.

I politely refused, ‘we’ve paid and we’re leaving now,’ I said. He looked at me with a weak tired smile, and held fast. ‘We’re going now mate,’ I said quietly, ‘you have it.’

‘Thank you,’ said the man. And with that we left.

Sunday was spent indoors watching films and Come Dine with Me. Actually, that’s not strictly true, IC and I went to Brick Lane just after lunch to meet up with some friends. I think I must’ve been a bit tipsy from the evening before because I don’t remember much about it at all. Anyway, we were back by 4. IC wasn’t feeling very well so it was a good excuse to just nest. After dinner we watched The Office with the horror of Monday appearing in our guts, well, my guts at least, IC wasn’t going anywhere.

This band have just announced they’re splitting after 40 years. Here’s one of their classics, you’d have to have a heart of stone, really…


busturd

It’s so bloody lovely being back on Brutta. I’m back in the swing of things, I was a tad rusty after the snow but I’m back in the zone, as it were. Brutta too is getting looser every day, the once brand spanking new engine is starting to free and she’s displaying increased aptitude in the form of handling and balls out power. In addition my confidence as her pilot is gaining weight, we’re starting to gel, bond, and I’m beginning to push her a little harder, baby steps in these harsh times of poor weather, but progressing nonetheless. By spring I’ll be ready, I’ll be good to fucking go.

Obviously, this aspect of pushing a little harder doesn’t come without its teething problems, despite all this hubris I am a safe rider, the phrase ‘pride comes before a fall’ has to be taken into account when one rides aggressively. But of course, ‘being safe’ isn’t always my decision, nor is someone else’s perception of what constitutes ‘safe.’

It would seem my bugbear are the larger vehicles that occupy the road, largely because I can swoop about them in a way The Black Bitch could never. This morning, following a lovely little encounter with IC who was cycling to her office, I ducked inside a bus on London Bridge with space to spare, albeit not much, but it was a calculated manoeuvre and perfectly safe. The bus driver didn’t agree and was very displeased so he blew orf his horn; of course I gave him the finger as I felt he was being a little pedantic but on account of red lights ahead I found myself stationary with the bus behind me and its driver screaming at me from out his little window.

I turned to face him. He was utterly livid, completely unnecessary under the circumstances so I gestured to him that he could see there had been plenty of room, or at least, I could. I did this in code, to wit, point at driver, point at ones eyes with index and middle finger, point at back of bike, point at front of bus, emphasis space between two vehicles with a forward/back motion… I then made another rude gesture (the wanking one) before turning my back on him. This enraged him further, by now his head was sticking right out of the little window and he was demanding I go to him, offer myself up for, I presume, a slap. A small congregation of cyclists who’d witnessed my beautifully judged dive were sat smiling at the driver making an undignified spectacle of himself with his tongue flapping out of his drooling mouth like Whale cock and eyeballs boiling on lolly sticks, and screaming.

Just before the lights changed I turned and gave him a final wave, he was incandescent with rage. It was awfully satisfying, me and Brutta destroying a chaps day with skillz. I hope he’s pissed over the weekend too. The rude man.

Speaking of weekend, I made a tentative start on it yesterday evening. After a cold though victorious ride home I decided to investigate this broken-TV-aerial business in a little more detail. My landlord’s handy fellow had called me from my roof Wednesday afternoon asking if my TV was working as he couldn’t see anything wrong. I curtly informed him I was at work and before I hung up he asked me if I’d tested the connection on my portable. I lied and said ‘yes’ as I was adamant it was the aerial on the roof. Last night I tested the cable coming directly into the flat and the fucking portable worked perfectly, I then discovered that one of the subsequent aerial cables to the main TV was broken. This cable was taken out of the equation and, hey presto, TV working. I sheepishly called my landlord’s mate and apologised, he took it very well, bless him. What a nice man.

By means of celebration, Swineshead, Paul and Ned popped over and we spent the evening getting wasted and taking turns on Grand Theft Auto which became increasingly more hilarious as the evening wore on and various substances took their toll on us. I was so involved in all this broken TV and games lark last night I inadvertently forgot to eat anything. I’m currently sat in my office with a rumbling stomach wondering what the polish on my desk tastes like.

Right, you know the drill, it’s Friday. Have fun for fucks sake, it’s the weekend. Enjoy the tune especially.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 The Temper Trap Fader 22 8
29 You Me At Six Underdog NE 1
28 Death Cab For Cutie Meet Me At The Equinox 26 13
27 AFI Medicate 21 10
26 Muse Undisclosed Desires 19 12
25 Phoenix 1901 25 3
24 Fightstar A City On Fire 16 9
23 Muse Resistance NE 1
22 Massive Attack Paradise Circus 29 2
21 The Courteeners Cross my heart and hope to fly 14 4
20 Ian Brown Just Like You 13 9
19 Ash Space Shot 17 3
18 Goldhawks Running Away 11 6
17 Chase And Status ft Plan B End Credits 12 12
16 Flyleaf Again 24 2
15 Plan B Stay Too Long 20 3
14 Mumford And Sons Winter Winds 10 9
13 Hot Chip One Life Stand 15 4
12 I Blame Coco Caesar 18 2
11 Them Crooked Vultures New Fang 9 11
10 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh NE 1
9 The xx VCR NE 1
8 Depeche Mode Fragile Tension 5 8
7 Biffy Clyro Many Of Horror 10 4
6 Timbaland/N. Furtado/ SoShy Morning After Dark 3 7
5 Placebo Bright Lights 6 4
4 Marina And The Diamonds Hollywood 8 3
3 Pearl Jam Got Some 1 8
2 Editors You Don’t Know Love 4 5
1 Alice In Chains Your Decision 2 4


chello

Last night I took the tube from work to Petra’s gaff in West London. On arrival I was served wine and we chatted as she prepared an enormous pile of Italian food. IC arrived, then Mark and finally Mary and we four happily gorged ourselves on octopus, spiced prawns, scallops, squid, tomato, bread and lashings of wine. We topped the whole lot off with Limoncello and before you know it, I was stuffed and pissed. What a splendid way to spend an evening I decided on the cab home, what a bloody stupid thing to do I surmised when I woke this morning.

I have a hangover. I’m getting increasingly less used to these as I’ve been abstaining of late, I’ve also come to realise that I’m more aware of the consequences of getting pissed with regard to the morning after. But only when I’m not drinking. Monday and Tuesday for example, as I indulged in my sobriety, I was actively looking forward to a following morning of freshness despite being bored out my skull. Last night I couldn’t have cared less if I’d woken to find England under the rule of screaming French horses.

A short one today, in addition to my malaise I’m up to my cods in work. There’s nothing doing here at the moment so I’m required to actively generate business, which is awfully tiresome. To make up for my lackadaisical frame of mind here’s some stuff that will probably amuse. Now fuck off.