Monthly Archives: May 2010


I nearly died yesterday on a stairwell, that’s right, died. On a stairwell.

My boss and I had a lunch meeting in Covent Garden so we took the sodding District Line to the preferred station and alighted. Covent Garden is serviced by lifts from the underground to the street and whilst my battle with claustrophobia has been fought and won on the tube, this doesn’t extend to lifts, they remain an insurmountable bastard.

Of course, having been recently acquainted with the gym I gamely opted to take the stairs and, flying past the safety warnings and less athletic tubers, I bounced upwards towards the surface two steps at a time. I didn’t really notice the fact I was running out of breath until I realised I simply had none left in my lungs. And no matter how much I gulped at the humid air no more seemed to be going into the desired area. It wasn’t like being a bit puffed after running; this was if my air sacks had been replaced by polyfilla. For 30 horrific seconds I genuinely wondered if this was it.

By now all pretence that I was casually ‘hanging about’ waiting for a less agile mate to catch up was far away, so, clinging to the metal banister, I opted for leaning forward like a regurgitating vulture, eyeballs exploding, trying to bite air out of the surrounding atmosphere as those I’d previously passed sauntered wilfully by. Even after I’d made some headway in getting oxygen to the vital areas I still had to carry on. Almost as soon as I’d taken a few steps to the surface I was back in the same situation, this horrific battle to remain alive went on all the way to the summit, by the time I flopped out into the sunshine I was ghost-white (according to my MD) with inoperative legs and shaking like I’d just been bummed by Take That.

After a full recovery lunch was a jolly affair; I had lots of meat and wine, which did a good job of seeing off the afternoon and the horrors contained in the office on my eventual return. I had to take public transport home so I grabbed some ingredients for a fisherman pie between stops to my flat.

IC has her mum and sis over from Italy, the pie was my attempt to introduce them to a classic ‘English dish’ that tasted of something. The Italian fare I was being fed in Italy over Christmas had set a very high benchmark and I was keen to impress, though I was advised not to use salmon or mustard making my task a little more arduous.

By 8.30 the food was prepared and I was rather chuffed with the results. I’d opted for smoked haddock, cod, king prawns, squid and mussels for the ‘fish’ part, a simple béchamel sauce with fresh thyme for the, well, sauce, and had creamed the spuds with butter and milk before topping the whole lot off with handful of good old British cheddar, mature naturally.

I took the pie up with some watercress (I was keen to see this ‘English’ theme through) and served The Mobsters after a good round of ‘Ciaos.’ I lucked out, they all loved it, the proof of my success being in second servings, in spite of IC’s concerns, even the humble watercress was a winner.

The Mob are here until Tuesday so my weekend revolves cheerfully around them. But this entails a rather unpleasant aspect as well, if you wish to discover what the fuck that is, or are keen to read about some of the more congenial parts of this Bank Holiday weekend, please do tune in on Tuesday. Or don’t. Do I stutter? No, I jolly well don’t.

Look, Gerry’s holiday chart, and a tune below…


30 Chemical Brothers Swoon NE 1
29 Plan B She Said 22 8
28 Dommin My Heart, Your Hands 21 12
27 Muse Neutron Star Collision NE 1
26 Lostprophets For He’s A Jolly Good Felon 17 9
25 LCD Soundsystem Drunk Girls 23 3
24 Marina And The Diamonds I Am Not A Robot 29 2
23 Amy MacDonald Spark 19 4
22 Band Of Horses Compliments 16 5
21 Pendulum Watercolour 11 6
20 Liars Scissor 12 10
19 Avenged Sevenfold Nightmare NE 1
18 Hole Skinny Little Bitch 20 4
17 Dead Weather Die By The Drop 15 5
16 Rob Zombie War Zone 24 2
15 Funeral Party NYC moves to the sound of LA NE 1
14 The Pretty Reckless Make Me Wanna Die NE 1
13 Biffy Clyro Bubbles 9 7
12 Band Of Skulls Death by diamonds and pearls 13 5
11 Bullet For My Valentine The Last Fight 6 8
10 Foals This Orient 8 6
9 We Are Scientists Nice Guys 18 2
8 Them Crooked Vultures Mind Eraser, No Chaser 10 4
7 The Temper Trap Science Of Fear 3 5
6 Two Door Cinema Club Something Good Can Work 4 6
5 The Courteeners Take Over The World 7 5
4 The Hurts Better Than Love 14 2
3 80s Matchbox B-Line Disaster Love Turns To Hate 5 4
2 Rammstein Haifisch 2 4
1 The King Blues Headbutt 1 6


I had the most appalling journey into work this very morn.

