Monthly Archives: May 2010

starehell

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 It wasn’t like being a bit puffed after running; this was if my air sacks had been replaced by polyfilla.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…

Behave.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
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


chewb

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.


dedooker

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.


urtymizup

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.


hotparc

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.


dethwhish

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.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
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


pardunmwaah

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…


flipsighd

For social reasons, following a day in this cavern, I took the Borisvehicles into work this very morn. It’s a glorious day which made walking past Brutta -as I excited my yard for the fucking bus- all that harder. It was an easy journey, no crush on the Red Thing, and more importantly, none on the Metalworm. I boarded the train at Waterloo with a coffee and took a while to ponder on the scenery flowing past my eyes, one with something in it, which is pissing me off.

Before arriving at arses Wimbledon which, these days, resembles a backdrop to a Carry-On film (fat-ankle mums shoving yelling prams, gormless workmen sporting snouts drooping from potty-mouths, no multiculturalism whatsoever outside of a fucking McDonalds) I suddenly noticed something that made me feel right odd.

As the train rolled out of the city into suburbia I realised that a whole mass of houses were undulating over hills and poking out of dales, for a nano-second I could virtually see the landscape as it had been before being colonised by bricks and mortar, when it was quite literally ‘all just fields.’ I saw the whole picture from way outside of my subjective conscience and I spun off into the most peculiar of fancies. The planning and arranging of the buildings, their structure, architecture, it became alien and loads of little concerns popped-up, why had they wound up looking the way they do? Separate, in a line, then not, their colour and shapes appearing to be unified but entirely random having evolved with precision (?) and, at times, an almost needless aesthetic… Everything I could see had been made by a person, none of it was in any way natural yet there was still a chaos of sorts, with filigree ironwork and cornices. It was this that became the catalyst for the convulsion that lead me to completely lose my sense of self, it was as if I was seeing without light, nothing came from within. A flash of pre-defined knowledge that I knew without knowing.

I tried in vain to maintain this sense of otherness but the bastard passed as fast as it had appeared. It was nice. The only reason you’re reading the previous paragraph is because I scribbled notes following this dip out of the ordinary, reading back it seems like the comforting memory of a smell such as emulsified motorcycle oil or dads farts. It also reads like I’m having a fucking breakdown.

I went to the gym again last night. It was, initially, unexpectedly awful, largely because I was feeling quite game for a bit of wheeze but after 3 mins on that spiteful cross-trainer it felt as if my knees were made from eggs and I was flailing about as if injected with Tourettes. I wanted to go home.

I clung onto the levers as if featuring in Metropolis and managed to do the usual 15. By the end I was wetter than Quentin Crisp, despite this I still hauled myself over to the big boys corner and worked some of the dead weights.

It’s worth noting that there is a very congenial atmosphere in this area. On the surface it’s an over-populated quantity of blokes built like Humvees but you soon notice that in between the bared teeth and grunting they take time to help each other out. And they do so with a sense of, well, fun. Virtually every aspect of race congregates in these few metres, and variations therein, yet a palpable feeling of respect prevails. Despite my irregular and pitiful hours, no one has interrupted my woeful attempts to ‘workout’ because I’m using or resting in a desired machine, nor have they regarded me as some sort of inferior species because my neck doesn’t have biceps.

You see the news these days and you get the impression that England is seething pit of spiteful intolerance. Well, you shouldn’t believe all you read in the papers.


fudluk

I was so dishevelled in Tesco on Friday night/ Saturday morning that I’d not really accounted for my purchases. I knew I’d bought food-things, what exactly I’d no idea -though I’m sure I did at the time. Maybe.

After the horrific slog in work and the glorious ride home, I forced myself to enter the gym where I weakly operated some machines. I spurned the Co-Op on the way home convinced that my pissed state on the previous shopping-spree would’ve defaulted in my buying sensible things for the week.

I opened my cupboards to investigate my options, a box of assorted savoury twists, some crackers, a bag of Japanese peanuts and one of Kettle Chips, two bags of Chocolate and honeycomb munchie things (I’ve no idea why one let alone two) and a fucking enormous net of Limes, presumably for Gin and Tonics and yesterday I was having a rare night off.

I wasn’t in the mood to go back out, despite the clement evening, so I cracked open the bag of peanuts when I suddenly remembered that during a fit of drunken domesticity on Thursday night I’d made some pizza and it was, to the best of my knowledge, in the freezer. I was almost too timid to look after having been completely let down by my bacchanalian-self over the weekend. Especially as I don’t make pizza, it’s not really in my repertoire so to speak.

This posed the question, if I had made pizza, how or what had I made? I opened the freezer and sure enough two tin foil packages sat breathing in the dark, I removed one and opened it and all became clear.

On Wednesday I’d bought some Turkish bread that I’d smothered in last weeks left over pasta sauce, this had in turn been smothered in cheese, fresh tomato and grilled crisp. Joy! I slammed it in the oven and cooked it slowly for almost an hour, let it cool before shoving it into my face. Fuck me it was good.

