Monthly Archives: April 2010

belend

I was rather surprised to hear of that teacher being acquitted of attempted murder and GBH yesterday. In summing up The Beak told jurors that the time of the assault, Mr Harvey was in such a state he could not have intended to kill or seriously harm the pupil. Ignoring all the emotive ins and outs of the matter, the straight fact is that a 50-year-old man beat a 14-year-old child over the head with a dead weight fracturing his skull, and walked away a free man.

From the outset I felt an enormous amount of sympathy for the teacher whose goading by the pupil was intended to make him snap for the benefit of mobile film footage, and I feel the right decision has been made regarding this case. Some little cunt succeeded in cynically taunting a vulnerable man to breaking point and got his comeuppance. Good.

It’s all very well to have laws protecting the children but the traffic doesn’t usually flow in the other direction. Bullying, especially the psychological variety shown by the victim of the assault, negates the established adult/child dynamic in whatever capacity it occurs. There are plenty of instances when this sort of behaviour results in a teacher being found lifeless in a darkened garage or wardrobe when the pressure of what is essentially unbridled cruelty takes its toll. This time the teacher broke in the classroom and lashed out.

You can’t legislate against bullying, it’s too subjective and random, you could even argue that it’s a given part of the human condition, but in cases like this, where torment has been specifically orchestrated to push a person over into the abyss, you can at least look away from the letter of the law and allow common sense to prevail via a sense of fucking decency and respect.

Now onto other matters. I had a nice evening with Rosh and Rick in a boozer in Clapham before toddling back East with a bladder awash with London Pride. I was forced to empty it at Bethnal Green in a public loo (outside against a wall) before bussing back to my gaff for baked beans on toast with my bro, IC and Napoleon Dynamite.

This evening a few of us are dining out at a posh eatery in Clerkenwell and nipping off to a bar/club for late drinks. Then it gets a bit tricky. IC and I are flying to Spain at 7am tomorrow morning meaning we’re due at the airport for 5-ish resulting in us having to set off at 4. Going to sleep would be a disaster but a quick snooze is essential. How the fuck we’re going to play it is anyones guess when you factor in the late license.

How about you tune in Tuesday to find out? First the tune (a beauty) chart and a my insistence you have a fucking top bank holiday weekend, pardon my language.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 The Courteeners Take Over The World NE 1
29 Band Of Skulls Death By Diamonds And Pearls NE 1
28 Dead Weather Die By The Drop NE 1
27 Amy MacDonald Don’t Tell Me That It’s Over 15 9
26 Faithless Not Going Home NE 1
25 AFI Beautiful Thieves 17 9
24 Blur Fool’s Day NE 1
23 We Are Scientists Rules Don’t Stop 13 6
22 Band Of Horses Compliments NE 1
21 Boys Like Girls Love Drunk 28 2
20 Hot Chip I Feel Better 18 3
19 30 Seconds To Mars This Is War 12 7
18 You Me At Six Liquid Confidence 16 4
17 Pendulum Watercolour 24 2
16 Vampire Weekend Giving Up The Gun 14 5
15 Two Door Cinema Club Something Good Can Work 23 2
14 Arctic Monkeys My Propellor 9 7
13 Foals This Orient 19 2
12 Chemists This City 8 5
11 Paramore The Only Exception 10 6
10 The King Blues Headbutt 20 2
9 Vitalic Second Lives 7 4
8 Half Man Half Biscuit Joy Division Oven Gloves 8 3
7 Dommin My Heart, Your Hands 3 8
6 Plan B She Said 5 4
5 The Temper Trap Science Of Fear NE 1
4 Biffy Clyro Bubbles 11 3
3 Lostprophets For He’s A Jolly Good Felon 4 5
2 Liars Scissor 1 6
1 Bullet For My Valentine The Last Fight 2 4


botshop

This business with Gordon Brown and that bigoted woman from Rochdale in Lancashire, for me it was his finest hour, a triumph. If only the press saw things differently.

It’s very simple really. Gordon was speaking with impunity; at his disposal were a whole range of adjectives and adverbs with which to express his disappointment at his unfortunate meeting with some ill-informed buffoon. He could’ve been derogatory about her weight, age, general appearance stuff, he could’ve employed swear words with which to punctuate his frustration. But he didn’t, he called her a ‘bigoted woman’ which is precisely what she is (Rochdale is 80% ‘local’ incidentally) what he didn’t say was ‘meddlesome fat prol’ or use the ‘c’ word combined with a reference to her age such as ‘old cunt.’

In short he went up in my estimation by some degree but after reading the screaming headlines this morning you could’ve been forgiven for thinking he was reciting the bible backwards as he tried to finger her.

Speaking of this morning, my journey by bus and tube earlier went rather smoothly, by the time I boarded the train at Waterloo I was looking good for getting to work dead on time. But it wasn’t to be. At Vauxhall the train stopped for over 15 minutes before passengers began to alight to seek other platforms in order to reach their respective destinations. None of us had a clue what was happening because the staff on South-East trains didn’t bother to tell us. It was only when I made my way to another train I discovered what the problem was, and why, to a certain extent, there was no announcement.

In short, a passenger on crutches had tried to board the train as the doors were closing after being informed by the guard not to. He’d got his crutches and an arm in the train while the rest of him stood on the platform, when the doors opened to release him the passenger boarded the train. The guard then told the bloke to get off the train and of course he refused, then kicked off. By the time I alighted the bloke was still on the train, screaming, surrounded by British transport police and a bunch of South-East train staff. I accept that South-East trains have to adhere to rules regarding safety but for the sake of the rest of us couldn’t they have just let it lie? On the other hand the prat on crutches should’ve got off the train for the sake of the rest of us trying to get on with our lives. Bastards, the lot of them.

I had a good night with Harry, Rob, Ray, Frank and my bro last night. We met up at The Ship on Wardour Street following a horrific encounter in fucking Top fucking Shop. Purchasing my new suit trousers was a relatively painless exercise despite the shop being hotter than the surface of the sun, but my journey downstairs to the bowels of the earth in order to accrue a pair of leggings for IC was another matter entirely.

For a start there was some sort of sale on, the place was packed like a sausage with millions of perfume-drenched teenagers aggressively rifling through a thousand miles of crammed clothing rails looking as if they’d followed-through at lunchtime. Once I entered this zone I simply couldn’t see any way out and began to fucking panic. At some point I bowled out into the lingerie area, the combination of the hound-like shoppers and range of cheap tat on offer was enough to put George Clooney off his fanny.

My search was going nowhere; I needed help from a member of staff, something I’m loathed to do for no rational reason I can think of. It took me over 5 minutes to find one, I navigated through the throngs of spatially unaware teen-wags who seemed to be on a single minded mission to step out/back the very second I attempted to advance. The fact Gordon Brown is on the front of the newspapers this morning and not a police cordon in front of a smashed up pile of clothing and gel-haired cadavers is a testament to my self control, really.

