Monthly Archives: February 2010


I had a dreadful start to the morning. I should’ve imagined it was on account of the huge pile of red cabbage, onion, garlic on purple sprouting broccoli with half a side of chicken I consumed at 11pm after drinking 4 pints of (and I kid you not) ‘Old Muck’ at the local pub. It was eaten with some haste in front of MasterChef and it was probably that which caused me to continue throwing food at my masticating maw way after my stomach was more bloated than haggis.

Way before my alarm deployed I was woken by the most horrific emission from the depths of my duvet. First an explosion of brown noise, then the most disgraceful odour that arrived into my nostrils with such intensity I was jettisoned from my bed with my eyeballs stinging from tears and gagging like I’d just eaten Susan Boyles hair.

It was 6.13 am.

I’m in a less than amused state sitting here writing this I can tell you. I’m bloody exhausted and my poor guts are moaning like Nigel Farage in the European Parliament. Still, on the bright side, it’s much milder today; yesterday was awful, pissing rain all day.

I had another meeting in the morning at a coffee shop at London Bridge then back in the office in time to spend the rest of the afternoon bored out my chuff. Once in I learnt that I’ve another fucking meeting tomorrow, unfortunately this means that there will be no Piqued ending a very slow week of not much on ‘ere.

Before I leave you with Gerry’s chart, a tune and an early wish that you’ve good weekends (spare a thought for me learning Italian from 10 til 4 on both Saturday and Sunday) I’ll leave you with one final gripe. Women stumbling about on account of high heels. Why the fuck do they bother? Yesterday, whilst with client, streams of women clopped by with pained expressions, walking as if they’d been inserted with rasps. This was bad enough on the less portly examples, one poor victim, dragging about an arse as large as the head of Nelson Mandela outside the Royal Festival Hall, looked like one of those Raptors in Jurassic Park, but fatter.

Catch you Monday, yeah. Ciao.

30 Example Won’t Go Quietly 25 3
29 Editors You Don’t Know Love 22 10
28 Kids In Glass Houses Matters At All NE 1
27 Gorillaz Stylo 30 2
26 Hot Chip One Life Stand 20 9
25 Band Of Skulls I Know What I Am NE 1
24 Delphic Halcyon NE 1
23 I Blame Coco Caesar 18 7
22 Bombay Bicycle Club Evening/Morning 27 2
21 Eels A Line In The Dirt 23 4
20 Marina And The Diamonds Hollywood 16 8
19 Alkaline Trio This Addiction 29 2
18 Flyleaf Again 14 7
17 Pearl Jam Got Some 12 13
16 Good Shoes Under Control 19 4
15 Mumford And Sons The Cave 21 3
14 The xx VCR 8 6
13 Kasabian Vlad The Impaler 11 5
12 Renegades Renegades 13 4
11 Wolfmother White Feather 15 3
10 Alice In Chains Your Decision 6 9
9 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Skeletons 17 2
8 United Nations Of Sound Are You Ready? 9 4
7 Muse Resistance 5 6
6 Rob Zombie Sick Bubblegum 10 3
5 The Big Pink Velvet 4 4
4 Miike Snow Sylvia 7 4
3 Japanese Voyeurs That Love Sound 2 4
2 The Courteeners You Overdid It Doll 3 5
1 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh 1 6


In a continuing effort to actually do shit through a working day, as opposed to just writing this and actively breathing in the office, I worked from home yesterday morning. At 11am I found myself perched atop my bicycle heading off to the doctors in order to gain written permission to attend the gym and increase the stamina of my pathetic spinal column. I discovered, on entering the surgery, the cycle had been more of a ‘get ball rolling exercise’ as 5 minutes later I left with a fresh appointment for next week, some forms to fill out and a little plastic pot in which to do a tinkle. I wasn’t fussed, I’d already achieved more that morning than I had since fucking Christmas. I had lunch, sent off a final few emails and fucked off in the freezing rain for a meeting at the Royal Festival Hall.

Here’s what went down over the weekend, by the way, and two youtube entries to make up for my lack of, er, youtube entries.


I fulfilled my aim of relishing in my final weekend of freedom.

