Monthly Archives: June 2010


I’m not entirely sure what has made me the angrier. The fact that no-one told me my host garage was due to hit the wall, the fact it has -its location buggering up a key reason for purchasing Brutta- or Brutta herself for conking out on me. In trying to make a decision I came to the conclusion that I’m most angry with myself for buying her. There I’ve said it, there.

I spent most of yesterday planning my next move, I wound up taking advice from my dad as if 13, yelling at BMW who own Husqvarna after completely failing to speak to anyone at fucking Husky UK, and generally maintaining a furious temperament. I finally got through to a garage in Winchester that physically import the machines, so that was some sort of a start. I was given advice by a charming fellow as to the causes of the breakdown, it was I had suspected yesterday, and solutions to the problem which I’ve ignored in favour of it being picked up and dealt with by them. £100 to pick it up, total waste of money.

After the fiasco of the day I shot off in the burning afternoon to meet up with Urban Woo at a boozer in Farringdon. I even managed to balls this up by getting off at the wrong stop and having to walk for half an hour (most of it in the wrong direction) until I was a rippling puddle of sweat. It was worth the effort though, we had a happy few hours catching up and popping away quality booze at a sensible pace as arsehole journos from The Mail slouched about us looking as if recently rescued from some civil unrest in Serbia. I was home by 10, my bladder the size of an exercise ball, and following a veritable pee-wheelie I settled down to watch a film about Eric Bana and his Ford Falcon that delighted the rest of the piss out of me.

So, I write from home waiting for some van-fellow and then a fucking bill in a few days before having to take the train to Winchester to get the bugger. At the garage is a taxi ride from there too.

Still, at least I’ve not sold my flat.


BBBBBERM BBBBBERM BBERM BEEEEEEE bbbbeee bwah bwahhhhhhh ber ber ber b b b b b pah.

This is Brutta at 6.17pm on Bishopsgate yesterday, coming home, late, because Brutta had refused to start when I left the office at 5. It was the same issue I had a few weeks back, it gets hot and something prevents fuel from getting to the carb, one would imagine it’s some sort of evaporation/airlock issue. In this instance I was physically moving when the engine spluttered to a grinding halt, slap bang in the middle of the road flanked by a couple of goons on bicycles if you please.

It was a boiling hot evening; only movement prevented my getting soaked to the skin so when I stopped dead, I immediately began sweating like a camels fanny toe. I took off my sodding helmet and decided to wait until Brutta had cooled before turning the engine over again in the futile hope she’d start. Of course she didn’t but being the ever-optimistic soul I left it an hour before calling the breakdown service, periodically leaning on the start button just in case.

An hour before the breakdown bloke arrived IC approached from London Bridge on her velocipede. I’d called her at work and asked, as she was going up Bishopsgate to get home, to bring me some water as I was approaching survival mode. She turned up with a salutary grin, some water and, to my joy, a jam donut that I forced into my jaw as if I’d not seen food for a month. She cheered me with news of a drink later and with that she was gone.

The breakdown bloke arrived, he was a cheery fellow, big he was, and after failing to get Brutta started too, loaded the bike in the back of his van chirping on about some ‘bird’ who’d smacked him in the gob after he complimented her on her ‘rack’. This information was delivered to me after we’d been bemoaning the vast quantity of bikers in London who don’t wear protective clothing. The ‘bird with the rack,’ you see, was boarding a Harley in a spaghetti top when he’d made his remark, and half an hour later walking back from the kebab shop he saw her again sprawled all over the ride minus one of her breasts.

We got on the van and headed to Hackney. The breakdown bloke was 3 days into the job after being unfairly dismissed as a prison warder in Belmarsh for reasons I’m not prepared to go into here. It was a rather fascinating journey home; I learnt a few things about the system and got the low down on that Abu Hamza. He has a full time nurse as he can’t maintain hygiene on account of having hooks for hands. A few weeks ago he discovered his nurse was gay and hit the fucking roof. Utter cock, apparently, but I had an inkling that he might be if I’m honest. Then the breakdown fellow and I talked about fighting and shit.

I arrived back at the Twatcave at 8.45, showered, and went off to meet IC and Mary for dinner, a last minute development that had quite literally made my day. We ate Vietnamese a short walk from home, I had the crispy noodle chicken that seems to have become my usual, but really, you could eat anything off the menu and be tickled pink. After taking our time with the food and a bottle of wine off we went, I saw IC home for one last glass and went to my gaff at midnight to ponder my options with Brutta before sleep.

I woke this very morning (you may have guessed that) and tried to start Brutta. Nothing. So in I came by bus/tube, tube/train/tube with my head circumnavigating Brutta options around the eternal ‘why?’

First thing I did when I came in was to call my mechanic at my local dealers in order to pretty much demand they send a van over to pick her up. But no one picked up the phone. I redialled a few times, first to sales, then accessories, then the workshop despite it not being open until lunchtime. For this reason I was a little surprised when someone picked up with an ‘allo?’