At last I cornered a member of staff, some barely pubescent giant of a girl with a lazy eye and skin like a butchers apron. When I asked her what I wanted she virtually laughed in my face. ‘Oh vat is sooooooo, lars sayzon,’ it said, ‘nah, we ain’t got nun.’

I don’t recall leaving the shop; the next thing I remember is sat in the pub shivering over my pint as the pain of my visit pounded in my chest.

Nevermore, quoth The Piqued.


peechi

I am alarmed by the nonchalant reaction to the news regarding the death of New Zealand schoolteacher Blair Peach. It was confirmed yesterday he was murdered by a policeman, Officer E, apparently. And that, folks, seems to be that.

For 31 years the police have known who killed Peach and covered it up. Not just a little bit ‘covered it up,’ they actually locked the witness statements away in a vault in 1979 and denied everything until yesterday. In a manner reminiscent of Derek Smalls getting caught with the foiled-clad cucumber, the police sheepishly ‘fessed up before saying no further action was to be taken, and without so much as fucking ‘sorry’ scuttled back to Scotland Yard.

I can’t be arsed to go into detail with regard to the slippery behaviour of various home secretarys’ (I have to say somewhat ironically with regard to Paul Boateng, Peach was killed at an anti-National Front rally, so much for solidarity) and the failed attempts of legitimate parliamentary acts to gain access to the official documents. The truth of the matter speaks louder than any conjecture on my part but it’s worth noting the reason the police finally agreed to admit responsibility for their behaviour 31 years too late is because of the enquiry surrounding the death of Ian Tomlinson last year. You may remember him, the bloke walking with his hands in his pockets during the G20 demonstration before a copper clobbered round the head. Maybe they’re going to pay off the lack of Peach’s prosecution with the prosecution of Tomlinson’s assailant as the whole thing was caught on camera. But I doubt it; as far as the police are concerned they’ve buried the spectre of Peach so it’s onto the next one.

Sorry for the early rant. I’m in excellent cheers as well. Had a killer night with IC following a spot of shopping that saw the better half stomping into a boozer on Old Street with a pair of 14-hole black-as-your-hat Docs. We had a swift one then offed ourselves to Hackney to make our 8.30 appointment with Bistrotheque, which is best described as a media/gay friendly eatery serving fucking top-notch English nosh. Sort of place Graham Norton eats, this is borne out the fact that he was eating there.

IC and I have been going to this establishment for breakfast for a while now, we know the manager and some of the staff which helps grease the wheel when it comes to service and payment, but had yet to try dinner there. We had to order a little conservatively as most of the fish dishes were finished, this wasn’t a problem though, we shared a starter of rocket, bean, croutons and truffle oil and scored a home run with fish and chips, mackerel-salad and potato and fennel gratin. Fucking lovely it was, the place has a friendly, decadent atmosphere and the staff are in no hurry to shove you out in order to replace you with another wave of diners.

We didn’t spank the booze, shared a bottle of Prosecco and rounded the meal off with a pair of boozy espresso, so when we got home I popped out to grab a bottle of Port by means of capping the evening. Lovely.

I’ve another busy evening ahead, meeting some of my pals near the Tottenham Court Road. Between that and the day in this fucking office I have to go to Top Man to get another pair of trousers for my suit after dousing my last pair in expanding foam when pissed silly a few months back.

God knows what inspired this…


to

The bloody gym last night was awful. I’d had a surprisingly successful encounter on Saturday (my yardstick of ‘success’ is staying on the cross trainer for the full 15 mins and not coughing up my hoop as I struggle for breath when I finally get off it, sweaty and red on the brink of soiling myself) but yesterday’s efforts were dire. Doubtless the weekend festivities and lack of sleep following a fucking horrific day in the office were entirely to blame for this malaise, I just couldn’t muster the stamina to get on the first rung of ‘being arsed.’ Three minutes in I figured I’d stop, but I couldn’t bring myself to quit. I mentally reasoned to my prickling face that if I stopped now I’d open a can of worms, that I’d be inspired to essentially not bother in future visits.

Since I began at the gym, incredibly, some 2 months now, I’ve listened to nothing but Slayer on my ipod whilst undertaking the necessaries, save a couple of earlier sessions with some Italian lessons which isn’t really conducive as a soundtrack to exercise. The music provides an energy that can be physically converted; I’ve even noticed that after 8 minutes or so on the cross trainer something approaching ‘this is okay’ arrives in the brain. The intense quality of Slayer, all the delicious time changes combined with rich volume, make the whole gym experience bearable on most occasions.

I try and treat the whole affair with a sort of dedicated casualness. I’ll push myself a bit, after the CT I’ll have a go on the weights for 15 minutes, but I don’t want to start increasing what I’m doing overtly because it’ll put me off next time when I’m trying to attain the same results. I might not be in the mood, and believe me, it’s much easier to not go to the gym than darken its doors when one isn’t remotely up for it, which is pretty much all the time.

But it’s not all bad. I feel quite good after a session, ‘chuffed’ is a suitable word and I’ve noticed that my skinny frame is starting to show signs of having been to the gym, well, a bit anyway. Certainly, my gut is starting to shrink, I’ve had to stick an extra hole in my belt, and I feel better for going than I did when I wasn’t.

I had a very busy evening when I got home, I spurned booze and focussed on a design I’ve been poring over for the past few months. It’s coming on very well now; it was almost destroyed over the weekend. I did manage to watch a Wallander later on, this was the sum total of yesterdays ‘me’ time I guess…

So, this morning I got up, bit tired but clear-headed and took the bus/tube/train/tube combo to the office. On my way in I noticed a twat in his 30’s who kept fiddling with his Nike high tops reading Catcher in Rye as if it were some sort of token to intellectualism, the lady on the bus next to me was reading two bibles and muttering prayers, a man on the train sneezed with such ferocity I jumped, and I can confirm that Christopher, the gum-chewing gay chap behind me on the tube, is going to Portugal with Simon in June.

It’s a fucking lovely day and after this balls at the office I’m meeting up with IC to celebrate some stuff. Lovely.


edd

Ed appeared between the throng of faces a few hundred yards east of Angel station, he was sober yet appeared to having issues negotiating the paving. We walked/stumbled to the boozer a few yards away where IC, my bro and some friends were starting their Friday. I’d not seen Ed for ages, he’d had disrupted journey to the East and it was nice to finally relax in his company, it was still sunny outside and I was happy to face the weekend with my pals and a pint.

After a few the four of us landed in the Turkish eatery by my gaff, we stuffed our heads full of lamb and wine and called it a day. Ed and my bro slept in my gaff and I popped upstairs with IC. By the time I got up Ed was long gone, IC and I went to the gym to work off the wee hangover that remained and after a shower and a shit did some shopping in the bloody cavernous Tesco and popped off to Victoria park for a picnic.

