Monthly Archives: March 2010


Since the weekend things have been largely shite. Not in a terminal way, or even in a necessarily awful way, just shite. It’s been a mundane routine of work, commuting, research for various offline activities involving a design and a speech (both are causing me to apply myself beyond my means in many respects) and the weather has been fucking awful.

In addition to this, IC is off to New York tomorrow and not back until after Easter so I’ve that to look forward to as well (not, obviously). What’s even more galling is that originally I was to go with her but, on account of the ongoing fuck with the flat, it was decided that I’d best save the money I’ve got as I’m still paying both a rent and mortgage… I’ll shut up about this now before I tear myself a new bum.

In fact, the only thing I’ve got to look forward to is one final blast tonight with IC, a few casual arrangements with friends over Easter, staying in bed for as long as possible and leisurely pooing.

This week I’ve done two consecutive days at the gym, both have been a bit of an ordeal on account of the weekend festivities, Monday’s session on the cross trainer thing was diabolical, after only 2 minutes I looked like Bernard Manning trying to shit out a studded coconut and it was only the power of Slayers ‘World Painted Blood’ that inspired me to continue. After 15 agonising minutes I nearly fell off the fucking thing as I alighted, my legs felt like meringue and I could see stars from inertia.

Yesterday there was a slight improvement; well I didn’t almost collapse in a boneless heap when I got of the cross trainer wotsit anyway, subsequently the latter 15 minute go on the weight stuff resulted in my applying myself a little more earnestly.

I’ve probably explained that there is a corner of the gym dedicated to enormous muscled bound blokes lifting up very heavy things and putting them back down again. Next to this area are the weight machines, these are a much more civilised way of ‘working out’ without inviting your veins to smash out your skin, even girls have a go on them.

Every so often one of the hulks in the corner will wander over the machine section and proceed to test themselves by adjusting said machine to be as awkward as cow-throwing usually followed by me who will have the rather humiliating task of re-setting it so I can test myself with out prolapsing. It’s the equivalent of kicking sand into your own face.

Actually, virtually everyone in this area, girls included, are better at this weight-machine business than I am, so I’m permanently having to draw attention to my weakness by re-setting any given machine in the scornful eyes of the physically superior being whose pulled enough iron to tear a Harley Davidson in two. I used to find this quite intimidating but now I couldn’t give a tinkers cuss.

I suppose this has something to do with the ‘well, at least I’m here’ attitude but more than that is the fact I’m no longer a stranger. I see the same faces each time I go and, bizarrely, feel a part of the community -for want of a better word. It’s not the same as being a face down the pub; everyone in the place is trying to make some sort of an improvement as opposed to just getting pissed.
It’s a very positive place in which to spend 30 minutes, and despite a natural reluctance to not go I can’t say I hate it when I’m there. Besides, I can always get pissed later, better than that, I can do so with a certain degree of smugness.

par derr

We had a sharpener in a bar before setting off to Montmartre to visit the artists plying their trade in the large square at the summit, en route IC and I passed a chap wearing a Ramones jacket snorting coke off the steps leading out of the Metro. Staggering it was, bold as fucking brass just bunging a wrap up his nose via a rolled up 20 Euro note. Sacre Bleu! Sorry…

Montmartre is (now) one of my favourite places on the planet, I enjoyed watching all the artists busy at work and even more (after employing years of academia with my keen eye for aesthetics, bitches) deciding which ones were fucking shit. We pottered about wryly amused (well I was, I was experiencing a full-on ponce out) then decided it best to get some wine from whatever place suited.


We found this perfect little half-empty gaff with a half-cut jazz pianist tinkling away, it was both a bar and creperie if you can imagine such a thing and the walls were adorned with whatever ephemera passing tourists and travellers cared to staple-up. I bloody loved it, we had a couple of glasses and, in the spirit of things, I took a short while to sketch IC and stick her visage up, which was nice.

We wobbled back to the hotel in order to ready ourselves for the evening. IC had organised a table at a restaurant just north centre of the Seine and I have to say she managed to top anything I’d managed to get together that weekend. When we arrived at the venue we had to pass through security before entering a beautiful walled garden, at the end was the entrance to the restaurant, though it didn’t seem as such, in fact it was more akin to a country house.