‘Oh, hello,’ I said, ‘I have a problem with bike…’

‘Oh. Right mate, yeah… can’t help you I’m afraid. I’m the site forman. The bike dealers went bust fortnight ‘go. Nuffin’ ‘ere. No one.’


If I were to say that for the first time in my whole sodding life I actually found myself genuinely looking forward to a play of football, that I was, in all reality, actually nervous about what would unfurl in front of my sweating face, you’d think me mad, surely?

I’ve never been one to harp on about what some call ‘the beautiful game’ because I find it largely repulsive; this has a lot to do with players’ salaries and the way some of these young cunts carry-on off the pitch, but more pertinently, I find the actual game dull, boring, I’d rather be doing needlepoint, penis needlepoint, and I don’t even know what that is. It also has some connections to them what liked football at the miserable comprehensive I used to attend, ‘football,’ as far as I was concerned, was a byword for racist homophobe fists, but that’s another issue entirely.

I’d woken on Sunday with a fairly substantial hangover. The previous evening IC and I had been to a mates barbeque on a rood terrace with about 50 other guests. The excuse for the gathering was to celebrate Swedish Midsummer, an event in that neck of the woods requiring specific dishes and drinks –the latter more akin to drag strip fuel. I ate tons of well-cooked meat, Swedish meatballs, cake, pie and drank everything that was shoved into my hand. It was gloriously hot and I slowly drifted about the place making myself known to those about me, arseholed.

When we arrived home at 12-ish, IC, who wasn’t feeling at all well on account of a persistent cold-thing, took herself off to bed. I on the other hand stayed up for a mammoth session of death metal and what have you. I was beyond repair by 5am, which was the last time I saw the clock until I woke at midday.

I watched the Grand Prix that was considerably more satisfying than the football that followed, and after that fiasco (why can’t English payers turn and kick the fucking ball? By the way) Mary popped down to hang out with us for a while. We watched a boring movie and ate teatime fare as Sunday ground to a halt heralding the horrific spectre of Monday that haunts me as I type this balls.

It was a superb weekend but overshadowed by what had happened on Thursday, this is overshadowing proceedings now if I’m blunt. I took Friday off to try and re-focus but I’m not sure how to play it even now, there are alternative options of course, forgive me if I’m not in anyway inclined to discuss them here, doubtless you’ll find out if you still around.

In the evening I met IC at her office and we took the train to my sisters gaff in Woking. The evening served as a good antidote to the contemporary flat concerns, we sat in the garden all night having a right old laugh so we did, we ate Indian takeaway and drank wine. It was a perfectly balmy summer evening, not a breath of a breeze and warm enough to sustain no more than a tee shirt until we turned in at midnight. It was good to wake Saturday morning without too much head-pain, after we took the train back to town IC and I went to Mary’s salon for a haircut at 10am, it was already extremely warm and losing a pile of hair off my barnet before the burning heat of midday was timing perfection.

Round this time we arrived at Broadway Market to forage for food. It’s a tough call this, in addition to the place being packed full of those awful posh-student types with their sockless boating shoes and beards, the food on offer is, if one isn’t careful, a case of mutton dressed as lamb and it’s nearly all completely over-priced. But I quite like it, if nothing else it’s a good reminder it’s Saturday. IC, still not feeling so good, was unable to decide what she wanted, in the end I opted for an overpriced pastrami and Swiss cheese sandwich, despite being rather petite it was fucking nice, which I ate in London Fields next to IC who was coughing her toenails up.

In the afternoon I managed a session at the gym, then caught up with the Moto GP, there is no doubt that this is the best sport on the television and I was pleased to see Casey Stoner come in at a respectable third. Before the barbeque I read the paper and got enraged at the perpetual references to fucking Glastonbury.

I don’t give a gypsies kiss how a small proportion of the nation are spending their weekends, for some reason this bloody festival is, year in, year out, rammed down my neck. Its just poshos gathering in a bloody field drinking watered down warm beer with dreadful music that you can’t hear. If I cared I’d go. Actually, even when I have gone I didn’t care. Bollocks to Eavis.

The one upshot to England being booted (did you see what I did there?) out is the diminishing quantity of those bloody car flags. Only the odd white van or scaffold-bearing lorry still bears the shock of this nations humiliating exit from the World Cup. At least I will be wise enough in future to not get involved in the bloody thing… but I still find myself livid at the way the English team played, I mean for fucks sake, why didn’t they RUN?!


I’m awfully sorry this is late. You see, I didn’t go into work today… ‘Why’ you ask (mum)? Well I couldn’t be bothered. Eat that society, yeah, eat it with some nonchalant sauce.

If I said I wasn’t still reeling from news of the flat I’d be a pants-ablaze fibber, I think I’m more exasperated than angry which is why this post will be cut short for you to enjoy Gerry’s choon and tchart.

Have good weekends for fucks sake.

No. Artist. Song. Last week. Weeks on.