It was a lovely afternoon; we sat in the sunshine in a swirl of blossom drinking Prosecco and eating crab meant with fuck-off big prawns. Around us the good people of the eastend stretched and frolicked in the balmy weather brushing off their respective cares and worries and simply getting down to being human beings. I have to say, I vocally acknowledged my delight at finding myself in such a position on a Saturday afternoon, and at the time of speaking knew that my weekend would be represented by my memory of the occasion. It seems fucking light years from where I’m sat typing this behind shuttered blinds blocking out grey skies. Oh well…

After a while IC and I went to the pub that faces over the park, my bro joined us and we sat outside discussing canines -there were a few dogs hanging about and both IC and my bro have been owners in the past- the odd one receiving attention from the likes of us. It was still clement when we walked back to Hackney Road; we passed a bar that I suggested we visit some time soon, so we went directly in. Lovely place it was, quite opulent in its middle-eastern way, and largely empty too. We stayed for one then toddled on home.

Later in the evening IC and I bussed it to Islington for some Japanese food in a favoured restaurant. The place was rammed but we managed to get a seat at the sushi bar in the back. We ordered piles of sashimi and sushi to get the ball rolling and I took on the deep-fried breaded oysters for old times sake, wonderful they were.

On Sunday I got up at midday feeling strange, IC, my bro and I went off to get some breakfast from the greasy spoon under the arches. My strangeness was cured by a full English with an incredibly hot pepper sauce following a bit of a translation issue, following that my bro and I returned to the flat leaving IC to undertake various weekend chores.

There was one final string to the weekend bow. Paul had invited a bunch of us over to his for another Barbeque, but the weather had turned sour so instead we met at the local. At 4 pm IC, my bro and I popped down the road and we gingerly took on some wine. By 5 our friends had taken over most of one side of the boozer but we didn’t want to overdo it, it’d been quite a big weekend already. By 7 IC and I were home, I set about making some food and she and I saw the evening off with a movie, The Cotton Club specifically.

Next weekend we’re doing something frankly bizarre, catching a plane to Spain Saturday morning and arriving home Sunday evening. I hope you’re already salivating in anticipation… those oysters were fucking delicious.


skwiff

Office talk regarding the snooker. Apparently Steve Davies is doing very well and I just had a flashback to my granny some 20 years ago referring to him as ‘Steve’ in front of my dad as if he was supposed to know which ‘Steve’ she was going on about… he was fucking livid.

You can have that for free.

I’ve a hangover. The work-related bash at The Royal Academy of Music was free running wine courtesy of very generous waiters. The place was packed full of classical music hoi polloi, I was there with my boss and a couple of colleagues feeling like I’d just been plopped onto the surface of the moon. As the wine intensified I became more relaxed, I found myself introducing my pissed-up face to people one sees on the telly, all of them receiving me with a mixture of bemusement and slight annoyance, I didn’t give a bloody shit.

Foolishly we retired to the nearest pub, I didn’t make the decision, I just found myself there with a glass being thrust into my hand and it automatically receiving red. More people from the bash arrived, clients. I should’ve left but I was freely talking to them, unrestricted, unhinged. By the time last orders was called I was sat down having a potentially vomit-inducing whitey, I’m pleased to report it passed leaving beads of sweat on my forehead that I shoved off with my cuff.

I made it to the tube station in a zig zag, I just couldn’t maintain a straight-line which I found hugely irritating. Fuck knows how I navigated my way to the circle line from Baker Street but I do remember arriving on the platform with two trains either side of me and having no clue which was the one I’d require to take me to Liverpool Street. Yell, I decided, so I did. I shouted the question right down the middle of both trains and voice beckoned me to the one on the left. I yelled my gratitude, climbed about and set off.

I woke just as the train was entering my station, bit of luck that, and took the central line to Bethnal Green. The crowds were familiar now, I was among my people and I began to relax, partially comforted in the assurance there would be passengers in much worse states of mind than I. The bus was waiting for me when I swayed into the night after exiting the tube, it was empty and by the grace of the starts and planets, I made it home in one piece, and dropped into bed.

I’m feeling much better now, I need to be. My weekend ahead is vast. It contains an old mate, dinner, a barbeque, gym, park and cycling. And it all starts in the fucking pub, of course.

Gerry’s chart, tune. Enjoy the gifts of the days.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Kate Nash Do Wah Doo 21 3
29 Alkaline Trio This Addiction 17 10
28 Boys Like Girls Love Drunk NE 1
27 Goldfrapp Rocket 13 7
26 Enter Shikari Thumper 24 3
25 All Time Low Lost In Stereo 30 2
24 Pendulum Watercolour NE 1
23 Two Door Cinema Club Something Good Can Work NE 1
22 Gorillaz Stylo 15 10
21 Hadouken! Mic Check 19 4
20 The King Blues Headbutt NE 1
19 Foals This Orient NE 1
18 Hot Chip I Feel Better 22 2
17 AFI Beautiful Thieves 9 8
16 You Me At Six Liquid Confidence 18 3
15 Amy MacDonald Don’t Tell Me That It’s Over 7 8
14 Vampire Weekend Giving Up The Gun 14 4
13 We Are Scientists Rules Don’t Stop 10 5
12 30 Seconds To Mars This Is War 6 6
11 Biffy Clyro Bubbles 27 2
10 Paramore The Only Exception 11 5
9 Arctic Monkeys My Propellor 5 6
8 Chemists This City 8 4
7 Vitalic Second Lives 12 3
6 Half Man Half Biscuit Joy Division Oven Gloves 16 2
5 Plan B She Said 26 3
4 Lostprophets For He’s A Jolly Good Felon 4 4
3 Dommin My Heart, Your Hands 2 7
2 Bullet For My Valentine The Last Fight 3 3
1 Liars Scissor 1 5


kleen

I was forced onto public transport this morning, in a suit. Well sort of, I refuse to go the whole hog with regard to suit-type trousers unless at a funeral or wedding. But I’m clamped in a black tie to match my skinny jeans and smart, clean shoes, my shirt is crisp-white and I’m sporting the necessary jacket, black of course. I’ve retained the skull rings and my cuffs are similarly formatted.

This evening I have a work-related incident at The Royal Academy of Music, it’s an annual event saved by the trays of wine and canapés. It’s usually over by 8 but in previous years I’ve been known to retire to a local hostelry with colleagues to round things off, sometimes excessively.

The public journey into work was the easiest I’ve encounter to date. It’s a beautiful day, warm, sunny and the bus, tube, train, tube, all arrived and departed the instant I set foot on the respective pavement or platform. Better still, all were relatively un-crowded so my journey took place in comfort. The views of London that passed by as I made my way South offered golden images of a city only recently drenched in grey steel rain cloaked in freezing cold. The transformation is palpable; you can actually feel a change in the spirit of the city as the sunshine pours forth and something approaching heat tastes the skin. Long may it last.