The interior was almost like Alice in Wonderland, it was both homely and knowingly bohemian, on the right by the door was a Norton Commando which instantly piqued (whahey!) my interest. I began fiddling with it to see if it was in use or someone’s warped idea of décor, I reached underneath and pulled out a handful of fresh oil indicating the former, as is the way with British motorcycles of the 70’s. A chap approached who claimed ownership and we stared gassing about bikes. Turned out he was not only the owner of this restaurant but was also the owner of another pair of well known restaurants in London, both of which had Michelin Stars. When he formally introduced himself all clicked into place. He was a very nice chap, not what one would expect after being spoon-fed celebrity-chef-TV over the past few years.

A waiter suggested we visited the smoking room upstairs which we entered via a mirrored wardrobe into a crepuscular lounge that would’ve made Lewis Carroll weep with joy. It featured dimly lit crumbling chandeliers, delicate rococo stucco and what could only be described as distressed William Morris wallpaper. There were leather bound books on wonky shelves, worn leather sofas and chairs and the room had the quality of a dream verging on the good side of a nightmare. I could’ve stayed there all night, and would’ve if the same waiter hadn’t appeared to tell us our food was on the table.

I had the spit-roasted suckling pig with mushrooms and new spuds, of course it was ridiculously good and the accompanying wine was top of the pops. IC had the scallops; I’ve never tasted better. In terms of atmosphere and service I’ve never eaten in a finer place, the bill wasn’t too harsh either and we’ll be going back there another day.

Earlier on in the day IC and I had taken the wise decision to buy a bottle of champagne for the final drink of the evening. When we got back to the hotel we saw Paris off with the fucking bottle in the bar and took ourselves to bed. The train was due to leave Paris at 1pm so we had a short while to eat breakfast, and to sustain the holiday spirit had a couple of glasses of wine on the platform, then on the train back. Unsurprisingly we slept most of the way back to London after that.

We were home by 4 feeling peachy and a little melancholic as we were back in London with Paris left over the other side of the channel. I think I left my liver there too. Happy, happy days.

Take a guess who this is for. Hello mum.

paree ooon

I suppose once you make the decision to take advantage of ‘credit’ you may as well merrily-flow, unhindered (to some extent) by financial peril.

Paris is the sort of city that inspires serendipity, a beautiful thing that usually comes at a price, but before we’d even set foot on Eurostar, IC and I had discovered the Champagne Bar at St. Pancras. We also learnt that it’s not steep and one glass isn’t enough, so by the time we set off she and I were already feeling rather jolly.

The last time I took Eurostar I was petrified of the under-the-sea bit. But those were the bad old days when I didn’t take the tube and the idea of flying was greeted with trembling sweat. This time round I actively enjoyed the journey, I should imagine the little bottles of Bordeaux form the Star Bar were helping the situation too.

The Hotel was located at Gard de L’Est, one stop from Gard D’Nord where the train terminated and within striking distance of the station, which was ideal. We arrived at 6-ish and went out after we’d ‘freshened up’ to use the American vernacular. First stop was famed Café de Flore in Saint Germaine which is a bloody posh and pricey bit of Paris cheerfully relishing in its decadence. We had a glass of wine after finally getting seated, it was Friday, the joint was packed, and we took time to enjoy the art deco and atmosphere that couldn’t have been more French if it was made of berets, onions and hairy armpits.

At 9 we went over the road to the equally sublime Brasserie Lipp. Once again a model of the art deco movement and steeped in a sense of its own Frenchness. Lipp is star in the crown of the wanker’s Paris and whilst it’s fully aware of its place in the capital it was friendly enough. The food was fucking lovely too, but the portions small and pedantic for the price. Still the bill with the wine wasn’t too bad bearing in mind this gaff is the haunt of world leaders and Hollywood glitterati, along with hookers and criminals I’m reliably informed. But despite its reputation and opulence it’s not intimidating, put it this way, I’ve felt much more uncomfortable in reasonably priced eateries in London.

It was late when we got back to the Hotel so we went into the bar, which was empty, and ordered (the cheapest) champagne because we were a bit pissed. We drank two thirds there and took the bottle to our room for the following day, the last thing I recall is IC wondering what we should do in lieu of a fridge.

Needless to say we woke up too late for breakfast, so we had the rest of the Champagne (which was warm, flat and, incredibly, very pleasant) and set off in search of brunch. We had a Croque Monsieur in a little bakery and headed off to the Right Bank of the Seine to walk by The Louvre (we didn’t have time to visit, I’ve been before and we figured we should save it for a day in the future) and Musee D’Orsay. This part of Paris is studded with Gothic Churches and Cathedrals, IC and I have a peccadillo for such places and we hit upon one which was the paradigm of beauty: glittering stained glass, lots of curly spires, flying buttresses and gargoyles to tantalise the eyeballs. It made Notre Dame look positively dull. On leaving we had the dubious pleasure of watching a huge black Crow consuming a Starling, it had its head off and was merrily tucking into its neck throwing parts of it about as it did so. IC wasn’t as keen on this spectacle as I… in fact, I was fighting off a boneheur. Magnifique!.