So I learnt two things last night, don’t go shopping with a skinful but by all means cook, arseholed.

Have some more Ronnie….


blewmz

I’m exhausted, I stuffed more meaty bits into this weekend than a quality sausage from Waitrose, I’d imagine. I’ve never had a sausage from Waitrose but they’re probably very good quality.

As usual it all began on Friday, I parked up Brutta in my yard, changed and darted straight out. I walked through London Fields to met IC by Regent Canal, we strolled a while until we’d arrived at the designated-by-Antonia restaurant, it was her birthday and we’d been invited with a few friends to celebrate by means of drinking, food and suchlike.

I have to say, by the time the main course had arrived (I had the steak with béarnaise sauce and chips, I still think steak is overrated when compared to lamb, say but it was nice nonetheless) IC and I were both quite jolly, by the time we left the bar way after we’d swallowed our meals we were solidly pissed. It may have been this that inspired the visit to the 24 hour Tesco to do some shopping on the walk home at 1-ish. Apart from some twins (they confirmed this after I checked) and the poor sods that work there, IC and I were the only people in the store. Being able to move around freely and shop randomly was quite fun. I spent a while sat in the trolley as IC pushed me about before getting told off by a man. I’m 41.

On the short walk back we were caught up by Mary, Paul, Jim (we’d been dining/drinking with them earlier) and Antonia so I invited them all back to the Twatcave for a few drinks. I think they were all gone by 4-ish; I know I was exhausted and dimly recall IC in bed as I finished off the evening with a spot of Space Ritual…

Saturday started clunkily. I had two missions, one was the gym, that wasn’t going to happen, and the other was to procure some black dye and fix-up a pair of jeans and IC’s jacket. I prepared the items for the dye and IC and I popped out to the Italian Café a few minutes walk past the gym, which nodded gravely at me as I sloped by. It was 3pm, we ordered a couple of glasses of Cabernet and some fresh focaccia and simply enjoyed each other’s company, without wishing to sound like a puerile tit. After getting some more food bit and pieces for the evening I set the freshly dyed clothes out to dry, then IC and I took the bus and set off to Islington to spend the evening with some friends.

Eight of us passed the evening picking at Turkish bread, Italian cheese, humous (both fresh and shop bought) and a pile of EAT stuff that had expired the previous day (one of our hosts manages a place in town and they just chuck out stuff on the ‘use by’ date despite the fact it’s perfectly edible.) I was feeling exhausted but as the evening went on gained a second lease of life that resulted in IC and I departing after midnight. We got home and began watching Antonioni’s Red Desert, which was strangely beguiling though not sufficiently to stop us both from falling asleep on the sofa.

On Sunday we were both up by 11, we went directly to the flower market on Columbia Road via a new farmers market off Broadway. At first the farmers market seemed no more ‘market’ than the poncy overpriced grub available on Saturday in the adjacent location but, whilst some of that nonsense was evidently present, there was also a proper fish stall and a fat bloke selling fresh pasties, we shared the latter and got some haddock and kipper fillets from the former, and carried on our journey.

It was after 1pm when we arrived at the Flower Market and the place was packed tight, as usual. I was on a mission to get some summer blooms for the yard, as much as I could for the minimum amount.

The market itself is no more than 100 yards long but is crammed full of traders, millions of flowers and potential purchasers. Get there after 1pm and they’re winding down, stuff is flogged absurdly cheaply by lots of very shouty people who are as much part of the experience as the tons of plants. I did a quick sortie but there were simply too many people to visit the whole plot, fortunately I was close enough to a couple of traders who sold me 10 plants for £9.

We unglued ourselves from the throng and wandered back home visiting our local on the way for a sharpener. I bought some soil from the pound shop and set about potting my new flowers after chucking all the dead ones into a bin bag. I have to say the result is fantastic, though I daresay they’ll all be dead by the end of the week, I’m not known for horticultural panache.

Mary came downstairs at 4 to join IC and I and we watched Iron Man, tremendous fun, and after I began to prepare dinner. That Sunday malaise was kicking-in, we had a few glasses of wine and the previously purchased fish and roasted veg to help push it away, and watched Insomnia as we feasted, all of which went a long way to putting Monday’s shit beyond reach.

It’s a sad day for rock fans, Ronnie James Dio died over the weekend. Arguably the highlight of his career was Heaven and Hell, definitely Black Sabbaths best post-Ozzy album making it, by default, one of the best HM albums of all time. One of the all time rock singers has fucked off, what a pisser.