30 Two Door Cinema Club Something Good Can Work 22 10

29 Giggs Look what The Cat Dragged In 23 3

28 Vampire Weekend Giving Up The Gun NE 1

27 The Futureheads I Can Do That 30 2

26 Marina And The Diamonds I Am Not A Robot 19 6

25 Stornaway Zorbing 29 2

24 Paramore Careful NE 1

23 30 Seconds To Mars Close To The Edge NE 1

22 Them Crooked Vultures Mind Eraser, No Chaser 17 8

21 80s Matchbox B-Line Disaster Love Turns To Hate 15 8

20 The Drums Forever And Ever Amen 27 2

19 Rob Zombie War Zone 16 6

18 The Coral 1000 Years 25 3

17 Black Rebel Motorcycle Club Bad Blood 21 3

16 Inna Hot 18 3

15 The Pretty Reckless Make Me Wanna Die 8 5

14 Kele Okereke Tenderoni 24 2

13 Avenged Sevenfold Nightmare 10 5

12 Young Guns Sons Of Apathy 12 4

11 Rammstein Haifisch 6 8

10 Bullet For My Valentine Your Betrayal 13 3

9 Stone Temple Pilots Between The Lines 7 4

8 Athlete The Getaway 11 3

7 Funeral Party NYC moves to the sound of LA 4 5

6 Delphic Counterpoint 9 3

5 The King Blues Headbutt 2 10

4 We Are Scientists Nice Guys 3 6

3 Editors Eat Raw Meat = Blood Drool 14 2

2 Liars The Overachievers 5 3

1 The Hurts Better Than Love 1 6

NB. Not my usual fare but this is fucking great


The cunting flat has fallen through for the third time, we were on the point of exchange when my buyers solicitor ballsed it all up by, I’m told, ‘supply misleading information to the client about planning permission.’ Or something. There were plenty of other details too but they fell on deaf ears as I was busying myself attempting to chew off the side of my flat with my fucking teeth.

This news came to my attention after a sticky ride home following the England game, which I watched in a completely empty office much to my relief. My colleagues foolishly observed our victory in the awful pub down the road that was packed tight with arseholes… I digress.

It was solicitor that gave me the news. Straight after, almost automatically, I went to the gym and tore through the equipment as if I was deliberately trying to harm myself. I came back exhausted and feeling empty, IC must’ve got wind of my malaise because she popped down with a bottle of Cava and made everything okay again.

After she drifted home, I made some sausages if you please, which I ate with a head of broccoli and some roasted onion. I settled down to watch 2012, it’s utter shite with a capital ‘S’ but contains the most extravagant FX I’ve ever seen, at one point, during a sensational scene of California tearing in twain, I noticed my jaw was cradled in my lap.

Following this I decided to do something about heat I’m experiencing riding to and from the office. I found some body armour I’d bought a few years ago and matched it with a large jumper enabling me to ride without a jacket, yet still enjoy a similar degree of protection and remain cool. Best of all, with the leather trousers, boots and helmet I look fucking great.

My journey in this morning was the best to date. I felt completely free, unheeded by claustrophobic and self-imposed, almost draconian, safety considerations. I’ve pared protection to the minimum I’ll allow, admittedly, but this has more than paid for the sheer enjoyment of being on a powerful motorbike in the summer running free.

But sadly, not even this can sate the dull ache in my guts perpetuated by the sad fact that, once again, I still have connections to the disgusting fucker that I had the misfortune to live above.


Englands, Englands, Englands!! It’s the only *rude word* song that we knows! I really hope we win some goal this afternoon. I couldn’t give a flying toss for the football per se, I’m thinking of additional time off to the one this afternoon. Not that I’m indulging fully in this activity, the boss has allowed everyone to go to the pub and watch the game. But as I’m with Brutta and have no intention of being shoved into a dirty room with a load of shouting blokes drinking OJ, I’ll stay in the office and piss about on that Internet with impunity.

I arrived back at the flat after work yesterday evening glazed in sweat, instantly my phone rang, it was IC inviting me out for a drink with a couple of pals. I’d been pre-empting a night off the pop so it was a beautiful surprise I can tell you. I’m telling you. This didn’t stop me going to the gym and indulging in what must as rank as the most awful session to date. My legs just didn’t want to join in with the fucking crosstrainer and my bloody arms felt like they were made of pepperoni, still, I did 30 mins and felt better, psychologically, for doing so.

We met our pals outside one of our locals; it was warm and sunny and, like, totally felt as it was summer yeah. IC and I sipped wine and before we went home stopped by the Turkish place to gorge our faces with hummus and pitta-based delights.

Obviously the bloody football came up in conversation but more pertinently, so did the budget. What does that Osbourne bloke thinks he’s doing? ‘Tough but fair’ he says, well it’s certainly fucking tough but fair?

The VAT increase is the most obvious example of a complete lack of respect for those struggling to make ends meet; moreover it shows a greater lack of respect to us, the electorate. Only a couple of months ago in the run-up to the election William fucking Hague said categorically they wouldn’t increase VAT. Now they have by a shit-breaking 2.5%.