It began on Friday with dinner with some friends. They’d invited IC and I over during the week and we’d accepted, of course. If we’d not I wouldn’t have mentioned it. Fucking nice night it was, we ate, chatted and popped outside for the odd smoke. Time rushed by because it was a Friday evening, in fact, the whole weekend zipped by. This is a cruel reality, while the working week creeps along on its belly the free time evaporates like steam in the Danakil desert. Indeed, the time passed so rapidly that we thought it was about 11 when we left, not 2am.

I stayed in bed until after lunch on Saturday, lovely. I had cold pizza at IC’s for breakfast courtesy of Mary’s home cooking the night before. Reg, the handyman, was working in the Bathroom installing a new shower. About time too, IC and Mary had been waiting for the new shower since Christmas but Reg had just had his tonsils out which had delayed proceedings. I was reading the paper in the in the kitchen when Reg appeared to turn off the water. He brought up the topic of his tonsils and then went on to mention that he was almost nearly 60 and a couple of years ago he’d had his appendix removed. After acknowledging that he’d been victim to what are essentially the sorts of operations more commonly associated with children (and he was nearly 60) he then casually mentioned that when he was 18 he’d been stabbed. In the stomach.

What followed was enough to cause my jaw to descend to my balls. Apparently, Reg had walked out of a pub toilet where is was struck in the guts with a blade, the knife wasn’t meant for him, it was destined for the bloke to his left so the attacker apologised then went outside with the intended victim to continue fighting. Reg on the other hand went back to the bar. He said that as it didn’t really hurt he wasn’t too fussed. A couple of days later though his stomach began to come out in what he described as cricket-ball lumps, so he offed himself to the hospital and was rushed into surgery. The blade had actually penetrated the lining of his stomach and, in essence, the food and drink he’d had since the injury was falling out. The doctor told him that if he’d left the injury for another couple of hours he’d be dead and to emphasise his point, Reg lifted his sweatshirt and presented me with a 3-inch scar across his belly.

Later in the afternoon IC, Mary and I took the bus to town. We’d invited Mary to J Sheekey for an early dinner for a combination of a belated birthday and to say thanks for all the free haircuts. Sheekey is considered to be one of London’s finest fish restaurants, whilst the main restaurants pricing reflects this, the Oyster Bar is as cheap as Pizza Express, say. It’s a very pleasant way to spend some time; diners sit round the bar and order from the staff in the middle, it’s both pretty and informal, the food is fresh, simple and without wishing to sound like a cunt, fun. You can’t order and eat a whole Cornish Cock Crab without being at least mildly amused…

We had a quick drink after we left and IC and I went back to Hackney to meet some friends up the road from the Twatcave. The small room had about 10 people including Swineshead and his missus punctuated by food and wine. Despite the earlier meal I ate myself stupid with the odd glass, this may explain why I got up very late on Sunday too; it was as if my bed was actively preventing my escape.

Once I’d escaped its cotton grasp I cleaned Brutta. It took an age; this is down to my having coated her in a fuck-load of WD40 a few ago after noticing evidence of salt corrosion on her wheels and engine. I spent in excess of an hour farting about with sponges and buckets of warm soapy water; it’s good to know my efforts paid off as on Monday the fucking rain on the way in to the office reversed all of Sundays efforts.

After the mammoth and, in hindsight, wasted task, IC and I took a slow walk down to London Fields to collect her bicycle from the shop, we sauntered back home via the pub for a quick glass of wine before finishing off the weekend in a Vietnamese restaurant with a mountain of food. IC, whose been attending the gym like she being paid to go, must’ve eaten her bodyweight in dumplings. I’m suspecting worms.


Sorry for lack of post yesterday. Annoyingly there is a post all ready to go but just as I was about to post it the company email slipped into a fucking coma. In terms of business this was a total disaster, but for keeping my sanity via the online connection of friends, websites etc., it was the equivalent of being fed lead and lobotomised by a portly accountant with a beige bow tie and comb-over. I was unable to do anything; the will to find things to do was countered by the pathetic reward system, to wit, buggering about online once a work task had been surmounted. De-motivated, I left for home at 3pm in the freezing cold and for all intents and purposes that was my day as I did nout in the evening, save eating and endless episodes of Underbelly, which is magnificent.