Today’s offing is dedicated to him, he’d be so proud, right mum.


cunstichewshun

The coalition, I notice the first thing they’ve done is passed a bloody law to keep them in power for the next 5 years. More worryingly, they’ve shoved in a clause that prevents their government being dissolved during this time, whilst sort of giving the impression it can be. Simply, the Tory-led coalition would need more than 55% of MP’s to dissolve parliament but there are not enough opponents to make up 55% of parliament. Is that legal? It certainly flies in face of a democracy. If you can be arsed to check this story out yourself (and I seriously recommend you do because it’s a fuck site more than a trifling matter) you’ll learn that even some Tories are deeply concerned about this, which, when you think about it, is fucking terrifying.

On to other issues, I was called by Mary, IC’s flatmate at 10 last night. IC had cut her finger open and needed some Piquednursingskillz. I rushed upstairs and dealt with the slashed digit, I cleaned and dressed the wound and that was it. It’s interesting to note that under the Labour government IC never cut her finger open…

My journey into work today was blighted by the addition of a Policeman on a Police bike. The bugger followed me all the way from London Bridge until I turned off at Wimbledon to get to my bloody office. I’ve never been followed by a Policeman on a Police bike for such a protracted period in my life, Tory led coalition anyone?

I’ve a bum-packed weekend ahead as usual. A few years back weekends were spent pie-eyed on the sofa wading through zombies, my gaming punctuated by visits to the PC to surf for scud, trips to the fucking supermarket and, if I was lucky, a night in the pub. If you check through the archives I believe this whole Piqued business begins when I was in such a place. And what an awful place it was I hasten to add.

Not these days, I flit about East London like fucking Pacman, laughing, laughing my stained teeth out. It’s fucking great!

Oh. Yesterday I had a meeting with a client and my boss told me to take my nose-ring out.

I’m 41.

Here’s Gerry’s chart, have a good weekends if you can. Soon we’ll take to the streets. But listen to today’s offing first, it’s a fucking beauty…

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Arctic Monkeys My Propellor 25 9
29 Chemists This City 22 7
28 LCD Soundsystem Drunk Girls NE 1
27 Paramore The Only Exception 19 8
26 Mumford And Sons Roll Away Your Stone NE 1
25 Faithless Not Going Home 24 3
24 Hole Skinny Little Bitch 27 2
23 Half Man Half Biscuit Joy Division Oven Gloves 14 5
22 Amy MacDonald Spark 30 2
21 Band Of Skulls Death by diamonds and pearls 23 3
20 Vitalic Second Lives 12 6
19 Blur Fools Day 18 3
18 Dead Weather Die By The Drop 21 3
17 Boys Like Girls Love Drunk 17 4
16 Plan B She Said 9 6
15 Band Of Horses Compliments 16 3
14 Dommin My Heart, Your Hands 8 10
13 The Courteeners Take Over The World 28 3
12 Them Crooked Vultures Mind Eraser, No Chaser 20 2
11 Lostprophets For Hes A Jolly Good Felon 6 7
10 Pendulum Watercolour 13 4
9 Foals This Orient 10 4
8 80s Matchbox B-Line Disaster Love Turns To Hate 15 2
7 Liars Scissor 4 8
6 Biffy Clyro Bubbles 3 5
5 Two Door Cinema Club Something Good Can Work 7 4
4 Bullet For My Valentine The Last Fight 1 6
3 Rammstein Haifisch 11 2
2 The King Blues Headbutt 5 4
1 The Temper Trap Science Of Fear 2 3


prikleepare

I’m probably tempting fucking fate by even bringing this up but it seems I’ve (another) buyer for my gaff. Apparently the solicitors are all doing their thing and… I’ll shut-up, I’ll putting my proverbial winkle in the jaws of a shark even discussing it. I’ll keep you posted, probably.

I had the misfortune of seeing that pair of pricks on the news yesterday, to purge my mind of that awful vision featuring two wankers flirting with each other I rationally considered vomiting all over my socks. Last week they were at each others throats, yesterday they gave the impression that one of them had been knocked up by the other.

I don’t think there are many things in life that are as despicable as abandoning ones principles for the sake of personal gain. In this instance we have a pair of cunts who have u-turned on specific policies in order to get their arses into the driving seat of government.

I’m in a foul food this morning, in case you’ve not guessed. I’ve yet another fucking cold, that’s three this year already, the second in as many months. Depressingly I’m almost completely sure the culprit is, ironically, the gym. It’s not beyond the wildest imaginings to consider that place full of heat and sweat makes a pretty good catalyst for nasties, especially when one is making physical contact with anothers skin-wee on various machines and suchlike.

After the gym I’m inclined to nip into the Co-Op in order to get some grub, inevitably this involves those little fucking translucent bags that refuse to open without agitating the outside with armfuls of spit. I’ve been careful to avoid licking my contaminated digits for obvious reasons but on Monday, faced with a bag that seemed to be shut with Yoo-Hoo and a steam press, I angrily damped my fingertips with gob. Instantly I knew I’d fucked up, a foul taste emerged in my mouth and I knew it was just a matter of time before I awoke, as I did this morning, with a throat that felt as if constructed with asbestos and ground glass.