I left at 7.30 and hopped onto the bus where I witnessed either a gross act of utter stupidity or inverted racism (a sockless Shoreditch type with a beard, wedge haircut and fucking enormous headphones chose to sit next to an enormous black fellow sat near the back of the bus when there were a myriad of free seats next to tiny, skinny white-types at the front. The black chap was visibly baffled too; in face he and I made ‘we’re baffled’ eye contact) and then fell off the bus following a snappy journey to Old Street.

I was way ahead of schedule, which meant the soul-destroying prospect of arriving at work 20 minutes early. Whilst this was indeed a pisser, the sight of an overtly crowded platform and a departing train blackened with tightly packed bastards inside… well, that plunged my heart into the bowels of London’s ancient sod, pardon my French.

For over forty fucking minutes I waited for a gap, a space in the train, in which to slip my newly-toned frame (we’ll get onto that) into, but only after the queues gathered round the areas where the doors did their business had sufficiently diminished to allow me entry. The reason for this bollocks lay squarely at the feet of unplanned engineering-work on the Central Line (one of the busiest in your Earth world) that had forced all the passengers on the Northern. It was horrific, when I finally boarded I stood wedged upright forced into a shape like a lightening-strike graphic, and then the train waited on the platform for 10 minutes because some cunt at Moorgate had left their luggage unattended on the platform. They should fucking flay people that do that. Then get Susan Boyle to piss on them.

I made it a gym hattrick last night. Three days, three bloody days in a row. It was relatively easy if I’m honest, which may explain why my previously cited ‘newly-tone’ frame still looks the same as it did in January. I suppose I’m achieving something as I’ve virtually doubled my intake of food yet I’ve gained no weight. Yesterday, for example, IC and I went out for Vietnamese and I managed to order so much I needed a doggy bag.

Shortly off to a boozy lunch meeting with the boss to meet a client. I intend to eat the menus after making a sizeable dent in the wine list.

Here, catch.


Something annoyed me on waking this morning. As usual I was aroused by the Radio 4 pips announcing the news and my brain scanning the ether for purchase, then the realisation it wasn’t the weekend and I had to fucking go to work followed by the hangover question, did I have one or was this just weekday fatigue?

Of course, there are a myriad of things in the news that have the capacity not just to annoy but tempt the hand to the region of the testicles in order to pluck them off with a moan and squish them into the radio speaker, especially if you’re in a permanent state of low-level anger with a tendency to react to things with a jerky-knee, as one is inclined.

In the grand plan of things, Iraq, Afghanistan, Korea, Cameron, another murder in some grubby part of the UK is, depressingly, hum drum. Virtually everyday we hear of some poor bugger suffering at the hands of the unhinged and wilful, but the way the murder of a 36-year-old woman in Yorkshire was reported to me in my bed first furrowed my brow before turning me purple with rage.

Don’t expect some massive revelation because you’ll be overtly disappointed, or perhaps not when you think about it, as I did. It was simply this, the murdered woman was ‘a prostitute,’ and we knew this about the poor soul before were told her name.

The use of the word ‘prostitute’ prior to her naming not only strips her of an identity but further implies that somehow she sort of had it coming… I can’t think of any other example where someone’s career takes precedence of name, age, location etc., and it resulted in my contacting the BBC to make a complaint.

I accept her profession may be pertinent to two other cases in the area, but have a modicum of respect to mention this after we at least know her name and personify her as a human being rather than ‘hooker.’

After I thumped out an angry email to the Beeb, fuelled by a desperate ride into the office and the sallow faces within, I thought it might be an idea just to check I hadn’t misheard the report as I was now so flabbergasted I was suspicious. I plugged into the i-player to listen to this morning’s Today and located the 8 o’ clock news. After going through the reports I’d heard earlier -Academies, BT, MP’s- the item in question finally surfaced and yes, I was completely cunting wrong.

They never said ‘prostitute’ first; in fact, the order was thus: location of the body, her name and age, then the fact she was a tart…

Oh, while I’m on it, if someone refers to the clement weekend conditions as ‘ice cream weather’ again I’ll fucking brain them.