Yesterday, following a sensationally irresponsible ride home, I parked up Brutta with a 50 mile-wide grin and headed off to the gym in order to knead my muscles. It’s the first time I’ve done three days in a row and I noticed that it was not only easier to work the machines, I was even prepared to push myself a bit further, and I felt much better for it after too. I walked back home via the supermarket to pick up some ingredients for the roasted tomato and goats cheese tart, namely goats cheese and tomato, which I began to prepare the instant I stepped through my front door. It may or may not be worth mentioning that I’d picked up some puff pastry and lunchtime, in hindsight I don’t think I will.

Once the tart was in the oven I showered, shaved and greeted my bro and IC to sample the fruits of my labour and watch a film. The tart was fantastic, I served it with pan-fried spinach, garlic and spring onion and we ate with a glass or two of Cabernet Sauvignon. The film was very watchable too (The Box) and all in all our evening ‘in’ was a success.

Short one today, I’m busy over here… and I’ve just noticed, this could be the first post I’ve ever written in over three years in which I’ve not used bad language. So it’s safe for kids too, right parents?

Enjoy this…


rah-star

It would seem that the reason for the relative quietness in The City was due to the lack of airplanes. Now that the farting beats are back in the sky, my ride into work was blighted by horrific quantities of traffic blocking my path requiring me to take onto the odd pavement in order to make progress; my journey was 20 minutes longer than normal. Still it wasn’t all bad, for the first time since I climbed on her back, Brutta and I are enjoying warm sunny weather with sticky new tyres. The heroic moves of derring-do are coming thick and fast. In short, I’m riding like a total cunt.

I had a busy day at work and in spite of a short period of otherworldliness in the afternoon (caused by I’ve no idea what) I left the office in excellent cheer. I pegged it home in the sunshine and arrived back breathless. I was just about to ride Brutta up the narrow alleyway to my front gate when I spotted two Rastafarians coming the other way, so I waited for them to pass. The first one gave me a cursory glance of gratitude but the second, in rich Jamaican tone said, ‘Nice bike, man. I like your style,’ which was extremely flattering, to the point I was rather taken aback. To my fucking horror what came out of my gob almost made me jump, in Bertie Wooster parlance I half yelled back, ‘Thank you very much!’ I may as well have gone ‘haw haw haw,’ at the end as well. Christ.

I dumped the bike in my yard and nipped off to the gym, after 35 long minutes I returned to the Twatcave, showered, and went directly upstairs to grab IC and get the bus to Clerkenwell. We arrived on the nick of 8, just in time to take our seats in the rather posh eatery Paul had booked for his birthday.

Mercifully Paul had facilitated a straight 50% off the menu because it wasn’t the cheapest place I’ve eaten, this didn’t include the wine but I was delighted to see that it was quite reasonably priced. The food and company was splendid (there were 9 of us) and I had the terrine to start with the saddle of lamb for main, IC lucked-out with her halibut and the wine flowed gently -not excessively I hasten to add- giving us space for a quick drink after the restaurant and IC, Paul and I room for a shot of Makers Mark when we got back home.

I’m in rather good cheer today, the clement weather continues and despite it being dead in the office the prospect of that which exists outside of this place bubbles merrily away.

Ladies and Gentlemen…


volkayno

Apart from one mate being unable to go home to Italy last weekend, myself and mine -to the best of my knowledge- have been unaffected by this volcanic ash business. But there are thousands of poor buggers stranded overseas unable to make it back to loved-ones, places of work, proper beer etc., with no immediate change to their predicament in sight.

Many are adopting the ‘by any means necessary’ mantra and are flocking to the North French coast by hire car, train, taxi, bicycle, piggy back, only to find that they’re unable to secure a place on the overcrowded ferries travelling across the channel. It must be a fucking nightmare.

To aid the plight of these unfortunate souls, the government has deployed a flotilla of warships to help bring some of the stranded back home; it sort of invokes the Dunkirk Spirit, which is rather nice, but all of this is completely unnecessary.

Noel Edmonds has a fucking helicopter. Edmonds, once the apple in the eye of BBC light entertainment turned reclusive oddball following his hand in the slaughter of one of his contestants, has a massive fuck-off chopper. Why can’t he go and get them? In addition to giving something back following the cold-blooded killing of some weak-brained boobhorn, he’s a golden chance to raise his profile to the levels enjoyed by the departing Jonathan Ross and Adrian Chiles… Hello? Vacancies! It’s not bloody rocket science, Edmonds, get off your arse and get saving. And get back to the BBC where you belong. With Smitty.

I had a pleasant though low-key day yesterday, a day off if you will. I done worked, biked home, revived myself in the gym and went home (again) and made a fucking huge pile of spaghetti sauce which took 30 mins to prepare and 2 hours to cook slowly through. I froze ¾ of it and pushed the rest into my head in front of some TV programme about The Blitz presented by that little fart Tony Robinson. I bet he hasn’t got a helicopter like Edmonds, having said that, I don’t think he’s dropped a man on his head from 120 feet either.

From here on in it’s all pretty much business as usual (i.e., drinking too much). IC and I are going out with some pals to celebrate Paul’s birthday and the rest of the week is booked solid, actually, the weekend is almost full too. But I’m also going to try and do the gym FOUR times before Saturday, it’s a big ask from someone who likes a tab with his pint but as I’m rather keen to continue smoking and drinking way into my 80’s the gym is the only option. That’s logic right there.


knowzblead

Sunday lunchtime. Pondering on the small matter of this bloody cold-thing, it was over 3 weeks ago that the fat kid sneezed in my face, I thought, reaching for another handful of fucking bum fodder in order to clear my nostrils of another portion of nose Dim Sum. I honked a load of gloop into the tissue and, almost expectantly, watched a pissing stream of blood wallop all over the sink.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned the whole nose-bleed shit in these hallowed pages before, I’ll spare you a re-visit but in short, I used to suffer from nose-bleeds a lot when I was a kid, low blood pressure, ironically. It’s something I could well do without in my bloody 40’s. I’ve had the odd one over the past 25 years but not in sufficient quantity to be blasé about them. As wine improves with age, nose-bleeds get increasingly terrifying.

Despite this, I had a killer weekend. It began, following a weary bash in the gym, preparing dinner for four. Patti was supposed to be in Italy but on account of this bloody volcano business was grounded in London, joining her were my bro and IC, of course. I threw together a fisherman’s pie, not one of my best but more than sufficient and the evening passed gently in a fug of tobacco and the odd glass of Prosecco which was on special offer at the local Co-Op.

I woke on Saturday in a pool of light, sunshine? My god, sunshine! Loads of it! This had an adverse effect on both IC and I, we had a shot of coffee and offed ourselves to the gym, only 20 minutes mind you, but exercise on a Saturday is illegal surely? After breakfast/lunch we cycled to Clissold Park in Stoke Newington, more bloody exercise but in the sunshine behind IC, well, I rather liked it. It was a mere 15 minutes and the reward, sitting in the park in warm sunshine with a bottle of freezing Cava as London lolled and frolicked about us, was overtly worth it. We spent a bloody delightful few hours soaking up rays and bubbles; it was one of those defining ‘weekend’ moments, the sorts that cannot be adequately conveyed in words yet sit in the brain like a jewel in the proverbial crown.