But this is only one aspect of it; perhaps the most disturbing elements are the cuts in other areas. If you work in the public sector, have kids, are unemployed or, believe it or not, disabled, you’re going to get hit particularly hard. What concerns me that most is that fat-faced Tories like Osbourne and Cameron wouldn’t even consider the impact this lack of income will have on these poorer members of society, if they did, they’d have means tested the cuts. Take child benefit, if you have money losing out of extra cash won’t affect you or nanny, if you’re a low-income family, it’ll be Dickensian. It’s a fucking disgrace if you ask me, not that you were…

Right, the Englands game a couple of hours off. I feel strangely nervous if I’m honest, I could do with a few easy afternoons.


Eight hours sleep and no hangover. Splendid. I undressed a banana and ate it stood in the kitchen; I looked up into clear blue-sky, masticating, sunlight sliced through my 7-foot tall yucca with a gently breeze punctuating the light into shards. It was going to be a lovely day.

Despite spending a great deal of time yesterday trying to fix Brutta’s indicator, and succeeding before accidentally kicking it to pieces when I mounted for home and hit the unit with my boot (I turned the air blue I’m shamed to report) I boarded her with a smile and we flew out of Hackney poised and ready for racing. All was going smoothly, I tucked up 4 bikes in a deft move through a bus stop and cut round a gaggle of mopeds at Shoreditch, claiming victory as I wiped them off my tail by making the lights before they did through sheer idiotic derring-do. Lovely stuff. I passed Liverpool Street station and was required to stop at the lights between Bishopsgate and Fenchurch. It was then, to my horror, I realised the bloke pointing at my front wheel, which was a foot beyond the green bicycle box, was a fucking copper. ‘That’s a fail!’ he shouted, ‘you got a bike licence? Let’s see shall we, over here!’ And I was gestured out of the rush hour and commanded to park up by the kerb.

First of all the bastard wanting to fine me £60 and 3 points for the contravention of some road act which states I’m not allowed in the green cycle box (despite my fucking road tax paying for it, and this box is for people that don’t even bother stopping at red lights) then he wanted to have me for my small number plate and then, hilariously, for not having a baffle in my exhaust pipe. It has a baffle; it’s a manufacturer standard.

We argued about this, I was buoyed on by the fact I knew I was both sober and legal and suggested that merely looking down the hole of a an exhaust pipe was as good a way of establishing the presence of baffle as it would a coil in a fertile woman. He ignored my metaphor but something must have hit home because he never mentioned it again. He moved onto the plate as the information from his HQ regarding my criminality, documentation and license dribbled back with squeaky-clean results. This had a positive effect, he muttered something about changing the plate but said that as it wasn’t, and I quote, ‘piss-takingly small,’ he’d overlook it.

But the matter over going over the line wasn’t as easy. He was keen to get me on this and I had to think on my feet. I explained that if I don’t go beyond the green box those cyclists that don’t jump the lights (as I said this 3 cyclists did precisely that and I paused to give the impression I was expecting him to dash off and nick them right there and then) they group in front me which is extremely dangerous on account of my superior acceleration. He looked at me, he knew what I was saying was logical, he stands there day in day out watching the traffic but I don’t think it was this that finally led to my being let off scott free.

He couldn’t really justify nicking a paid-up biker after we’d both watched a number of cyclists committing a far greater crime than having a wheel over a line, their line I hasten to add… Sheepishly he invited me to continue my journey. I crushed out my cigarette under my boot and asked him if it was true that a lady could legally piss in his hat. It’s not true, he wasn’t impressed by this and made me pick up my fag butt and drop it down the drain. Just as well he didn’t discover my nearside indicator was out.

The arsehole.


The email from IC at 4-ish suggested that we may have a weekend off this no-drinking nonsense. It was along the lines of ‘I need a fucking drink, please help me to not’ to which I replied ‘you’re asking the wrong person.’ I arrived home and went to the gym completing a full 5 days of, erm, gyming. Which was nice.

IC arrived in the Twatcave at 7.15 looking a bit frazzled from her day in the office. To my surprise she said she’d like to watch the England game then bust open a cork on a bottle of Cava. Order was finally restored. I can’t say the same for the English football people who, to my untrained eye, performed like a bunch of schoolboys having a kick about before double English. The whole nasty business managed to combine utter boredom with abject frustration. Only constipation can compare. But at least I was drinking…

We went out afterwards for some Vietnamese food at one of our favourite haunts and ordered way too much. This always happens at this gaff, the menu is vast and it’s almost impossible to contain oneself, which is ironic as after an hour I contained most of the menu. IC and I wobbled home and we saw the night off with ‘The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo,’ which is utter balls. Goodnight.

Morning. Saturday, an understated rush to get to Waterloo for 11.30am. All was going swimmingly until we arrived. The concourse was rammed with twats off to Ascot, blokes in top hats, women dressed French-fancies, all of them swarming round the ticket machines completely halting our progressive. My bro joined us and we queued for half an hour before finally getting the train to Woking. My bro-in-law retrieved us from the station and took us back to his and my sister’s place in the Surrey countryside-sort-of.