I’m writing this from home, I’ve meeting later and as I was unsure if the system would be up and running I figured working from here would be prudent. It’s a lot easier doing stuff from home I hasten to add, I’ve done a ton of stuff already, the tea tastes nicer and I can shit with impunity.

I’ll post Monday’s post tomorrow along with what other balls I’ve been subject too.


This is my last weekend for three fucking weeks. Next weekend and the one after, on both Saturday and Sunday, I’ve Italian lessons from 10 ‘til 4. This not only means the days are completely arsed but Friday and Saturday night will have be conducted with an eye on sobriety. I’ve paid for this learning shit so it would be a bit silly to get messed up the night before and turn up to class semi-blazed and spend the day trying to not to be sick on my lap.

The delicious weekend is already cacked-full of decadence and I’m good to go. It’s been a dismal week at work, fraught and desperate with nothing much better on the horizon. Factoring in the forthcoming weekends destruction I intend to clasp this one to my chest and fondle its balls.

‘Boutique owner Belinda Weatherall said: “It could only happen in a place like Fowey, I think it’s a lovely idea and I hope he never gets discovered”’ is the sentence that almost caused me to bite off my fucking knees. I read it on the BBC website this morning and learnt, almost to my cost, that the Cornish residents of aforementioned toff-hole have a ‘phantom baker.’

Apparently, some cunt has been baking bread and leaving it outside peoples homes, and the haw-haw residents of Fowey (pronounced ‘Foy’ by the way, which speaks volumes to me) are falling over themselves to smugly git-off about how ‘lovely’ it all is, I mean check this fucker out, ‘Town crier Michael Penprase said: “It was beautiful-looking bread. My wife put a notice in the window asking for a sliced loaf!”’

Oh please fucking spare us you inward-facing pile of pricks. Not even the dour police warning to ‘not eat it in case it was poisoned’ assuaged the contemptuous bile that had surfaced from this example of over-privileged middle-class joshing. To put it bluntly, if there was a phantom baker round my way it’d been seen as an act of charity, not a fucking quirky jape.

Yeah, have nice weekend, go on, have it.

30 Gorillaz Stylo NE 1
29 Alkaline Trio This Addiction NE 1
28 Timbaland/N. Furtado/ SoShy Morning After Dark 20 11
27 Bombay Bicycle Club Evening/Morning NE 1
26 Placebo Bright Lights 19 8
25 Example Won’t Go Quietly 27 2
24 Biffy Clyro Many Of Horror 17 9
23 Eels A Line In The Dirt 25 3
22 Editors You Don’t Know Love 14 9
21 Mumford And Sons The Cave 29 2
20 Hot Chip One Life Stand 15 8
19 Good Shoes Under Control 22 3
18 I Blame Coco Caesar 12 6
17 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Skeletons NE 1
16 Marina And The Diamonds Hollywood 10 7
15 Wolfmother White Feather 24 2
14 Flyleaf Again 9 6
13 Renegades Renegades 18 3
12 Pearl Jam Got Some 8 12
11 Kasabian Vlad The Impaler 13 4
10 Rob Zombie Sick Bubblegum 21 2
9 United Nations Of Sound Are You Ready? 11 3
8 The xx VCR 4 5
7 Miike Snow Sylvia 16 3
6 Alice In Chains Your Decision 3 8
5 Muse Resistance 5 5
4 The Big Pink Velvet 7 3
3 The Courteeners You Overdid It Doll 6 4
2 Japanese Voyeurs That Love Sound 2 3
1 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh 1 5


In my limited experience of the ways of weather and such-like, things usually get a little more clement after the 14th February. I’ve no doubt, if you read my Valentine Day post last week, that this isn’t a coincidence. Why then does the weather continue to be so fucking awful? When it’s not raining it’s snowing, and all the while it’s cunting freezing. I’ve never known anything like it, it’s been completely shite since November and there are still no signs of it letting up.