It’s taken me ages to post this because the computer technology in this dumps dates back to Bletchley fucking Park.

I’m thoroughly pissed off.


nonononononononononope

Yesterday evening I arrived home under Labour government and this morning rode to work in the care of The Chuckle Brothers, two similarly incompetent arseholes fucking everything up and no one laughing.

Two diametrically opposed factions have somehow managed to agree on howtorunacountry, it’s the most cynical act of ‘power by any means’ I’ve seen in 2 score years and 1 outside of a bloody coup. But, of course, they’re the same aren’t they, a pair of similarly coloured public schoolboobs with a lust for control. Apparently they genuinely like each other which comes as no surprise… Christ, I feel as sick as a pike typing this.

Gordon Brown’s farewell speech was genuinely moving as it was free from spin doctory and policy, and as far as I can tell came from the heart. If only we’d had more of that when he in was power, apart from his brilliant ‘bigoted woman’ comment, I don’t think any us got to see the real Brown until yesterday afternoon. This made Cameron’s pathetic speech outside number 10 even more of a bitter experience, especially when one considers he’s not the real PM, he’s essentially an un-elected civil servant who has chosen a deputy with half as much popularity as the outgoing regime. Quite seriously I predict riots, democracy hasn’t prevailed and that always leads to trouble.

Last night Swineshead joined me to watch this fiasco on TV, I made a load of pasta and sauce and we allowed ourselves to gently cook in front of the box. It didn’t seem real as we watched 13 years of Labour pack-up and fuck off to be instantly replaced by what presides over us now. Actually it really didn’t seem real at all, we were whacked. At some point SH fiddled about on Piqued and put up the picture you can see in yesterdays post, I can’t do this at work so I’ll endeavour to shove up an image in the evening.

It’s a lovely morning, sunshine and what have you, and I’m looking forward to seeing IC after an awful 30 minutes at the gym this evening… all of this under Cameron, the dough-faced shit. Cameron for crying out loud, and Clegg, Cameron n’ Clegg. To me, to you, to me… oh fuck off.

I can’t write anymore today.

Turn this up.

.


futz

I noticed this morning that for the past few days I’d been casually sneering at those little England car flags, the sorts that clip onto the underside of the doorframe. Them.

At first I thought it was some sort of backlash to the situation in parliament, a proclamation of English unity, however misguided. But then I spotted a car with two flags and I noticed that the corpulent pilot of said vehicle was wearing an England shirt… Oh Christ, I said to myself. Football.

In the midst of the booze fuelled Saturday evening I recalled a short but alarming conversation between IC and one of her similarly European pals. This encouraged more European friends to join in; all their faces were lit up in a visage of hope and excitement. They were talking about The World Cup and to my horror, IC appears to be more excited about the prospect of her team participating than fucking Berlusconi. This memory was somewhat suppressed by the continuing alcoholic delights on offer but in the cold light of Tuesday morning, I’ve no access to sedatives in which to stem conjecture…

…I foresee a summer of shouting and bouncing, groans and tempers, my head being banged about by flaying arms as I make my way to the toilet, men shouting over my head at the bar, and in the midst of it all, IC on Planet Football with me gazing hopelessly into the heavens trying to catch a glimpse of That I Cannot See. Having said that it’s not all doom and gloom, I’ll have ready-made excuse of afternoon drinking, if I’m sufficiently obstreperous maybe I’ll get my drinks bought for me as I sulk in the corner of the pub as everyone footies-out about me… Mmmm.

Come on someone!!

I was going to write something about the resignation of Gordon Brown yesterday but can’t be pissed. Though I will say this, I don’t feel he’s so much resigned as fallen on his sword. I could be way off here but I think that this may have been a condition imposed by Clegg for a coalition government…

Let’s see shall we. In the meantime, have a short, brilliant, film for a change.


ICreem

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt genuinely chuffed with myself for abstinence, especially when vulnerable and having been giving the green light by IC to indulge to my hearts content. It’s not as if I was being asked to contribute fiscally either… I paused before accepting the rolled up tenner and made some simple calculations as I gawped at a big fat line of certain oblivion. It was 7am, if I did this I’d not to got to sleep until lunchtime at best thus obliterating the rest of my weekend… at the time this didn’t matter, I was almost catatonic as it was, but the prospect of spending a lazy Sunday on the sofa with IC suddenly appeared like a medieval rendition of the annunciation. I handed the tenner back to my wide-eyed friend. ‘No thank you,’ a voice a million miles away uttered, ‘I’m off to bed.’

To say the weekend began sedately wouldn’t be strictly true. I’d appeared home on Friday evening with a thirst, I’d not had any alcohol since Wednesday and had succeed in visiting the gym 4 times in the previous week, with every intention of losing half an hour of my weekend in there. IC came downstairs and we split a bottle of half price Cava before catching the bus to Stoke Newington for dinner.