More of this bilge tomorrow, sorry it’s late too. PARDON MOI


Well Alistair Darling seems to have rubbed up the tabloids the wrong way. From my point of view the whole ‘taking off the rich to assist the poor’ gig is the whole point of fucking Labour, well it used to be before the demise of Clause 4. It wasn’t a budget to tantalise voters, it was a budget for the economic good of the this country… Christ, I can’t believe I’m typing this… so fuck off red tops and all who subscribe to Cameronism. I thought it was an excellent budget, nice move with Cider, Darling!

Sorry this drivel is late by the way. I’ve been languishing in my flat waiting for some stinkhorn from Thames Water to walk in the door, point at my water meter, look confounded when I explain a 40-a-month bill can’t be right when he’s just seen that I only have 2 sinks, a shower and chod bin, and that’s it, before interrupting my objections and curtly informing me that a water meter is £70-a-year on top of the bill.

Why didn’t some cunt tell me this over the phone? My old bill at that inexplicably horrific pre-dwelling was just over a tenner a month, and that place had a bath I used daily. Why is this? I said to the gormless prong stood in my living room. It’s because Thames Water estimate the bills in properties without meters, and they UNDER-estimate them, he said, so by having a water meter, in addition to paying more because it accurately assesses your water usage, you have to pay an extra £70 for the privilege of being well, socially responsible. Halfwit left me shaking with confusion, why penalise those who are being decent, honest?! I wanted to shout to him as he got in his little fuck-chariot, but he’d already gone off to confuse somebody else.

I had a bloody nice night incidentally; a chum of mine took me to a little cocktail lounge that sounds a lot poncier than the reality of the matter. For a start it has a ‘no suits’ policy and you have to book seats as one might a restaurant. The place is run by a charming couple who make the drinks and serve them to you, the interior is akin to a church crypt or wine cellar and very unpretentious. Best of all, most cocktails are a fiver and fucking stacked with booze, oh, they’re also unbelievable tasty. I had a butterscotch martini, an apple pie martini and another one that was equally as delicious but I’ve forgotten because of the first two. I’ll be going again, actually I might just move in.

Well that’s me, I’m off to Paris tomorrow as previously mentioned so consider this me rubbing it right in. Gerry’s chart is followed by an utter corker of a tune with possible one of the best music videos I’ve ever seen…

Bonjour! Hang on that’s not right, Bon… no. Bon, B… oh fuck off.

30 Muse Resistance 23 10
29 Frightened Rabbit Nothing Like You 24 4
28 We Are Scientists Rules Dont Stop NE 1
27 Mumford And Sons The Cave 21 7
26 The Automatic Run And Hide 27 3
25 United Nations Of Sound Are You Ready? 18 8
24 Paramore The Only Exception NE 1
23 Archie Bronson Outfit Sharks Tooth 29 2
22 The Big Pink Velvet 15 8
21 General Fiasco Ever So Shy 22 3
20 The Maccabees Empty Vessels 19 4
19 Wolfmother White Feather 13 7
18 Goldfrapp Rocket 20 3
17 Rob Zombie Sick Bubblegum 11 7
16 The Futureheads My Heartbeat Song 17 3
15 Kids In Glass Houses Matters At All 14 5
14 Delphic Halcyon 12 5
13 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Skeletons 8 6
12 Japanese Voyeurs That Love Sound 9 7
11 Arctic Monkeys My Propellor 26 2
10 The Courteeners You Overdid It Doll 6 9
9 30 Seconds To Mars This Is War 16 2
8 Alkaline Trio This Addiction 10 6
7 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh 4 10
6 Miike Snow Sylvia 3 8
5 Gorillaz Stylo 5 6
4 Amy MacDonald Don’t Tell Me That It’s Over 7 4
3 AFI Beautiful Thieves 2 4
2 Liars Scissor NE 1
1 Dommin My Heart, Your Hands 1 3

budge it

Forgive the second politically motivated post in as many days but this one has slightly more pertinent connotations than me tirelessly ranting at things neither you and I can’t change for as long as we’ve holes in our respective freckles. For todays is the Budget, and in addition to an inevitable increase in my drinking and smoking spend, it’s been rumoured that Alistair ‘snowman’ Darling is to abolish stamp duty on the sale of properties under a quarter of a million quid.