We were there primarily to celebrate fathers day, so my folks were there along with my two delightful nieces. The eldest, on the good side of 3, has an imaginary friend. At times her friend would ‘go missing’ and she’d ask my sister where she was before her ‘friend’ made an appearance and she’s rush outside to play with her. My niece is about a year ahead of herself in terms of intelligence I hasten to add; apparently it’s common for little girls in advance of their age to employ these sorts of playmates because their peers aren’t capable of satisfying their intellect. But still, the fact she sees and hears something that doesn’t exist (or does it?) terrifies the piss out of me.

We ate steak for lunch and drank wine, then we played football with my niece whilst the younger one gurgled on mums knee. It was a marvellous afternoon and we reluctantly left at 4-ish a little worse for wear. Home by 6-ish, IC and I popped down the road for a jar, then we went back and I made some easy supper, salad and roast spuds which we enjoyed with some TV and shit.

On the Sunday I was reluctant to leave the bed, IC and I had planned a lazy Sunday with a few exciting obstacles to overcome. It began with the British Moto GP, the pre-race build up was excellent and the race itself, despite being poorer for the lack of Rossi, was rather jolly. Following this IC and I cycled to Dalston to get a cable for my PC (we failed in this mission) and some Turkish snacks. I wasn’t in a particularly good mood as my fucking back was playing up, as it’s inclined.

I was happier when we got home; IC was up for the Italy feet ball, I have to say it was far more entertaining than the English affair as men were properly running about and kicking stuff. IC’s reactions when her countrymen came close to winning a net was highly amusing, especially as I’d bought her an ‘Italia’ tee from Primark that she wore, much to my amusement, for the duration of the shouting.

Following this we were invited to pop by and see Mary and some friends in a pub by Broadway Market, we accepted and decided that we’d not drink again until next Friday, after this, of course.

In the evening I stuffed some peppers with breadcrumbs and onion and made a pate out of tuna and sun dried tomatoes, bloody nice it was too. We sort of watched Employee of the Month but were too exhausted to concentrate, an early night was thrust upon is. And that, reader, was my weekend. Well I enjoyed even if you didn’t like reading about it.

This’ll cheer you up.


I woke at 6 this morning, just in time to feel the nerve pipe in my shoulder getting clamped into a bone vice. I then spent the next hour trying to lay in an agony free position and not compromise the peculiar dream set on board a night train featuring a half naked mate trying to escape from Bjorn Bjorg.

Annoyingly the shoulder was all but better after the sodding gym yesterday evening -4 days in a row now, this record is being held concurrently with the 4 booze free days- and I have to say that I was actually feeling so chuffed with myself I began to get my head round the possibility that I might, in fact, not even want to drink that much anyway, sort of. Maybe.

So the evening rattled on. I ate a load of sausages with some broccoli then most of a pack of Haribo (football mix that IC had bought me) and listened to Count Arthur Strongs Radio show. For fucks sake put him in the i-player, it’s a gem. Before I whiled the night off with a book I noticed that I was feeling oddly dizzy, no doubt another side effect of this abstinence business.

Might have been a good idea if Sebastian Horsley had maintained his streak of abstinence too. Before he overdosed on heroin on Wednesday evening he’d apparently been clean for a few months. His play at The Soho Theatre based on his excellent autobiography had just opened and the reviews were, on the whole, good.

But certain comments he made at the opening regarding the fellow playing him (“They say seeing your doppelganger is an omen of death, so I got quite excited about that and thought, best get my coat on”) and then afterwards (“I’d rather be crucified again than sit through that. I knew I was obnoxious but I never knew how much”) suggest that his demise might not have been an accident. But who knows? Sebastian was a showman in many respects and while there is no question that he had penchant for depravation, he is spoken of by his friends as nothing but kind, sweet and utterly charming. A friend wrote this about him.

It’s a crying shame he’s gone, people like Sebastian are to be admired, they who slip between the thin veneer that divides civilisation and the human self are, more often than not, inclined to be despicable, arrogant, selfish and devoid of humanity. It would be trite of me to not suggest that Sebastian too had one or more of these aspects to his personality, but you could never call the man inhumane. On balance, he got it just right. And by god he was able to express it.

His book Dandy in the Underworld is a minor masterpiece, unlike pioneers of what we might call literary amorality, take Alistair Crowley for example, his louchness is peppered with explosive humour with gentle nods to self deprecation. I think this quote sums him up perfectly. ‘I have invested 90 per cent of my money in prostitutes, the rest on Class A drugs, the remains I squandered.’

He was a dandy in dress, a pervert at heart, but his soul was that of a kind and decent person who meant no harm to anyone, save himself.

Gerry chart follows and a tune, I’ll leave you with one final word from Sebastian Horsley and three from me, read his book.