I can’t emphasise enough how much I enjoy eating out on a Friday evening with IC. Outside of the fucking obvious it’s my favourite thing in the world, really. The designated eatery was a vast Thai place, it was gaudy to the point it resembled a pole dancing establishment and to be perfectly frank, half the female contingent looked as if they may earn a living in the business, or a least, aspired to. The food, on the other hand, was far from the impression the surroundings gave, despite the plastic orchid on the table and the flower-carved carrot that arrived with our starter. The slow cooked lamb curry I had was bloody marvellous and we spent a happy few hours pigging out and drinking rather a rather strong Cabernet, I even had an Armagnac as a digesif after briefly moaning to the waiter that they were being a bit mean with their portion, this was rectified slightly beyond my satisfaction.

We watched Fishtank when we got home, jolly good but thoroughly depressing, and called it a day. On Saturday we had a spot of breakfast, I went off to do some shopping and called in at the gym for a sweat-off and at 3pm went to the boozer on London Fields to meet Harry, his missus and brand-new son. IC and my bro joined us and we whiled away Saturday afternoon with a few beers and lots of coo-cooing at the small person. I was home by 6, before meeting IC upstairs I went on an eating rampage. I was like a man possessed, I picked from my fridge, cupboards, biscuit jar until a little more sane, then went upstairs for sushi and drinks with IC, my bro, Mary and a host of pals all destined for the club.

I think it was 9pm when we all bussed off; we were headed for a new club in Dalston after the old club had decided not to host the bi-monthly event because they reckoned we were Nazis… I wish I was employing hyperbole here, that was the exact word they used when they turned us down. The music favoured by the club organisers is Electronica and the dress code is essentially ‘goth,’ austere at times but no one was goose stepping about bedecked in fucking swastikas and jack boots… well no swastikas any way. Besides, that’s not the point. It’s got fuck-all to do with politics, it’s just music/fashion, and we/they were being judged purely on appearance, which is outrageous. We had the last laugh though, the new venue was far superior to the other dump and the bar was capable of serving vast quantities of revellers.

It was a big night. The place was packed solid by the time Mary got her hands on the decks at 2.30 and I was already pissed-enough to dance. Even my bro was busting some shapes, earlier he’d been threatening to leave through exhaustion but he remained with us until the bitter end.

We were fortunate enough to find some room behind the DJ booth as the rest of the place was getting too packed to move, by 4am we were even able to sit down but the dance floor was still rammed solid. All the while I was drinking steadily, double JD and coke seemed to be doing the trick and I’m pleased to report my earlier drink-buying efforts were being repaid at my favoured rate. IC and I occasionally slammed into each other giggling like a pair of half-wits but I spent most of the night with my bro who, in spite of himself, seemed to be enjoying the evening immensely. By 5-ish were done, IC, my bro and I walked home as dawn began breaking, we arrived home and watched a show about rock-bands on the I-player with a few nightcaps. At 6-ish IC and I went upstairs leaving my bro to crash, I had a few drinks with Mary, IC and some friends, declined the sniff and went to bed at 7.30 or so.

Of course I had a hangover on Sunday but it wasn’t as bad as anticipated. IC and I spent all of Sunday afternoon and early evening watching The Bourne Trilogy, I went out to get some ice-cream after we’d had breakfast at 3pm and apart from seeing IC out at 10pm we spent the day on the sofa. A thoroughly nice day finishing off a sublime weekend.

Quick word on the Tory/Lib Dem thing. Their policies aren’t conducive and the fact they are ‘negotiating’ just goes to show that all politicians are self-seeking cunts devoid of principles. Wave a bit of power under their noses and all their ideologies fly out of the window like a fan-driven farts.

Muthafuckers.


hunged

Last night I made some food for my bro and IC, turned down wine, and settled down to watch the alternative election on Channel 4, which was hit and miss but overall entertaining.

There’s no need to harp on about the fucking election results as it stands now. The outcome of this hung parliament situation won’t be known until later. I reckon it boils down to Nick Clegg, whether he agrees to a coalition with Brown or Cameron, or what Cameron wants to do with regard to the Ulster Unionists. Ideally it’ll be a Labour/Lib Dem coalition, but it could go either way, depressingly.

On the plus side moon-faced bellpress Lembit Opik is out and that damnable one-eyed cunt didn’t get his claws on Barking, but I’m loathed to report that despite not gaining a seat, the BNP (British Nazi-Pretenders) increased their share of the election.

In my constituency we’ve had no results in as of yet, which is of no surprise as it was reported that the Polling Station in Hackney had to turn voters down due to such a high volume of the electorate. In some way this assuages my guilt (not that I should feel any, it wasn’t my fault Hackney fucked up my ballot –I just do) as I was unable to participate, but it’s comforting to know, for want of a better word, that if things had got sorted at the last minute, I couldn’t have voted anyway. Still, pretty poor situation, why didn’t they allocate another station? I’ll be devastated if Diane Abbott doesn’t win back her seat incidentally.