We cycled home via the boozer on the corner of our street. The ride back was actually very pleasant and the destined pub half empty; it’s not really geared for sunshine but the light streaming into the gloom, slicing the dingy yet cheery air, was still more than enough to retain that sense of spring vitality. We were joined by my bro and attempted a game of pool, I don’t want the word ‘attempted’ to give the impression we were tipsy, it was more of a case of incompetence. Perhaps more of a signifier that I was a tad tight was after the short cycle home when I scraped my arm up the alleyway wall when attempting a moving dismount outside my gaff…

By the time IC and I left Hackney at 8-ish to head up to Whitechapel for curry I was back to normal -save the graze on my arm which, as I type this, looks a lot more interesting than it feels. We took the 48 to the city and alighted near Commercial Road, after a fair walk and some directional advice we finally entered the destined eatery at 9. I’ve been to the Lahore Kebab House before but in earlier visits I’ve been with a group of mates who are well versed in Pakistani cuisine. IC and I ordered off the cuff, what we ate was very good but, with a bit more knowledge, could’ve been a lot better. This wasn’t a problem though, we had a very nice evening and the long walk back to Liverpool Street in the dark city was enjoyably gritty.

Another glorious day Sunday. IC and I got up mid morning and went for a walk towards Dalston. We were headed for a little café on the main street; on the way we stopped and checked some of the local estate agents. We had a lazy brunch and wandered back home and it was about this time I had the fucking nosebleed.

After sorting myself out I did some work on Brutta and cleaned the flat. Paul had invited a few pals over to his roof for a barbeque. I have to say I’m always very impressed by my Hackney friends generosity, organisation and attention to detail, especially when you consider the whole barbeque idea was pretty much spur of the moment. Someone had already dropped off the bbq device, Mary and Oscar arrived bearing beef, chicken, haloumi, satay and vegetables and set about assembling the food on the skewers provided by the host. IC and I were assigned to the wine, my bro and couple of other guests dealt with the beer. By 3pm there was 10 of us, all eating and drinking in the fucking sunshine having a right good time. In your face winter, yeah. In your bloody face!

We didn’t stay too long; by teatime I was getting my stuff ready for the evening. IC came down to the Twatcave and we watched a film with a couple of fishcakes for good measure. IC left at a sensible 11pm and I watched the Grand Prix before having another cunting nosebleed just before bed.

Today’s offing is dedicated to Pete Steele of Type O Negative who died on Wednesday. He was a big bloke was Pete.*

*(apparently he had a fucking enormous cock.)


rubbr

After a fly-blown day at work I took the tube to Piccadilly for my cousins show. He’s a photographer of some note and a gallery is organising a retrospective of his work. I was early to arrive but soon the gallery was packed, I began to pick my way round the guests in order to view all the works on display. To my surprise my Auntie and Uncle showed up along with my bro and more members of my wider family, before I had time to mind my P’s and Q’s an impromptu family gathering was happening.

In between all the family niceties my cousin introduced me to a few of guests, in particular a chap who featured prominently on the Pixies album cover ‘Come on Pilgrim.’

The photo in question was on display. As the image depicts a man with a very hairy back I took the chance to discover if the image was real or doctored. My question was answered decisively when HBM (hairy back man) showed me a portion of his shoulder. My bro joined in our conversation and we spent the rest of view nattering away, before finally moving along to a boozer in Covent Garden with HBM, my doctor-cousin and his doctor-mates.

We had a jolly few hours, the docs, HBM and I got around to discussing sexuality with regard to society, then I was briefed on cannaboids and the mind by doc-cousin. My artist-cousin arrived just as HBM and my bro decided it was time to leave. At Bethnal Green we said Farwell to HBM and returned home to an impromptu but highly successful portion of falafel and spinach that I rustled up in 10mins. Spiffing!

I was up at the whisper of Blackbirds this morning, I had to get Brutta off to the tyre shop and get her re-shod. In only 2000 miles the rear has squared-off which is making handling problematic, the front is okay but in my experience with sports-tyres it’s always preferable to change them both.

I’d called the shop up the previous day and they’d ordered my rubber in especially without any deposit or fuss. They then called to confirm the tyres had arrived and mentioned that they’d do them on the spot on a ‘first come first serve’ basis and were open from 8… So I was there early for obvious reasons. But by the time I arrived there were already 3 guys in the queue with one having his machine seen-to. I was in for a drawn out wait so I passed the time nattering with one of the mechs and the sort of hip-hop lady in reception.

After a while another mech arrived and set to work on my bike. He too joined in the conversation (which was now about family funerals and strangely hilarious) and even after the bike was done we were still nattering. I’ve been going to garages since I was 3 and these was one of the nicest businesses I’ve ever stepped foot, in addition it wasn’t that pricey. I gingerly rode into the office on my new, fresh rubber. It’ll take them a week or two to scrub in, but at least it’s dry and warm enough for them to reach temperature quickly.

Right, weekend beckons, Gerry’s chart, tune… have good ones.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 All Time Low Lost In Stereo NE 1
29 The Futureheads My Heartbeat Song 17 6
28 The Courteeners You Overdid It Doll 19 12
27 Biffy Clyro Bubbles NE 1
26 Plan B She Said 29 2
25 Archie Bronson Outfit Shark’s Tooth 20 5
24 Enter Shikari Thumper 26 2
23 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh 16 13
22 Hot Chip I Feel Better NE 1
21 Kate Nash Do Wah Doo 25 2
20 Miike Snow Sylvia 13 11
19 Hadouken! Mic Check 23 3
18 You Me At Six Liquid Confidence 28 2
17 Alkaline Trio This Addiction 10 9
16 Half Man Half Biscuit Joy Division Oven Gloves NE 1
15 Gorillaz Stylo 8 9
14 Vampire Weekend Giving Up The Gun 18 3
13 Goldfrapp Rocket 9 6
12 Vitalic Second Lives 21 2
11 Paramore The Only Exception 15 4
10 We Are Scientists Rules Don’t Stop 12 4
9 AFI Beautiful Thieves 6 7
8 Chemists This City 11 3
7 Amy MacDonald Don’t Tell Me That It’s Over 3 7
6 30 Seconds To Mars This Is War 7 5
5 Arctic Monkeys My Propellor 4 5
4 Lostprophets For He’s A Jolly Good Felon 5 3
3 Bullet For My Valentine The Last Fight 14 2
2 Dommin My Heart, Your Hands 2 6
1 Liars Scissor 1 4


lection

This fucking cold still lingers. I could happily wring the neck of that fat little kid that sneezed in my face almost a fortnight ago. In a desperate attempt to rid myself of the bastard I drank a litre of bitty orange juice yesterday morning, and then spent the afternoon farting out streams of burning poo.