Fuck this hangover.


I had a good night after the fucking office, my journey back east was quite alarming due to the staggering number of blokes on sport bikes in vests and shorts. Admittedly it was incredibly hot yesterday and I’d be a liar if I didn’t feel a pang of jealously at their blatant stabs at convection, but the sheer stupidity of exposing your flesh to 70mph plus tarmac outweighed any desire to follow suit. Bear in mind you graze yourself falling over at walking pace, now work out how long the layers of flesh are going to hold out when your body weight is applying your skin onto sharp rocks and stones flying in one directions at high speed for a protracted period. I heard of one girl, temporarily sat on the back of her boyfriends’ bike in a fucking bikini, quite literally erasing her arm off following an incident.

Still I bet she felt more than comfortable before the accident with the warm wind brushing over her young, lithe body… she died half an hour later due to massive blood loss and shock, minus an arm that was spread like smashed up black pudding up the road behind her.

I returned home after a leather-clad blast on the bike pooling sweat. After I’d evaporated in the Twatcave I blindly wandered down to the sodding gym, I wasn’t in the mood to apply myself to levers and pullies but once I’d stepped into the torture chamber I was revived by the refrigerated air which contrasted starkly with the swamp-like atmosphere of London. It was sufficient for a session, at least, but I was less than happy after a day of shit in here waving my bloody limbs about and suchlike.

Back at the flat I showered (I was completely naked, ladies) and dressed in my finery. A couple of Italian friends dropped by for an impromptu bike-fixing session, which wasn’t entirely resolved. The velocipede in question was older than Nebuchadnezzar, over-engineered and considerably more beautiful than practical.

For my efforts IC appeared, then wine and then some astonishing salami and the evening was whiled away by conversations surrounding Black Metal and obscenities in surrealism as I masticated and imbibed until all the gym-work lay about me broken into a million, million tiny pieces.

The bassist from Slipknot died of a smack overdose yesterday, come in number 2.


It would seem that in addition to the mong-shorted cyclists the fair-weather bikers have decided to make an appearance in the rush hour traffic. Blokes in their 50’s aboard brand-new Ducati’s with as much of a clue of city-riding as my mum does coprophilia (one hopes.) Worse still they think they can ‘win,’ this morning I watched some old tart on a Monster escape death by millimetres following his decision to overtake a Beemer on a bend. At the next set of lights he was visibly shaken, he looked over at me, perhaps gain some sort of sympathy for his ludicrously misjudged manoeuvre, but instead I furnished him with one single word. ‘Berk.’ I know that would’ve hurt.

I’m in a fair mood I suppose, I had such a bloody good weekend being here has somewhat dampened my jolly mood. It began with a huge flat-clean following a boiling hot ride home that saw me quite literally drenched top to toe in sweats. At 8 IC and I cycled up the hill to Stoke Newington to offload a bottle of Prosecco into our faces as we sat in Clissold Park with the remains of the sunshine drifting West. Our short residency was interrupted by what can only be described as ‘a gang of youths’ running away from a police van that drove all over the fucking park without much as a by your leave. The group split into a firework of directions as the van swerved behind their backs before finally settling on one young fellow-me-lad who got chased and felled. From then on there were police everywhere, as were the youths who’d popped out of various bushes and shrubs before ambling off.

IC and I took on curry at a packed little gaff off Church Street, it was very good but the menu was rather limited. The best bits were the various popadoms and sauces we had before the king prawn based starters. My lamb main was as dry as a bone (good mind) but as usual IC lucked out, this time with a fresh whole crab all dressed in curry-based finery.

Following this we cycled home, rather wobbly to start with but jolly pleasant as it was warm and downhill all the way home. We watched Midnight Express on our return; it was new to IC who was rather taken aback by my overt delight when Rifkie got his tongue bitten out of his fucking head… one of my all-time favourite scenes in film. I was on my feet punching the air.

I have to admit to feeling rather fragile on Saturday. IC and I decided to walk through London Fields and onto Broadway Market, which wasn’t the best course of action as the place was rammed solid with gaping tourists and sockless twats. It was a glorious day, almost too hot already and the throngs weren’t helping the situation. We grabbed a couple of Mexican wraps at one of the less poncy stalls before deciding we required space and a bit of peace away from the throngs at the market and indeed the stage and accompanying marquees which had been erected on the park for some nameless, noisy event. Over by the kids playground we found sanctuary and some p&q in which to enjoy breakfast/lunch.