I’m rather looking forward to the weekend, dinner with IC tonight, out with friends tomorrow and wind-down on Sunday. It’s worth mentioning you’re lucky to be reading this at all, by the way. I nearly had a head-on yesterday evening on my return from work when some cunt in a BMW decided he’d attempt to make the garage I was approaching on my left from the other direction He was on my side of the road coming right at me when he decided that he wasn’t going to make the right hand turn into it before smashing into me.

He swerved left at the last second just as I was slightly beyond the garage entrance and he turned in behind me and parked his wagon on the garage forecourt, and then waited for me to do a u-turn and accept the steam of abuse I delivered to him via most of the East End. Satisfyingly he looked terrified, he was ghost white and was apologising profusely. But by Christ it was a close-call.

Chart, tune (would’ve been 80’s B-Line but no good vid/sound, the one selected is fucking great too…) you know the drill… let’s pray for a Lab/Lib Dem result, eh?

Be good.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Amy MacDonald Spark NE 1
29 You Me At Six Liquid Confidence 18 5
28 The Courteeners Take Over The World 30 2
27 Hole Skinny Little Bitch NE 1
26 Vampire Weekend Giving Up The Gun 16 6
25 Arctic Monkeys My Propellor 14 8
24 Faithless Not Going Home 26 2
23 Band Of Skulls Death by Diamonds and Pearls 29 2
22 Chemists This City 12 6
21 Dead Weather Die By The Drop 28 2
20 Them Crooked Vultures Mind Eraser, No Chaser NE 1
19 Paramore The Only Exception 11 7
18 Blur Fool’s Day 24 2
17 Boys Like Girls Love Drunk 21 3
16 Band Of Horses Compliments 22 2
15 80s Matchbox B-Line Disaster Love Turns To Hate NE 1
14 Half Man Half Biscuit Joy Division Oven Gloves 8 4
13 Pendulum Watercolour 17 3
12 Vitalic Second Lives 9 5
11 Rammstein Haifisch NE 1
10 Foals This Orient 13 3
9 Plan B She Said 6 5
8 Dommin My Heart, Your Hands 7 9
7 Two Door Cinema Club Something Good Can Work 15 3
6 Lostprophets For He’s A Jolly Good Felon 3 6
5 The King Blues Headbutt 10 3
4 Liars Scissor 2 7
3 Biffy Clyro Bubbles 4 4
2 The Temper Trap Science Of Fear 5 2
1 Bullet For My Valentine The Last Fight 1 5


catalooneethreee

Saturday late afternoon in Catalonia. After a couple of hours kip I was feeling slightly less tired but a little more disorientated, on the plus side it felt like I was waking to a second day of my stay thus extending my weekend break, on the downside I had what can only be described as a double hangover. It was time to visit a bar.

At 6 we four and the baby ventured out and took the short walk to the beach before taking residence in a local bar. This was no tourist joint, Chas and Clare were well known and IC and I felt strangely welcome in the midst of it. Chas was keen to point out some of the local characters that appeared to be either artists, drug dealers or both. The population of the town is no more that 2,500 (off season) so people know each other and their business, legal or otherwise. Apparently the police turn up once a week to make sure everything is okay and that’s it, apart from that the place seems to govern itself.

Half way through the first beer I was feeling considerably better. I switched to wine to prepare myself for the evening meal, which we took in a tapas restaurant a few minutes away. The food here was exceptionally good, we had battered squid, octopus, croquettes, snails, tortilla and lashings of wine, of course. The baby was remarkable, incidentally, she ate with us (via Clare) and when awake was an explosion of smiles, in fact, throughout the weekend, I only heard her cry once. Her parents dote on her.

After a fairly early night I woke on Sunday feeling a whole lot better. We had chorizo and goats cheese for breakfast and set off in the car to explore the mountain. It’s a geologist’s wet dream, the rocks are halfway between an igneous and metamorphic rock and due to their exposure to the elements the migmatites and schists are battered and eroded. They appear like vast slabs of slate yet are inclined to wear resulting in chewed out coves and caves, the view from one of the peaks down to the sea was virtually Martian. Fortunately the peak on which we viewed the awe-inspiring scenery had a bar.

We drove back down the mountain passing by the house of Salvador Dali, he had a sublime spot overlooking a private beach, and arrived home in time for the Moto GP disappointingly won by bloody Lorenzo. Chas (who is a professional chef of some note) made fresh out-the-sea fish and roasted vegetables for a mid afternoon lunch, it was, as one would expect, terrific.

We had one final jaunt to the bar and then it was time to set off to the airport. The drive back over the Pení Mountain wasn’t half as bad at the one there as I wasn’t hanging over a yawning gorge. We drove as the sun set, the mountains shone like fucking gold and the sky went a vivid violet, we hit the motorway to the south of the mountains and it began to rain violently. By the time we arrived at the airport at 9pm it’d cleared up, we said a hasty farewell to our friends and rushed in the lounge to gather duty free items and knock one back at the bar before boarding the fucking plane.