Regular readers of this tripe will know I’ve been trying to sell my flat (for over a bloody year) and that such a move may well force the hand of my two potential purchasers, so long, of course, that mono-celled heap of puke that used to dwell below me like a retarded Gollum keeps his fucking face shut should they be foolish enough to return…

So, it would seem that the chances of flogging said flat are increased hugely by the whim of the chancellor, which is rather odd because ‘The Chancellor,’ the man with the keys to the Bank of England, isn’t even a fucking trainee accountant.

I’ve always been at a loss to explain a British Government Cabinet. Darling used to be Secretary of State for Social Security before being re-shuffled as Transport Secretary. So he goes from the dole queue to logistical infrastructure in the ‘thump’ of a rubber stamp, and now the tool is Mr. Economics despite never having anything whatsoever to do with the stuff. He did his first budget in 2008, about the same time as the recession began, and here we are now with that grey-haired old cunt still waving that tatty old handbag about in the same financial shite we were in when he took the fucking job. Is it any wonder we’re in this state with no end in sight? Darling is a qualified Solicitor, at least be a bit subtle about this insult to intelligence and give him Jack Straw’s job as Secretary of State for Justice (which sounds like the official job title for Judge Dredd after being taken off active service following a covered-up ‘friendly fire’ incident.)

Since Monday I’ve been enjoying a fairly mundane existence, work has stopped breathing, my ride to and from the office has been exciting and, at times, terrifying, I’ve been attending the gym with increasing degrees of success, working hard on some designs, hanging out with Swineshead and IC, watching movies, stuffing my face, passing stools and generally being alive.

Tonight I’m out with a mate for drinks in Shoreditch, tomorrow I’m off in the morning waiting for Thames bloody Water to sort out my broken water meter, in the evening Mary is cutting some stuff off my head then on Friday IC and I are off to Paris, which is nice isn’t it.

In the meantime, I’ll be watching the budget like a hawk. Cross your fingers for old Piqued.

Not my usual fare but I do like this…


It would seem that if there was any doubt that this country’s MP’s and Ministers are a bunch of self-seeking greedy little cunts smeared in a reduction of sleaze, they’ve been laid to rest.

Earlier this year 4 MP’s, 3 Labour and 1 Conservative, were embroiled in an expenses scandal. Sure you know the ins and outs of it but briefly, on the 11th of March, Elliot Morley, David Chaytor, Jim Devine and Lord Hanningfield answered summonses at City of Westminster magistrates charged with false accounting under the Theft Act. After the initial hoo-har when the story hit all the headlines back in October following an investigation by The Daily Telegraph, the court appearance a couple of weeks ago barely made a dent in the media.

The latest fuss involving three studies for the base of the crucifixion, to wit, Stephen Byers, Patricia Hewitt and Geoff Hoon over their apparent willingness to help a lobbying firm in return for cash, has resulted in a very public suspension with all 3 being placed under investigation with Labours own Business Secretary (arguably Labours real PM) and part time goth, Peter Mandelson, calling the affair ‘rather grubby.’

These 3 characters were exposed on a Channel 4 documentary last night, and whilst it comes as no surprise to me that these sorts of things go on (and have gone on/will continue to go on for as long as ordinary people with perverted ambitions get exalted to positions of immense power) there were 3 other politicians featured in the programme who haven’t really featured in today’s papers -Labour MP Margaret Moran, Labour’s Baroness Morgan and Conservative MP John Butterfill. Of the 3 only Moran has been suspended but none of them are under investigation.

Why is this? Surely it can’t be a coincidence that the three former ministers under investigation were not popular among Mr Brown’s team, not least because Mr Hoon and Ms Hewitt had tried to lead a coup against his leadership in January. But Jack Straw said the suspension of the former ministers had “nothing” to do with their allegiance to former Prime Minister Tony Blair. He went on to say there was “not a shred of evidence, not a single scintilla of evidence” they had done anything wrong.

Now we have a problem, Straw on the one hand is looking in another direction tunelessly whistling but his colleague Mandelson is barely containing his fury. And whilst it’s not particle science that Hewitt and Hoon have been squeezed out, why Byers?