The run-up to the election is in full swing and I’m sick to the back teeth of it already. Every time I flick on the news there is a politician poking the air about their head bearing the whimsical once-every-four-years expression one expects of an evangelist, to wit, smug enlightenment combined with utter bewilderment. These awful half smiles play over their lips; the nostrils flare to soak up their own self worth as all bollocks flies from their chubby gobs. These are the sorts of people that get off on their own farts.

I’ve no idea which way to vote because I’m caught between policy and pragmatism, that’s to say, Lib Dem and no-Cameron-by-any-means. I’ve looked at the situation in my borough and Labour seems the safest bet to achieve that latter, but the pain of actually voting them back in…

This evening on British Television we’ve the first ever Election TV debate and despite this being an historical event, I really don’t think I can face it. Watching a politician force out a smile is enough to make a pig vomit, watching them maintain the previously cited expressions under increasing pressure is a bridge too far. For me the upshot would be akin to watching those fucking Glade commercials in the Imax after having dropped 3 elderly microdots. Actually, even the thought of them debating on television is making me so angry I’ll come back after I’ve had a cigarette.

Right, best leave that. Have this.


boozsz

Frank’s new mother-in-law said a few words, then Frank, who did a good job of pouring a bit of amore into the room, and then I was up. Almost immediately the children in the room began shrieking, if this wasn’t bad enough the acoustics were fucking awful. From my point of view all I could hear was my dead drone and yelling kids as the ‘gags’ fell from my mouth and flopped onto the floor a few feet in front of me before expiring. Those five minutes seemed to go on as long as my second and last stand-up gig, by the time I finally got to toasting the bridesmaids I was a shaking, sweaty mess. Despite this a few of the guests complimented me, but I think they were just being polite.

With my duties fulfilled I settled down, I ate vast amounts of food from the buffet and continued to pour wine down my throat to both celebrate the passing of the speech and to recover from it. After a while the room began to loosen up as guests started to mingle, I popped over to IC’s table and then she and I -along with a few pals- popped outside into the warm sunshine to continue celebrations.

It was a splendid afternoon; we drifted in and out of the venue mingling and chatting, everyone was getting on just fine and the bride and groom seemed dead chuffed. As time passed it was apparent the booze was taking its toll but even when one of the party guests smashed a cup cake into my fucking mouth I took it with good grace.

By 8pm, IC my bro and I were done, so we took the train back to Waterloo and then wound our way home. Forgive me but due to the fact I was shattered (and a little tight) this part of the day is a little hazy, I do know that IC, my bro and I had a little snifter when we finally arrived home.

Needless to say I woke on Sunday feeling a tad ropey, but as the weekend had only just started it seemed rude to spurn birthday drinks with some pals in Islington. We arrived at the Barbeque later in the afternoon and pretty much picked up where we left off. I was overtly aware of how irresponsible IC and I were being but it was lovely, see? Neil whose birthday it was, was running the food and drinks with his missus. We watched the Grand National (which is horrific) and spent the afternoon flapping our gums, occasionally with wine in it. Swineshead and his missus came back to Hackney with us and left leaving IC and I drunk and hungry. We took the short trip up the road for some of the best Vietnamese food this side of, er, Hanoi and called it a day.

Sunday was without doubt stupidity doing wheelies. Instead of politely refusing the wine at lunchtime, IC and I had a bottle with our Eggs Benedict sat cheerfully (increasingly so) outside an eatery on Hackney Road. If this wasn’t foolhardy enough we even accepted an invitation to see Mary and Paul at the boozer on the way home but were sensible enough to stop off at Tesco before it shut. Sunday evening we had fresh trout with roast spuds, shallots and tomato. And more fucking wine. I saw the Moto GP (nice one Rossi) and went to bed. A fantastic weekend albeit a tad squiffy.

I woke on Monday feeling awful, in addition to a hangover the cold was back with vengeance and I was utterly exhausted. I spent the day successfully working from home and, feeling a bit better at 6, met up with IC and Dave in the pub that overlooks London Fields for (literally) a couple of glasses of plonk.

Things were a little more frenetic yesterday, after a decent stab at getting shit done in the office I shot home, darkened the doors of the gym and rushed off to meet with my bro, Harry, Mark and Andy at The Underworld in Camden for The Russian Circles. The support act I posted yesterday didn’t quite make the grade but The Russian Circles were fucking brilliant. One of the best gigs I’ve been too, it was small, intimate, and mind blowing. Crowd started off quite relaxed but by the end everyone was flowing.

They were so good it even made the revolting process of returning home acceptable.


‘ddin

The eve of Franks wedding didn’t quite go as planned, the idea was that he, Oscar and I would have a quiet couple of pints and dinner before sliding off to bed at the hotel, instead we found ourselves on Winchester High Street at 1 am with our respective faces shoved in the sour meaty realm of kebabs, pissed.

Winchester is a strange little city, it’s not unpleasant, in fact it’s very pretty and hosts a knockout cathedral but there is a sort-of provincial strangeness about the place. I noticed that our fellow drinkers in all the boozers we visited were very similar, thousand yard stares, empty smiles. It’s hard to adequately express, maybe I’ve seen too many Hammer Horrors. Still the beer was good and we three had a jolly time of it catching up but the reality of the following days events were always going to take centre stage. Maybe it was that which added an odd note to proceedings? Frank getting married, the end of an era of sorts.

The hotel itself was vast and swanky, though it was decorated in a sort of up-to-date incarnation of the 1970’s -lots of brown and cream, leatherette featured prominently- it still retained a certain degree of cosiness. Frank and I shared a large room with two single beds, unfortunately due to this ongoing cold I managed to keep the groom awake half the night snoring.

At 8 am Frank and I farted the other awake and we began to prepare for the day in earnest. There was more to do than expected, before we’d taken the train to Winchester the previous evening, Frank and I had to collect our Morning Suits from Moss Bros. These whistles leant a more formal air to proceedings and I found myself earnestly polishing my shoes as if death awaited my tardiness. I even considered ironing my shirt but it took so long to piss about with tie and cufflinks I let the wrinkles pass.

We had breakfast in the dining room, full works, and shortly after Franks folks arrived just as we’d finished off his speech. We packed the car and set off for the short journey to the church. It was a glorious day, sunny, warm and clear enough to see the Hampshire countryside for miles in every direction.

At the venue Fin’s dad arranged for a nip of Sherry for the immediate family and the guests began to arrive in their finery. Frank and I went inside as the church filled, Frank nervously stood next to me staring at the nave as, inevitably, the bride arrived looking resplendent in a antique wedding dress. The vicar conducted a lively and heartfelt service, two readings, three hymns and the exchange of the rings that I’d been wearing on my fingertips. The vows were uttered, the register signed and that was it. Frank was married.

The congregation spilled out of the church into the sunshine and the photography began in earnest. It took almost as along as the service before the photographer was satisfied he’d captured the moment and guests cheery faces.