As a subsequence I’ve not even bothered to clean Brutta. Bearing in mind she’s still relatively new, she currently looks as if she’s passed through Shane Macgowan’s digestive system. Yesterday I happened on a picture of her a couple of months before the salt and grime had taken a chance to begin eating through her hindquarters. It was rather depressing if I’m honest, I’m sure I can get 90% of her back to some sort of showroom state but other parts (off-manifold pipes for example) are already beyond help without full removal and presented to a good old fashioned sandblaster.

On the plus side, she’s done almost 1500 miles. This means that she’s almost completely run in, every time I jump on her fucking back and set off I’m aware of a noticeable gain in power. Whilst the exterior may be showing signs of wear, the heart that beats within is silky smooth and full of berries. This morning a bike I’d been gently racing through the city sidled up towards me at London Bridge. The riders eyes were on stalks indicating that he’d been putting some effort in keeping up with me, this was confirmed when he pointed at Brutta and gasped, ‘Christ, that explains it, I thought it was a 400, it’s not is it.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘it most certainly isn’t,’ before pissing off right fast.

I have to say, Brutta’s engine is very discreet-looking, if it wasn’t for the bastard roar from the arse-end you could almost be forgiven for thinking it was a 250 at first glance. The competition, who assume I’m pootling about on some sort of kids bike, get an enormous surprise when they have a go, as it were. In addition to a thunderstorm of torque, I can slip through gaps like mercury and only the odd brain-dead have-a-go type has any chance of, like, owning me, yeah. So why are Bruttas’ not more popular? Why isn’t everyone on one?

One of the reasons Brutta is so rare is because it’s essentially a one trick pony, as described in other boring posts such as this. It’s perfect for what I use it for and would be equally happy twisting its way through A roads in the countryside, but that’s it. It’s dreadful on motorways, basically going fast in a straight line for a protracted period of time, as it’s simply not designed for that. The ideal motorcycle (if you don’t have access to a stable of different bikes) is a machine that’ll do everything, perhaps not do everything perfectly, but very well at least. The Black Bitch was such a creature.

But the Husqvarna SM610 is a full-on Supermoto, it’s a race-bike when all is said and done, it’s dedicated to doing one, maybe, two things, fucking well, and this is what is niggling me. I accept that this is completely irresponsible as most of my time on Brutta will be used to go to and from work, but there are steps I can take to turn my bike into a road-legal track bike. Such steps would see the power and noise increase by a noticeable degree and resolve the issue of corrosion on the exhaust pipes by default. It would also invalidate my warranty, increase engine wear, shove up my insurance and cost about £600.

After saying yesterday that I wouldn’t mention my unsold flat I’ve decided to do so, only to say that when I do sell the cunt, I’m going to buy a Leo Vince race system. It may be idiotic but my dick is already twitching at the very thought of this completely idiotic move.



Frank is getting married. I’m only mentioning this by means of explaining why I was in Moss Bros at 6.30 yesterday evening with French gentleman all fussing over my trouser. Obviously I could’ve not mentioned anything at all, which means that I could’ve left Frank, his personal life and the French fellow out of this. But I suppose it’s a good time to bring it up as Frank’s marriage is due to feature a fair bit over the forthcoming couple of months. With respect to this, think of my mentioning it by means of introduction to this aspect of Piqued, then fuck off.

Actually, don’t fuck off. I’m not done yet.


My estate agent finally got back to me yesterday afternoon. Apparently my buyer is abroad ‘in a place with limited mobile access and not much time,’ which, as far as I am concerned, means ‘up yours.’ I’ve decided to keep with the same agent/solicitor set up with regards to flogging my gaff as I’ve paid for legal stuff that I can claw back when (if?) I sell it, but I’m so done with my second ex-buyer, yeah. I’ve decided not to broach this topic until I get to exchange, a few months time if I’m lucky… in the interim, I’ll try and forget about it. (Cunts, the lot of ‘em.)

After being fiddled with by the French fellow Harry joined us and we nicked off to The Lamb and Flag for a pair of beers before walking to a Curry House near Tottenham Court Road. It was chucking it down with rain so I wasn’t best pleased when, on entering the eatery, I discovered I had to walk all the way back to the fucking pub to get my bag. Mercifully it was still there when I returned (10 mins there, 10 mins back) and nothing had been nicked from it neither.