“But really death seems the least awful thing that can happen to someone”

30 The Futureheads I Can Do That NE 1
29 Stornaway Zorbing NE 1
28 Band Of Skulls Death by Diamonds and Pearls 21 8
27 The Drums Forever And Ever Amen NE 1
26 The Temper Trap Science Of Fear 19 8
25 The Coral 1000 Years 29 2
24 Kele Okereke Tenderoni NE 1
23 Giggs Look what The Cat Dragged In 26 2
22 Two Door Cinema Club Something Good Can Work 16 9
21 Black Rebel Motorcycle Club Bad Blood 27 2
20 The Courteeners Take Over The World 15 8
19 Marina And The Diamonds I Am Not A Robot 14 5
18 Inna Hot 23 2
17 Them Crooked Vultures Mind Eraser, No Chaser 10 7
16 Rob Zombie War Zone 12 5
15 80s Matchbox B-Line Disaster Love Turns To Hate 8 7
14 Editors Eat Raw Meat = Blood Drool NE 1
13 Bullet For My Valentine Your Betrayal 18 2
12 Young Guns Sons Of Apathy 13 3
11 Athlete The Getaway 20 2
10 Avenged Sevenfold Nightmare 7 4
9 Delphic Counterpoint 17 2
8 The Pretty Reckless Make Me Wanna Die 6 4
7 Stone Temple Pilots Between The Lines 9 3
6 Rammstein Haifisch 4 7
5 Liars The Overachievers 11 2
4 Funeral Party NYC moves to the sound of LA 3 4
3 We Are Scientists Nice Guys 2 5
2 The King Blues Headbutt 1 9
1 The Hurts Better Than Love 5 5


A new record has been set, three days in a row off the sauce. Apart from the aforementioned kidney stones I don’t think I’ve done three booze free days since I was a kid.

The question is how I’m feeling about all this both physically, and more importantly, mentally. I’ll say this for it, it’s nice to wake up without my caustic brain trying to push my salty eyeballs out their sockets, but apart from that I can see no benefit in not having a few wines of a evening. On the contrary there are many, many disadvantages.

The worse aspect is my day being overshadowed (there’s an understatement if there every was one, ‘pointless’ cuts it a little more succinctly) by the prospect of nout stronger than a cup of tea and some unfortified food, I’m starting to fucking see things. Last night, after IC left following an evening of abstinence, broken fishcakes, screaming Hitler and a fucking huge slab of cheesecake, these awful bloody half-glances kicked off in earnest. It’s not overt as if I’ve just drank Under Wood milk, they’re those little fleeting glimpses out of the corner of mine eye, where I’m sure something is present and it’s not.

Another thing, since all this health nonsense began I’ve developed a pain in my back just to the right of my left shoulder. I thought it might be down to the recent efforts in the gym, it’s worth noting that my increasingly regular sessions have become a little more intense since I corked the bottle, but it’s not. None of the machines I use affect this part of my body. I know that wine would cure me, sweet, fruity wine. Wine.

The overall fucker, the real shithouse in all of this aren’t these relatively little niggles during the week; it’s the prospect of Friday and Saturday without a drop of the good stuff. If I think an evening off following a day in the office is bad, I can’t begin to imagine how the weekend is going to function un-lubricated. I can’t believe I’m typing this but I’ll be happy when it’s Monday and the pressure is off.

One week to go…

Oh, this is real. If you just think they’re being random click the studio version on the right. Avant-garde black metal… almost brings a tear to the eye.


If I’m riding into work it can take anything from 10 to 15 minutes just to get dressed.

Underwear, socks, tee, over which go leather trousers and braces, on top of that leather waistcoat and/or jumper depending on the weather, then a neck-warmer irrespective of weather, then my big Sidi moto x boots, my gortex bike jacket (with armour and detachable lining) and finally helmet and gloves, either the summer or winter pair. All of it black, quite, quite black.

It’s not advisable then, after putting on all this fucking clobber, to step out into the sunshine, twitching by Brutta’s start button, to realise one needs to go back inside for the sole purpose of hanging a shit.

It’s not just a question of taking off gloves, helmet, jacket and waistcoat in order to get to my braces and drop my leathers, no. I have to remove my boots to take my leathers off entirely because leather trousers won’t simply ‘roll down’ like an ordinary pair of jeans… you tried taking a plop with your legs shut? It’d be easier to push a pork chop through a keyhole.

Normally you could set GMT by my bowels but in this instance the brown alarm went off about two hours early. It’s quite possible this unexpected trip to the chod bin was as a result of my lunch, specifically a Donar Kebab Pot Noodle IC had purchased for me on Monday after seeing one in the local supermarket.

I’d been harping on about one of these since I first saw them advertised on TV over 9 months ago, but until yesterday, had never sampled its freeze-dried delights. Initially I was disappointed; actually, I was devastated because it bore less resemblance to a Lamb Doner than a potted plant but mid way through I sort of understood where it was coming from, by the end my eyes were rolling in their sockets. Fifteen minutes after I’d finished I could still taste it, particularly the chilli sauce. I put this behind me (until this morning) and got on with my day.

Last night I went to gym, it was a tough visit as I was shattered and didn’t really have a ‘reward’ incentive in the form of wine, until it occurred to me the reward of going lay in both the endorphin charge right after the session and the fact I was ultimately doing myself some good. This would have to suffice for now.