Sleep was out the question, both IC and I were wired; sensibly we ordered more wine on the flight and giggled all the way back to Luton. On landing the fucking pilot dropped by plane on the tarmac like he just couldn’t be arsed inspiring gasps and one stifled scream from the front, if I hadn’t have been so arseholed I think I would’ve burst into tears.

We did the customs thing, which took an age, and then realised we’d missed the last train back to London Bridge. It was way after midnight so we had no choice but catch a 70 quid taxi back home.

At home my bro was waiting up for us with pizza and booze, it was a bank holiday weekend, we stayed up for a while nailing the short spell in Catalonia down into conceivable pieces then went to bed at about 4.

At 10 I was woken by IC, the same crew we’d been to dinner with on the Friday had invited us to breakfast in Hoxton. After a huge wait we finally sat down, the place was too bloody hip for its own good but the food was great, a sort of posh greasy spoon. After eating IC and I wearily headed home, I had to unpack, wash clothes and, horrifically, go to the gym which did a good job of simultaneously waking me up and then knackering me out.

I spent the remained of the bank holiday with IC, we watched Shutter Island (brilliant) then ate with The Bourne Identity, perfect end of the pier fodder. And that folks, was it.

Last night Swineshead popped over to visit my bro and I, we had dinner and watched spot of TV. Of course conversation got round to today’s election. I can’t vote this time round because Hackney Council seemed to have lost my full address, despite my being on the electoral register, which is fucking annoying.

Sadly I predict one of two things. A cunting Tory victory or, more probable, a hung parliament with a Tory majority who’ll choose the Lib Dems to second them.

Fucking, fucking hell. We’re going to hell in a handcart, stand-by for lots of moaning.

Thanks to Swineshead for this…


catalooneytoo

I needn’t have worried about the Spanish customs, there wasn’t any to speak of, just a passport check and then we were through. It was almost disappointing, certainly for those reading this who at least hoped for a Catalonian digit up my anus hole.

IC and I had a cigarette outside the airport as I pondered my newfound status as drug-smuggler. It was 9am, the weather was polarised, one minute hot and sunny, the next rainy and grey. This was to be the formula for our short stay.

Clare and Chas with their 4-month-old nipper arrived in a bright red people-carrier thing. I sat in the front with Chas like a half dead tramp trying to remember how the fuck I’d got here. One minute I’d been in a club and then… We set off down the motorway passing unfamiliar landscape with the odd, vast billboard wasting its message in my red-veined eyeballs. There was chattering and the odd giggle but in hindsight its like trying to view a TV through a pond, that was until we hit the fucking mountain.

Cadaqués is on the North East coast of in the Catalonia region, a stones throw from France about 2 hours drive from Barcelona. Until recently the only access to it was by boat, that was until they cut a road over the mountain Pení that separates the town from the rest of Spain. It’s 10 minutes up one side and 10 down the other with more twists and turns than a soap opera, most of the road features a sheer drop on one side, the side I was sat on, with only a weedy little crash barrier to prevent death.

I’m not good with heights at the best of times, factor in Chas’s blasé knowledge of the road and my lack of sleep and sobriety and it was something of a miracle I didn’t follow through. Saving the situation was the breathtaking view of the scenery; I’ve never seen anything like it. Vast metamorphic peaks and valley’s with clusters of windswept trees, the surrounding schists dotted with absurdly pretty wildflowers. Then the view of the attractive fishing village curving round the little beach facing the endless Mediterranean with the French coast silhouetted far in the distance. Well nice.

We were at C&C’s gaff by 11, I was delighted to learn Chas was a Moto GP fan so we watched the qualifying as we swallowed some beer which confused my brain even more, he and I left the girls to catch up and I was given a little tour of the village in real time. Cadaqués has been somewhat of a Mecca to artists, Dali lived there and regular visitors included Picasso, Miro, Magritte, Duchamp, Breton to name but a few. It’s clear why, it’s very pretty but more than that, the mountains behind seem to create an almost mystical air over the bay, indeed, there is something humbling about staring over the flat sea as it reaches into the horizon knowing one is being watched by the majestic eruptions behind. It’s uncanny, even…

The streets that wind through the village behind the seafront are narrow and undulating, one is permanently going up or down, this constant wriggle gives the impression the tiny shops and cafes and are being pulled past as one dangles on strings like a marionette… or was it just on account of me being fucked? I don’t know but it was very pleasant in an unconventional sense.

Chas and I gathered some bread from the bakers, knocked back an espresso and went back for lunch. I’m afraid my state of mind at this time has slain my memory, I do know that at 3-ish a siesta was mentioned and I took full advantage of the offer simultaneously thanking the traditions of the country for allowing the opportunity.