I was one of the first to arrive at the hotel after sorting out the double-parking mess in the limited spaces over the road from the church. In the lobby a bunch of staff were waiting with drinks and gradually the wedding party arrived and began to mingle.

Shortly after, lunch was called and everyone piled into the dining room. It was here I learnt that the speeches were to take place before food. I was sat at the end of the top table beside Franks mum, way over in the furthest side of the room were IC and my mates. In between was a sea of strangers. I started drinking. Fast.

More tomorrow.

Seeing these guys tonight supporting Russian Circles… turn it up


intrainz

I was awoken yesterday morning to the dulcet tones of my brother being sick in my bathroom. We’d had a fairly heavy night, a few pints, dinner (Turkish based but civilised, like) and a few glasses on return to the gaff… admittedly a little keen for a Tuesday evening but nothing to warrant the biker-rally sounds blasting from my poo-room.

After failing to procure Alka Seltzer I forced a couple of old Ibuprofen down his neck, this failed to quell the splitting headache and we decided that he was experiencing his third ever migraine. My mum gets these things, I’ve been spared them to date and for that I’m grateful, as I’ve decided conclusively they’re fucking awful. He threw up the Ibuprofen a few hours later, apparently.

I took the bus to the tube to Paddington and boarded the Heathrow Express to Terminal 3. I waited for a short while before a surprisingly un-shattered IC appeard in the arrivals lounge, which was excellent. She and I took the Heathrow Express to the tube to Waterloo, parted, and I ran to catch the 12.35 to Winchester after failing to secure an Upper Crust chicken tikka baguette because, a. a fat arrogant politician-type was insisting on a fucking receipt for his brie and bacon sandwich and, b. the other serving member of staff was cleaning bits of sausage out of a fridge and curtly informed me ‘he was busy.’ I politely swore at the whole lot of them and boarded my train just before it left the station.

I’m a train fan. Apart from motorcycles it’s my second favourite way to travel, especially when going out of town and the train’s new, half empty and the sky is clear. It was a very pleasant journey; it whooshed in relative silence out of the city and into the Surrey countryside finally coming to a rest in Winchester, which reeked of pig cack. An ancient cab driver took me to a church a few miles away and I waited for a short while before Frank and his missus-to-be arrived at 2pm with some family for a wedding dress-rehearsal.

The church is quite beautiful, it’s 10th century with medieval additions and 19th century finishes and set in a little meadow graveyard, round two sides of the plot a brook with crystal waters trickles past. It all looks right picturesque and that.

Inside the church it was cold and dark but I got a slight buzz out of the ancient atmosphere as we ran through the various wedding-shapes. After an hour or so Frank and I were walking back to the station in the spring sunshine, he’d not see his missus (to be) now until Friday lunchtime in the church.

The train rolled towards London, Frank and I buggered about like a pair of children. I actually think I was overtired. At Waterloo he and I shook hands and I went off to collect IC from her workplace one tube stop away. We took the 48 home, stopping off for a pair of wines at the local, and arrived home at 9-ish for some stir-fry and a catch-up. I popped down to check on my bro who was making a partial recovery in front of Masterchef.

Later today I’m going directly to Covent Garden to meet with Frank, get our suits and travel to Winchester for the evening in readiness for tomorrow. Frank and I are going to have dinner together at the hotel and then, we’re good to go.

Gerry’s chart and tune. No Piqued tomorrow for obvious reasons and I have a fucking cold.

Tune in Monday to see how my speech went down why don’t you, and congratulations in advance to the bride and groom.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Skeletons 18 8
29 Plan B She Said NE 1
28 You Me At Six Liquid Confidence NE 1
27 Ash War With Me NE 1
26 Enter Shikari Thumper NE 1
25 Kate Nash Do Wah Doo NE 1
24 Kids In Glass Houses Matters At All 17 7
23 Hadouken! Mic Check 30 2
22 Japanese Voyeurs That Love Sound 16 10
21 Vitalic Second Lives NE 1
20 Archie Bronson Outfit Sharks Tooth 22 4
19 The Courteeners You Overdid It Doll 12 11
18 Vampire Weekend Giving Up The Gun 27 2
17 The Futureheads My Heartbeat Song 14 5
16 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh 10 12
15 Paramore The Only Exception 19 3
14 Bullet For My Valentine The Last Fight NE 1
13 Miike Snow Sylvia 9 10
12 We Are Scientists Rules Dont Stop 15 3
11 Chemists This City 21 2
10 Alkaline Trio This Addiction 8 8
9 Goldfrapp Rocket 11 5
8 Gorillaz Stylo 6 8
7 30 Seconds To Mars This Is War 7 4
6 AFI Beautiful Thieves 4 6
5 Lostprophets For Hes A Jolly Good Felon 13 2
4 Arctic Monkeys My Propellor 5 4
3 Amy MacDonald Don’t Tell Me That It’s Over 3 6
2 Dommin My Heart, Your Hands 2 5
1 Liars Scissor 1 3


skwashed

There was a fuck-off thunderstorm on Thursday afternoon; I was directly under it almost as soon as I’d picked up Brutta. It was so severe that within minutes under the deluge all of my waterproofs had been breached, it was like being in The Atlantic. Or Pacific. You get the picture.

The fact I was on Brutta was something of a miracle; the kindly mechanic had admitted to me that she’d almost spat her off after he’d taken her out to check the gasket was good. He then told me that when I bought her back in September he was ‘very concerned,’ this in turn made me ‘fucking worried.’ I knew I was taking a chance buying a new SM610, in many respects they’re a bit of an unknown quantity, but to have an expert on them informing you that he was personally troubled after I parted with my inherited wonga… well, it wasn’t the sort of thing one wanted to hear. I needn’t have worried, to my almost teary relief he went on to say that I’d bought ‘a beauty’ and my 600cc single was better than anything in its class. The previously mentioned ‘agricultural’ aspect of Husky’s also means that no two are alike, it’s a matter of luck I wound up with Brutta, then. PHEWS.

After I’d removed my soaking clothing at home I went off to the gym. It was the evening before the Easter holidays and I was feeling mildly pissed off. IC wasn’t about and I had a lot of stuff to do over the forthcoming break. My evening was somewhat saved by a drink with Paul in the local, after I’d returned home I ate a load of chicken stir-fry and pretty much went to bed. I was fucking knackered.

I slept for almost 12 hours and woke feeling marvellous. I spent most of Good Friday writing Frank’s speech, which was a lot more taxing than I’d envisaged. In the evening I met up with Dave in a boozer, we were joined by lots of his friends, it was a nice night but the lack of IC was palpable, after a couple of pints I was back home watching Masterchef on the i-player.

Saturday was very busy, my landlords handyman popped over with a new fridge in the morning, the old one is still sat outside the flat incidentally, and throughout the day I continued to work on the speech and the design for tattoo, in addition I cleaned Brutta and even made it to the gym for a quick blast. Later in the afternoon I took the train to deepest darkest Surrey to meet up with James and family. He’s recently purchased an extraordinarily pleasant house near Ashford common; it features a sizeable tree-filled garden that attracts hundreds of birds. Honestly, Bill Oddie would’ve had a fit.