It was about 2pm when we spied some friends pushing their almost 1 year old towards us, coincidentally we’d made plans to see them the following day at the very same location with some other folk to celebrate the 1st birthday of the baby, who’d learnt to walk that very day. This made what happened a 10 minutes after we left even more disturbing. A gang fight broke out in the North part of the park and a stray bullet hit some totally innocent chap in his back leaving him seriously wounded.

IC and I didn’t hear the air ambulance land as we’d popped in to the pub on the way home for a refresher. Indeed we had no idea of what had happened until later that evening.

IC reluctantly left at 4 for a Hen do, I went to the shops and did some fundamental DIY after I’d returned with supplies. At 6 I was joined by my bro, he and I went to the Turkish Bar on Mare street and sat alone in the beer garden drinking ice-cold lager. We had dinner at 7 at the desired Vietnamese eatery a few minutes away… amazing stuff, loads of noodles, pork, prawns and spring rolls, all cooked to perfection, a couple of beers and a slap up meal for £15 a piece.

We waddled off to the local where we learnt about the shooting. Everyone was talking about it which inspired the unusual phenomena of strangers congenially communicating with each other, Mary joined us later as my bro and I started on the 2 for 1 cocktails which didn’t do much to dissuade my cheery state. We were home by 10, IC had had enough of her Hen-do and joined us for a drink, here the evening beautifully unravelled, bro and I wound up having a lubricated deep and meaningful before I joined IC upstairs at 3-ish.

The start of Sunday was dreadful, my bro was in no state to join us for breakfast in the yard that was drenched in burning sunshine. I felt much improved after some food and a can of Coke. I watched the Moto GP that saw that arse Lorenzo claiming victory with the genius Rossi child taking second. Following this disappointment we headed back off to the scene of yesterdays crime that was heaving with families and groups of friends.

Our friends from the previous day were there with about 15 other people, all of whom seemed to be wrestling with toddlers. They’d pushed the boat out in terms of provisions though, plenty of booze and food on offer to enjoy with the glorious weather and in spite of my fragile state of being I was as right as rain after a can of Becks.

At around 3 we absconded to a second group of friends via the off-licence and remained with them until 5-ish. By now I was both tired from the heat and well on my way to sticking my dick into Monday. IC and I went back to my yard where we tentatively sipped wine in the heat and ordered curry from the takeaway round the corner. Thirty minutes later a heap of goodies arrived and we retired inside to consume our treats.

For a takeaway meal it was way beyond expectations, even if the Bhaji was a little under par. We ordered king prawn curry and rice and they chucked in a vegetable one for kicks; I have every intention of eating it for my fucking tea tonight. Actually, if was even better than Fridays affair.

We watched the remake of Cape Fear, which wasn’t as good as I remembered, before calling it a weekend. IC went upstairs at 10 and I took to my bed soon after feeling bloody pissed off it was all over.

Have this; the new album is superb by the way.


It’s a beautiful day, stunning. Best of the year by far. But, of course, this has its downsides too.

I’m not talking about the usual lot of cyclists that I flow through the city with, the majority of them are okay, they know what they’re doing, like me (and IC I hasten to add) they do it day in and day out. Even the ones that started after the cold snap in March seemed to have settled into things, despite showing early signs of fuckwittery.

No not them, I’m talking about the white-legged cunts with their voluminous, and on occasion, diaphanous shorts, men in fucking huge wankers-shorts with belts. They’ve clearly decided, after watching News at Ten the previous evening, that tomorrow, instead of the tube or bus they’re going to pedal to the office.

In addition to looking offensively ridiculous, they’ve as much of an idea of city cycling as I do blowjobs. The whole concept of ‘give way’ isn’t on the agenda, in its place is ‘I’m quite simply a cunt who feels that as I’m doing my bit for the environment, for once, everyone else can revolve around me for I am the master of the city in my fucking shorts and widening line of sweat soaking through my blue shirt.’

This morning I yelled at more cyclists, all containing the same defective gene (and shorts) than my collective yells since I’ve been riding from Hackney to Wimbledon after each one committed the same offence. Pulling out in front of me without looking behind. It wasn’t just me they did this too of course; they did it to other cyclists and in one fingers-crossed-moment (hoping they’d get crushed) a fucking bus.