Actually, it was fairly easy to avoid the booze last night, I busied myself trying to find some new music with which to blast the physical reality of working out. I’ve been using dear old Slayer since I started this gym business, it’s perfect but I’m getting a bit too familiar with their albums. I found some Death, Minor Threat, Pantera and, joy of joys, one Slayer album I’d overlooked, Undisputed Attitude, which had been misfiled.

I’ve IC over tonight; it’s all her fault I’ve been shoved on the wagon and I’m plotting revenge. Let’s see how she likes the aftermath of a Doner Kebab Pot Noodle shall we, eh? EH?

I’m off to the bog.

(eh up Dimebag)


Something quite dreadful is happening in my life.

IC has decided to take 10 days off the pop and wants me to join in.

It’s one thing to do Monday to Thursday (not that I’ve enjoyed 4 days clean since I was laid up with a kidney stone, the morphine was good at distracting me from the wine) but Friday and the fucking weekend? I don’t want to think about it, but I can’t help but to do so.

I’ll be the first to admit I like a drink, why, it’s probably as clear as the Rosacea-red hooter on my face to regular readers that I can imbibe and quaff like a pro. The thing is, my enjoyment for a pint, a glass of wine, a scotch etc., has been something a little beyond just good old enjoyment for a good long while now. ‘Problem’ is pushing it, but ‘lifestyle’ probably isn’t.

I never drink at lunch during office hours, even when I’m not riding, and I don’t wake up in the morning craving a tin of White Lightening, but I regularly have a hangover, at times a right walnut. In the evening though, I do expect to drink, whether it be alone, with IC or with friends. This ‘expecting’ a drink is one of things that keeps me going through the working day, I’ll readily admit to this. I don’t crave it, just look forward to it. As Frank Sinatra said, ‘I feel sorry for people that don’t drink, because when they wake up in the mornings that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day.’

But my dad always said, ‘don’t drink too much because drinking is hugely pleasurable, and if you let it get the better of you, it’ll get taken away.’ Dad’s philosophy outweighs Franks. So with this thought in mind to help sustain the task in hand, last night, IC and I went off to a friends to watch the bloody World Cup with a bottle of wine for the host, not for us.

We arrived a few minutes after kick-orf. The twelve other (mainly Italian) guests were, of course, already well into their assorted choices of poison. Mid way through the game I was wondering if was as bored as I would be if I’d been drinking, I drew a blank on this but came to the conclusion that the prospect of not boozing was, weirdly, not as bad as actually doing it. When I have had days off I’ve noticed not drinking becomes increasingly easier after 9pm, that said, this probably won’t apply to a Friday or Saturday night.

To be honest, I think it’s highly unlikely I’ll manage the full 10 days but I’m prepared to give it a shot. Either way, I do need to cut back, I suppose. I managed to virtually quit dope and drugs and lately have been going to the gym so it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that my everyday drinking days are behind me.



A paradox at 4.30 pm on Saturday. The Muslim chap I’d been chatting to from the Lebanon on my left handed me his glass of champagne just before the toast to the bride and groom. After the toast, I pondered on whether or not to toast the Islam as it had afforded me another flute of booze. But not being sure how this would work, and being three sheets to the wind I decided not to.

It was a splendid wedding all told; you could see it as the paradigm of an integrated community. There were Jews, Muslims, Christians and atheists from every corner of the globe. Why, they even read some of the Koran out in church during the wedding ceremony. You could also see it as a marvellous chance to get rotten, something IC and I would achieve with comparative ease.

The day began in Fulham after a hazy journey to the church. The previous evening IC and I hadn’t been as cautious as we’d intended. We’d checked out the voyeurism exhibition at the Tate Modern, sure, but by 8 were happily sat in the sunshine sipping Negroni, a lethal Italian cocktail that I’ve never had outside of the country. Sensibly we only had one; we’d designs on what is termed a ‘gastro’ pub near Clerkenwell Green and were keen to get in there before all England-flagged pubs punters decided they were a bit peckish.

I was pleasantly surprised on a number of levels when we went in, for a start we got a table with seats and the place was far from packed. I had a steak sandwich, it was fucking lovely, IC had Coley and spinach which didn’t inspire as much as the monster I was devouring. A bottle of Cabernet went down and we headed back home exhausted, reluctant to see our Friday out the door we watched Get Carter on arriving.

After the church service we hung about for the usual photos and mingling, I found solace in a fellow with the same taste in music and we walked to the restaurant chatting about grunge and what followed. Like he, I was only invited as I was the partner to a friend of the bride, though we’d both spent a few nights with the delighted couple in the past. Initially I felt like I was intruding into proceedings, it was a relatively small wedding party (60 of us?) and people had travelled miles to attend.

This feeling of being somehow connected to the whole show via IC began to pass during lunch at 2-ish. I was sat on a table of 8 with IC opposite so was left to make my own way with the new faces around me. It didn’t really matter who was / wasn’t drinking (so long as I was) the fact we were there for a common purpose and confined to our seats for most of lunch allowed conversation to unfold naturally without having to glean the bullet-points of a persons life. Instead topics ranged from mobile phones, leather crafts, redemption, uncanny phenomena, Rome, tattoos, bullet trains as courses of fine Italian fare arrived and disappeared over a few happy hours.