On last nights doc Mr Byers said he had spoken to Business Secretary Lord Mandelson about getting food labelling proposals delayed on behalf of supermarket Tesco. Of course, Lord M has denied that he any contact with Mr Byers on the subject of food labelling and just to drive the point home he added, somewhat forcefully I felt, “what is so ghastly about this is that somebody like Stephen Byers feels it necessary to make completely untrue, unfounded boasts to these people in order to get himself future business.” I think ‘the lady dost protest too much’ springs to the fore.

Hewitt, Hoon and Byers will simply go as they pose a threat to the fabric of the party, the latter to Mandelson himself, clearly, but the MP’s involved in the slightly more serious expenses scandal (better known as daylight robbery) which, let’s face it, is part and parcel of the salubrious job of being a parliamentarian, will use their privilege to avoid prosecution by employing The Bill of Rights of 1689. This antique bit of legislation declares that “freedom of speech and debates or proceedings in Parliament ought not to be impeached or questioned in any place or court outside Parliament”.

The matter is already being brushed under the carpet. Sir Ian Kennedy, the new parliamentary watchdog, who has warned he will come down “like a ton of bricks” on errant parties said that the new expenses system was designed to identify “bad apples,” expose cheats and help restore public trust in the wake of the damaging row. Please note: that’s the ‘new’ expenses system, not the old one. In short they’ve already pretty much got away with it and there is fuck all you or I can do anything about it.

In other news, I see the UK is getting a brand new Space Agency! Cool. I for one am dying to see the launch of the next bit of clock in a biscuit tin on the end of a firework and follow its progress for 6 months before the fucker disappears into the mists of time. I can’t wait for that.


“Just a quick update: The guy who was threatening to make an offer is apparently coming in to see me tomorrow to discuss stuff. I had a good viewing there today, despite your neighbour telling us he was a musician and played loud music x is coming for a second viewing with an architect on Monday.”

I found this in my inbox from my estate agent when checking my emails just before meeting up with IC on Friday night. As you may imagine, I was incandescent with rage and bloody nearly destroyed both of our evenings. I’m still deciding what to do about this matter. In the meantime I shall piece together the weekend, which was immense.

After partially recovering from this matter, and I have to say it was purely down to IC that this was achieved, we arrived at Sue and Neil’s in Islington to help them toast their new gaff. This heralded the start of a protracted, boozy and memorable (most of it anyway) weekend.

Just before lunchtime on Saturday, IC and I had to do some shopping for Sunday. I’d invited my parents, sister and kids over for a late Sunday lunch and was keen to prepare everything in advance as I was aware that I may not be fully functioning as early afternoon my presence was required at a stag event. It was rather important I attended as Frank has perhaps unwisely asked me to be his best chap.

I have to say organising said event hasn’t been problematic, the schedule was pretty much in place after a five minute chat at the end of last year, but as I travelled to the first pub it dawned on me that I was going to have to be pro-active to ensure things ran smoothly. As planned I was the first to arrive at the first pub in North Lambeth, and was delighted to discover it was a nice gaff without a fucking shouting sports screen but with real ale and my fellow imbibers seemed to be free of baseball hats and shiny sports attire. It was packed though, but as luck would have it a whole table became free just as the first of the party arrived.

Within 15 minutes of the designated meeting time everyone had arrived, all were sat down with drinks and chatting away. So far so good. After a couple we sauntered over the road to the Imperial War Museum, we only had an hour and a half because we were due at The Old Cheshire Cheese on Fleet St to meet some other bucks and the journey time was an unknown quantity. At the museum I designated a meeting point and time and after a thrilling and distressing period of looking at stuff I was pleased to discover that everyone had adhered to the schedule.

We all set off to catch the bus to Fleet Street; it was fortunate James who works for TFL was there because I’d not really considered the logistics specifically. The bus arrived after 5 minutes and was empty enough to allow us all to sit together upstairs at the front, so far so good.

I’d been worrying about my choice of pre-dinner venue every since the decision was made to attend. The Old Cheshire Cheese is one of London’s oldest and most famous boozers, it was Saturday afternoon and the chances of us sitting collectively were slim. Again, we lucked out for as we entered a rival stag party was exiting, there must have been 20 of the buggers and dressed like twats featuring a sozzled stag in bra and panties, leaving behind a vast empty table in the cellar bar. This was indeed excellent luck I thought as I popped down another pint.