There really should be something in place to prevent these arseholes from being allowed to do this. I’m not promoting legislation, there are far too may stupid laws as it is, but some sort of proficiency training, a day, say, where you’re taught how to cycle in city traffic before you’re unleashed into the grinding teeth of me.

Off topic, I now have helmet speakers and a wind up radio attached enabling me to listen to radio 4 to and from work. It’s bloody nice, puts a whole new spin on my journey. I’m tempted to attach the i-pod but common sense prevails, it would turn my ride into a computer game with fatal results, probably.

After I got home last night, I did the gym and cycled off to Victoria with IC where we met Den and Akira for an impromptu picnic. It was a balmy evening, it actually felt like summer was a breath away and we followed this with a pint in the boozer overlooking London Fields. Back at home Mary popped downstairs to join IC and I for a few more catch-up snacks and before I knew it, it was midnight and time for bed.

Despite the cyclists and the shit going down in the office I’m in excellent cheer. The packed weekend is winking at me so by means of celebration have Gerry’s chart and desires that you perform well over the next pair of days.

Tune in on Monday why don’t you.

30 Vitalic Second Lives 20 7
29 Marina And The Diamonds I Am Not A Robot NE 1
28 Faithless Not Going Home 25 4
27 Boys Like Girls Love Drunk 17 5
26 Mumford And Sons Roll Away Your Stone 26 2
25 Blur Fool’s Day 19 4
24 Rob Zombie War Zone NE 1
23 LCD Soundsystem Drunk Girls 28 2
22 Plan B She Said 16 7
21 Dommin My Heart, Your Hands 14 11
20 Hole Skinny Little Bitch 24 3
19 Amy MacDonald Spark 22 3
18 We Are Scientists Nice Guys NE 1
17 Lostprophets For He’s A Jolly Good Felon 11 8
16 Band Of Horses Compliments 15 4
15 Dead Weather Die By The Drop 18 4
14 The Hurts Better Than Love NE 1
13 Band Of Skulls Death by diamonds and pearls 21 4
12 Liars Scissor 7 9
11 Pendulum Watercolour 10 5
10 Them Crooked Vultures Mind Eraser, No Chaser 12 3
9 Biffy Clyro Bubbles 6 6
8 Foals This Orient 9 5
7 The Courteeners Take Over The World 13 4
6 Bullet For My Valentine The Last Fight 4 7
5 80s Matchbox B-Line Disaster Love Turns To Hate 8 3
4 Two Door Cinema Club Something Good Can Work 5 5
3 The Temper Trap Science Of Fear 1 4
2 Rammstein Haifisch 3 3
1 The King Blues Headbutt 2 5


The weekend can’t come fast enough. It’s been one of the worse weeks in this place since I began just after the fucking war. Essentially, we’ve ‘characters’ in here that seem to think they’re actually important when they’re no more than disposable drones. Factor in their lack of lives outside of the walls of this place and you’ve a lethal cocktail of jobsworthiness and delusions of grandeur.

It’s making my day-to-day life in here fucking awful, by the way, and I really don’t think I can stand much more.

I was saved by the meeting of my bro, Harry, Rob and Ruben in a boozer off that Wardour Street, we had a few catching up with the mundane and fanciful. At some point I bumped into an interesting fellow at the bar and he joined us for the remainder of the evening resulting in a extra pair of ales that could’ve been avoided.

The journey home was a doodle, and we alighted by Hackney Town Hall in order to procure some Turkish bread and pasta-sauce-stuff that I turned into an impromptu pizza with the aid of chorizo, pecorino and parmesan.

At the time it was delicious, this morning, judging by the quantity and, I have to say, quality of my emissions, I think I may have stumbled upon the perfect recipe for weapons grade methane.

I woke myself up with something you wouldn’t wish on Ian Huntley and then went on to aggressively buzz awake my sleeping brother, despite his being next door, with what sounded like a sample of a Chinook landing on The Butthole Surfers.

Once I in work following a farty bike-ride in I received a succession of texts from my less than amused bro who was…

Hang on.

Christ that was dreaful.

…he now has my absolute sympathies, particularly with reference to the ‘quarantine’ and ‘elephant’ themed ones.

Short-one today, I’ve stuff on in this fucking place. But first, this particular song came up in conversation yesterday evening. I think it’s their best…