More of this Spanish-derived guff tomorrow but in the meantime…

Last night Gerry, my bro and I met up in a bar on Wardour Street. Hawkwind were putting on a free show at HMV and despite the disappointment of the gig at the end of last year I was happy to pay them a visit. They played 6 songs and an encore, two new, one I’d not heard, and 4 I was more than familiar with including bloody Silver Machine. Despite this it was a good show, sloppy in places (which is fairly typical) but lifted by a sparkly Dave Brock who I could happily watch for days.

Following this we retired to a pub on Greek Street which was large enough to easily accommodate us and a few additional mates, one of whom was a little miffed as he was due to play sax on stage with the band. The other drinkers all looked remarkably similar, big biker types with handlebar moustaches, it was only when we ordered our drinks we noticed gay literature on the tables just as some of the drinkers began snogging each other… regulars will know I couldn’t care less if a person is purple with a peccadillo for Armadillo, but the surprise of realising that we weren’t in a metal bar but a gay one straight out of LA was amusing to say the least.

We stayed for a few drinks sampling tunes from the excellent jukebox. The regulars didn’t mind us one jot, the barman made us feel positively welcome which may explain why Gerry wasn’t entirely happy about taking a pee.

It was a bloody good night, I was only expecting to have a beer and see the band but in the end it turned into quite a session. Marvellous.

Oh, finally, thanks to Mr. Dodo for the banner quote and Mr. Swineshead of the redoubtable Watch With Mothers for arranging the graphics.


catalooney

It was just after 6am Saturday morning. I’d pretty much attained my goal. IC and I were on time, I was duly pissed, tired yet holding it all perfectly together. Best of all I was good to sleep on the plane with my flying-nerves suppressed. Ideal case scenario.

I wobbled through security after removing an endless stream of metal from my person and went to retrieve my rucksack after having passed through the x-ray machine. I have to say I was rather taken aback by the firm hand that landed on both my bag and shoulder, and then requested to step aside for a search. I started ribbing IC as I was convinced all the tin foil in my bag she’d used to ‘wrap’ some gifts for our pals in Cadaqués had set off the fucking spooks but apparently it wasn’t that. Security rifled through my stuff before locating my wash bag and insisting I open it. She pulled out my Gucci aftershave and shook the bottle in my face, I’d forgotten to take it out and bag it as a liquid hence the search. I was rather confused, I didn’t recall packing any aftershave, in fact I hadn’t even used the wash bag since… Fuck.

I looked down and nearly threw-up. Under the aftershave sat a squashed packet of king sized silver skins with the cover flap torn in sections, next to that a train ticket also bearing the same jagged evident of drug use. I’d not used this bag since Franks wedding and knew that somewhere among the toothbrush and nicked hotel soaps lay a lump of skunk. My knees started to buckle, I weakly continued to taunt IC as I watched her roll the contents of my bag over her fingers, in one terrifying instant I saw the foil wrapped shit glinting under her thumb. She zipped the bag shut with a smile and an apology for the inconvenience; I sucked back up the contents of my evening meal that was waiting over my arse muscle on the brink of being deployed into my Sloggis. Almost as soon as we were clear our gate opened and we boarded. It was only as we were taxi-ing on the runway it occurred that I was about to transport drugs into Spain and there was nothing I could do about it. Midnight Express began playing highlights in my brain. Christ, Rifki.

The previous evening had been very enjoyable. Ten of us decided to go to St. John’s in Clerkenwell at 8pm for a bit of a nosh up. It’s quite a well-known gaff, known for its ‘nose to tail’ eating in their words, in short, it specialises in offal.

It was a bloody good evening, I sampled most of my friends dished (including spleen, mutton, snail, heart) but opted for a haddock starter and a pork main. The food was perfectly presented and cooked and despite the fact the place has a Michelin star it was relatively cheap, the house wine was only £20 a bottle and the overall bill £60 a head. For three glorious hours we ate, chatted and swapped titbits, dining out remains one of my favourite pleasures, especially when I get the chance to discovering new tastes and textures in a warm group of friends.

At 11 we took a bus to Shoreditch as two of my friends were required to do that DJ thing at a club. We were joined by my bro and hit the ground running with whisky and coke as the venue began to fill with black-clad revellers, most of whom I knew by either name or sight. The prospect of flying later on wasn’t real, I continued to merrily imbibe, I was on a mission to negate the reality of what lay ahead.

After a thoroughly exhausting night my bro, IC and I went back to my flat to top-up the jolly state of being. A cab had been ordered for 4am so we put in another hour of drinks before being suddenly whisked off to Stanstead. IC and I slept in the cab and after the earlier horrors of airport security I managed to sleep on the plane too. I woke five minutes before we were due to land at Girona, it was grey outside but I had other matters to concern me, the foil-clad shit in my rucksack was foremost in my mind. I looked at IC asleep beside me and wondered if she’d be prepared to let me whack off behind prison glass as she pressed a boob against it from the other side.

More tomorrow.

Smoke. Watch.