We stayed in TOCC for a few then headed to Simpson’s on The Strand for dinner. This was the highlight of the whole do and the reason we were all dressed in a smart/casual sort of way. We arrived slightly after 8 o clock and led into an enormous oak panelled dining area where a long table, clad in fresh white linen bearing glittering glasses and cutlery, awaited our fucking pleasure. For over two hours we merrily ate and drank our weight in meat and vino. As none of us are bristling with cash I’d taken the precaution to advise the stags to start saving for this part of the evening early January as I was aware it could come to £100 a head. I had a starter of wood pigeon and a main of roast sucking pig; both dishes were fantastic but I should’ve opted for the beef, which arrived in huge silver salvers wheeled-in by suitably attired chefs who ceremoniously carved the beef right onto the plate. It would’ve been worth ordering just for that, Frank leant me a sample of his dish and I knew there and then that whilst my plate was delicious, his was fucking sensational.

It was a very happy few hours, by now the stags were all well lubricated and it was decided that we should go from the restaurant to another venue in which to throw more booze down our throats. We polished off the last of the cheese course and set off. Unfortunately I had clean forgotten the name of the place suggested to me by Harry who’d had to go home after dinner to attend to his young family. All eyes were on my to arrive at a solution, I had nothing but shrugs. We found a couple of places but one was just closing and the other was abhorrent, somehow we found ourselves in Villiers Street on Charing Cross and decided to join the shortest queue for a bunch of nightclubs just to get another drink in us, no one gave a shit what sort of place it was…

…an hour later what was rest of the group were crowded round a large white piano where some stage school type was belting out Don McLean’s American Pie with the rest of us raucously joining in. I’d lucked out again, in addition to free entry, there was room to move about, get served at the bar and have a bloody good sing song, which leant a Victorian sort of air to the night, an appropriate way to digest Simpson’s fare I felt.

By 2am we were all spent. I have to say I wasn’t catatonic but certainly not safe for operating heavy machinery. Jamie was due to stay at my gaff so we said a fond farewell to Frank and the last of the stags and set off for home. We didn’t have to wait for the bus; miraculously it just rolled up as I was wondering where to get it from.

I’m not sure where all of this good fortune was coming from but there was a little bit more left in the pot. On the bus Jamie and I were discussing the last Hawkwind gig we’d been too, how awful it was if I’m to be honest, when the bloke behind butted in. This chap was a hippy type and was also a fan of sorts, we got talking and after 5 minutes mentioned that he was going to a squat party and it just turned out the venue was virtually opposite the spot Jamie and I would have to alight on Hackney Road. He suggested we might like to come along; I’ve no idea what possessed me to agree.

We walked into the squat at 3am, I wasn’t expecting this huge place to have a stage, a proper bar and a pukka sound system. It was packed full of punks, hippies, grebos, travellers, tramps, dossers and clubbers, a right mixed bag but the atmosphere was pleasant enough for a while. Jamie and I bought a couple of cans of beer and found a place to sit. Such was our condition sitting wasn’t working for us so we got up to dance, a sure sign it’s time for me to turn in. After this we bumped into the bloke on the bus at the very same time about 50 people began having a frenetic punch-up, this lasted all of a 30 seconds before the instigator of the trouble, a very out-of-place looking skinhead, was violently ejected.

The man rolled a joint that we smoked before discovering we were now heading towards incapacitation. It was time to go, I dimly recall on leaving that the man and I slapped each other’s faces. It wasn’t a long walk back but a 10-minute walk took us almost half an hour. It was 6am when we got home, at 7 am I was stood in the kitchen poking lumps of Jamie’s earlier meal down the sink wondering why I’d not poured it down the loo.

My parent were due over at 2pm but I thought I’d said 1pm. Either way I was awake at 11am following a paltry 4 hours sleep wondering who I was. Jamie was touch and go for 30 mins, it looked as if he may throw up again but he turned a corner and by the time he left at midday (without his phone) I was almost chipper.

IC was a sight for my sore, red eyes I can tell you. I was a bit out of sorts as one could imagine so she took charge of the food and arranged the flat to accommodate the arrival of the folks and co. At 2 my sis and bro-in-law arrived with my little nieces and after getting hopelessly lost my folks finally showed up at 3. Quite incredibly I found myself drinking fucking wine which whilst utterly irresponsible did a marvellous job of staving off the hangover. It was a lovely afternoon, my eldest niece, just turned two, is now chatting away like she’s been doing lines and it was just bloody nice spending time with everyone.

By 6 they were all gone, IC and I were feeling very pleased with ourselves for making the afternoon a success. The rest of Sunday was spent in front of the box; we watched 3 films almost back to back and did the rest of the bloody wine. So there you have it, a weekend, well about a months worth of weekends in one and I have to admit I’ve felt better.

I think I’ll have Cunt killed.