The curry was fucking excellent, incidentally. We shared the mains (2 lamb, one chicken) plus some lentils n’ spinach and a spot of rice for old times sake. And a couple of onion Bhajis (and some popadoms.) By the time we were done I was visibly stuffed. This required me to sit on the Central Line with my arse cheeks clamped tighter than all clams, by the time I alighted at Bow I had to take the second exit just to let out some air away from the bus queue.

I listened to the dark ramblings of Charles Bukowski on the bus home. He’s an easy target for post twenty-something’s who, despite adoring him in their respective youths, now look down on him as some sort of faux-poet, a cheap artist, the embodiment of the bloody obvious, even. As time moves on from his death more and more from his archive is coming to light. While the novels are fixed there is a whole world of surprises yet to be discovered, recordings, films… go on you tube. Here’s your starter for ten.


Yes, finally! I didn’t get to hear a ruddy thing about my cunting fucking bastard ex-place of residence that I’m still haemorrhaging dead money into. It was nice of both my estate agent and solicitor to call me and keep me posted though…what? Sorry, it was me that called them. Neither even bothered fucking answering. So that’s it, unless they call me today, both of them, I’m going to jump ship and give someone else the fucking commission. Incidentally, the way they make you feel as if they’re doing you some sort of favour is reprehensible. I’d sooner consort with war criminals.

In addition to a day in anticipation of some sort of news I had the added dread of starting my evening in a fucking gym. The dismal ride home, compounded by brain-injured drivers of both cab and bus, driving rain and cold, was not to be sated by Golden Virginia when I’d finally locked my commute on the other side of my front door. I’d decided to abstain from the tabs as I was dimly aware that any assistance I gave my lungs would benefit whatever mediaeval torture device I was expecting to wrestle with in order to benefit myself healthways.

I’d initially considered just using the pool. I used to represent my school at 13, front crawl. I even won something once, this is in spite of my nasty little comprehensive having neither a pool or training outside of a Polish nonce shouting at me from the dry-side of the public baths. Apart from Motocross, it was the only form of physical exercise with which I had some sort of ability. The last time I entered the water, about 7 years ago, I darted in with all the keenness of my 13-year-old-self completely forgetting my 33-year-old heart/lungs/muscles all addled with dope and too much wine. I got half way across and into serious difficulty, which resulted in my having to doggy paddle semi-submerged to the side presenting a succession of those awful watery burps to passing breast-strokers each time I surfaced. When I finally got to safety I duly barfed up my Full English and the previous evenings Cottage Pie.

With this in mind I figured that doing some preliminary exercise to avoid a re-occurrence of this disturbing episode was the best course of action. At 7, IC and I set off for the gym, I arrived and got my free pass and was directed towards a muscle-bound member of staff who asked me if I’d been to a gym before. I told him I had, about 7 years ago. Reluctantly he asked me which of the instruments I wanted to use, I wanted to tell him ‘none,’ but pointed wearily at the rowing machine.

From the corner of my eye I could see IC making a dash on the running machine; he followed my gaze and suggested I warm up on one. This I spurned on account of my back, at which point he looked directly at me and said ‘oh.’ Suddenly I was being bombarded with questions, what exactly was wrong with my back, had I had treatment? Did I have a doctor’s note? Of course I didn’t, I’d been advised verbally by the Physio at the hospital to not undertake any form of exercise that would impact on my spine, such as running, all-in-wrestling and whatnot. I tried to explain this but gym-boy continued to shake his head muttering something about insurance, I offered to sign a disclaimer, he sighed and fucked off to speak to his manager after I’d requested to do the very same thing.

For 15 minutes I sat and watched exercising people. I was right pissed off; in addition to ballsing up the beginning of my evening it became apparent I’d inadvertently psyched myself up to actually workout. I watched IC enviously as she continued to pound out miles, all about me people were lifting, pedalling, pulling, cavorting. I wanted a go, I really actually wanted a go… Gymboy came back with a form. My doctor needed to sign it before I was allowed back. I don’t have a doctor. I had one once when I was back in that other fucking place which means I’ve got to write letters and make calls in order to see one in Hackney. I slunk off home to make some dinner leaving IC running for victory. Bugger it.