We had a pleasant night, we ate Mexican food, drank beer and wine but not to excess -James has two small children and would be forced up early the following day. I slept until 8.30-ish when I was woken by one of the lads crashing into my bedroom door. I mucked-in with the morning activities and after a splendid breakfast took the train towards my folks at 11am.

This part wasn’t good; I missed my train by seconds and was forced to sit on a freezing platform for half an hour. Once on board the first 10 minutes of the journey were quite pleasant, I sat by the window watching the crisp spring landscape ebb and flow but at some godforsaken stop a family -consisting of four enormous women and a fat kid- invaded my space. Three sat in front of me and the two largest sat to my left. I ended up quite literally pinned against the glass.

I’m not exaggerating here, I would imagine if it were just one large person I’d have been all right, but two side by side meant that my seat space was reduced by a third. I couldn’t even fold my arms, I had to bring my compromised limb away from the crushing figure of the lady (I think it was granny) and rest it over my chest where it became almost instantly dead. I would’ve moved but the bloody train was packed, I wish I had in hindsight.

The fat kid sat in front of me was being spoiled to death; he’d just finished his second bag of Walkers and a Cadbury’s Chomp, which he virtually inhaled, when he decided to sneeze directly into my horrified face. I knew instantly that in 24 hours time I’d be wandering about slack-jawed, dope-eyed with my tongue hanging out my head like a navvy. I wanted to say something but due to the increasing weight from gram grams, who had fallen asleep and was slumping in my direction, I was afraid that I’d never be able to get back the air spent in remonstrating the young cunt.

I finally alighted at Clapham Junction to change trains, blue with a completely incapacitated arm and brewing cold. By the time I got to my folks I was feeling much better, especially as roast lamb with all the necessary additions were parked under my nose almost as soon as I walked in.

My eldest niece, aged 2.5 of your earthy years, has finally decided that the sign shines out of my arse. We hunted Easter Eggs, played with toy cars and I taught her ‘pull my finger,’ which didn’t impress mum or sis much. I spent a jolly afternoon with her and the rest of my family and was even afforded a window to steadily drink, something I pursued when I got home at 7. I had a low-key evening, Wallander on the I-player and bed. Rock and bloody Roll….

This aspect was continued on Bank Holiday Monday, gym, Tesco and the rest of the day (and most of the night) on the tattoo design, which almost caused me to rip the tongue out of my head at one point. It’s so nearly there, but miles off in the same instance. I’m still trying to convince myself I didn’t spend the best part of 5 hours making it worse.

Oh, the cold came on yesterday fucking lunchtime.

No Piqued tomoz, I’ve a rehearsal for Frank’s wedding so I’m taking the day off. Best of all, IC is back, I can’t bloody wait.


fukbyk

I’m in the most vile of moods. I’ve just dropped Brutta off at the bike shop, there was some oil blowing out of the rocker cover gasket, if this wasn’t awful enough I’ve been leant a bike for the day whilst she’s fiddled about with.

I noticed the oil a few weeks ago, it’s not pissing out, in fact it’s hardly noticeable but it needs sorting. It’s under warranty so it’s not a major issue but on modern machines these sorts of things really shouldn’t be happening… having said that I always knew that by buying what is essentially a powerful Italian hybrid with an agricultural heritage I’d be treated to problematic serendipity, as it were.

Last week, after the mechanic confirmed Brutta would need to be booked in for the necessary work, I asked if I could borrow a loan bike, expecting either another Brutta or the 2010 version of her, or even a shiny KTM Duke. So I thought he was joking when he pointed at a rusty 125cc Chinese thing sat slumped outside and told me that it’d have to be that. He fucking wasn’t.

It’s without question the most disgusting thing I’ve even sat on, and I’ve sat in my own doings. For a kick off it was so quiet when I fired it up I didn’t know it was actually running, this was probably a good thing because when I finally discovered it was making a noise it resembled a cat with laryngitis being sick.

I set off, the clutch bit at virtually the full travel of the lever causing the revs to swell before I’d engaged, when this did happen the fucking thing jumped forwards. I spent the first 10 minutes trying to change gear with air as the riding position was all-bollocksed up which did nothing to help the clutch situation. In addition the brakes may have been made of turds for all the fucking use they were, it would’ve been easier to stop a plane with candy floss, and the headraces are shot to shit so during the painfully extended braking period the front end juddered like a Terry Thomas on a trampoline.

God I fucking hate it! When I finally arrived this morning I informed the boss I had to leave early because I don’t want to die in the rush hour. The lack of power on this machine is palpably lethal as it doesn’t allow you to escape from potential hazards, but as the brakes don’t work I can’t figure out if this is, in fact, a good thing. Do you hear that? I can’t work that out, I, Piqued, The Biker o’ Doom.

I had a good night with IC, she just about to nick off to New York so we had a farewell/Easter drink in a cocktail lounge (same one as I visited last week) then to a bar for some snacks and more drinks round the corner in Shoreditch. We finished off at home with the bottle of Champagne we’d brought back from Paris and nattered in the kitchen about the ludicrously loaded month ahead. Hey, why not come on down to this niche on the interweb and read all about it!!! LOL etc.

So, it’s Easter already, 4 days off with a shit load to do. Gerry’s Jesus chart to follow and a tune. Make sure you cram yourselves full of eggs, muthas.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Hadouken! Mic Check NE 1
29 The Big Pink Velvet 22 9
28 The Automatic Run And Hide 26 4
27 Vampire Weekend Giving Up The Gun NE 1
26 Wolfmother White Feather 19 8
25 The Maccabees Empty Vessels 20 5
24 Rob Zombie Sick Bubblegum 17 8
23 General Fiasco Ever So Shy 21 4
22 Archie Bronson Outfit Shark’s Tooth 23 3
21 Chemists This City NE 1
20 Delphic Halcyon 14 6
19 Paramore The Only Exception 24 2
18 Yeah Yeah Yeahs Skeletons 13 7
17 Kids In Glass Houses Matters At All 15 6
16 Japanese Voyeurs That Love Sound 12 9
15 We Are Scientists Rules Don’t Stop 28 2
14 The Futureheads My Heartbeat Song 16 4
13 Lostprophets For He’s A Jolly Good Felon NE 1
12 The Courteeners You Overdid It Doll 10 10
11 Goldfrapp Rocket 18 4
10 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh 7 11
9 Miike Snow Sylvia 6 9
8 Alkaline Trio This Addiction 8 7
7 30 Seconds To Mars This Is War 9 3
6 Gorillaz Stylo 5 7
5 Arctic Monkeys My Propellor 11 3
4 AFI Beautiful Thieves 3 5
3 Amy MacDonald Don’t Tell Me That It’s Over 4 5
2 Dommin My Heart, Your Hands 1 4
1 Liars Scissor 2 2