After the speeches, toasts and warm congratulations we walked a while to a dark, empty bar with a TV screen the size of lorry. By now I was little more ravaged than I had been earlier. The football began in earnest but no one was really paying much attention save the bar owners who’d bet £5k (!) on a ‘no score’ result in the second half. They netted 25 grand by the way. Music, if that’s what you would call it, started and I knew I had to dance, which is probably how I did my back in. By now I was inebriated, it was 10-ish when IC and I decided to take the tube home, we zigzagged our way to the station and got presumably got home in one piece, I woke on Sunday feeling weirdly alright save my back which is continuing to piss me off.

Sunday was written off but IC and I had a great day despite the malaise. We ate a load of fresh Turkish bread for breakfast/lunch and crashed out in front of the TV. Unfortunately we were required to see off a pal at the local, said pal is off abroad for a while, so we found ourselves at the boozer with about 15 mates and acquaintances at 7 in the evening. On our return IC and I gorged ourselves on pizza and whatever we fancied lying around, it was most unlike us to act in such a glutinous manner, I can only put it down to the lack of food following Saturdays lunch and our witless breakfast.

IC and I are meeting some friends tonight for the purposes of Italian football, so help me god.

Sorry this is late.

One of the discussed bands on Saturday… bear with it, it’ll kill you.


My mini-indicator bulb-replacement-device, which I formed with my bare hands on Wednesday, was flung away from me after about 30 seconds with a huge exclamation of ‘fuck’ behind it. In theory it was a good idea, in practice it was about as helpful as a roll-cage on a wheelchair. I maintain that the recently discussed ‘cup on a stick’ tool would be a success, but don’t watch this space for developments, like most things ‘Piqued,’ I can’t be pissed to do anything about it.

Anyway, 1 minute after the custom made device disappeared over a hedge I managed to get the bulb in with a pair of pliers without any fuss whatsoever. I despair, I really do…

Speaking of which, it’s just been brought to my attention that the fucking football is to be shown in the office this afternoon. Don’t get me wrong here, I’m happy to slack as much as the next man, but I do, believe it or not, have work to do. You see, if I don’t work I don’t make money, and the whole point of wasting my life in this dreadful place is in order to accrue funds to pay for all of the sedatives I stick in IC’s food and drink.

I went to the gym last night, I amaze myself sometimes, then met Paul down the pub, I amaze myself sometimes, and were briefly joined by IC before she and I went home to eat sardines, salad and some of this Turkish flat-bread what I got from a shop and shit. I’m not due for a visit to the gym now until Sunday (hopefully, you’ll see why shortly) as this evening I’m meeting IC in the Tate Modern to look at some seeing things before she and I roll off to an eating-pub for dinner.

On Saturday we have a wedding to attend. I’m happy to go along but have been invited along on the basis that IC thinks I’m fucking cool, I’ve only met the happy couple a couple of times. Apart from the church/registry office bit I quite like weddings, the food is normally okay and no one minds if you get utterly shitfucked on wine, which is my aim. There is talk of visiting a club to see Mary spinning buttons on the way home but to be frank I think this is pushing it a bit. Even if we do make it I intend to be so drunk the door staff will be seeing double.

Have good weekends, Gerry’s chart will help kick things off, and, of course, some top of the pops music.

30 Muse Neutron Star Collision 24 3
29 The Coral 1000 Years NE 1
28 Bullet For My Valentine The Last Fight 18 10
27 Black Rebel Motorcycle Club Bad Blood NE 1
26 Giggs Look What The Cat Dragged In NE 1
25 Biffy Clyro Bubbles 19 9
24 Foals This Orient 16 8
23 Inna Hot NE 1
22 Kids In Glass Houses Undercover Lover 22 2
21 Band Of Skulls Death by diamonds and pearls 14 7
20 Athlete The Getaway NE 1
19 The Temper Trap Science Of Fear 12 7
18 Bullet For My Valentine Your Betrayal NE 1
17 Delphic Counterpoint NE 1
16 Two Door Cinema Club Something Good Can Work 11 8
15 The Courteeners Take Over The World 9 7
14 Marina And The Diamonds I Am Not A Robot 17 4
13 Young Guns Sons Of Apathy 23 2
12 Rob Zombie War Zone 13 4
11 Liars The Overachievers NE 1
10 Them Crooked Vultures Mind Eraser, No Chaser 8 6
9 Stone Temple Pilots Between The Lines 15 2
8 80s Matchbox B-Line Disaster Love Turns To Hate 5 6
7 Avenged Sevenfold Nightmare 10 3
6 The Pretty Reckless Make Me Wanna Die 7 3
5 The Hurts Better Than Love 3 4
4 Rammstein Haifisch 2 6
3 Funeral Party NYC moves to the sound of LA 6 3
2 We Are Scientists Nice Guys 4 4
1 The King Blues Headbutt 1 8


I’ve been deliberately avoiding any mention of that fucking flat I own in the awful part of south-east London in order to prevent the temptation of fate, but now I feel it’s time to break the silence.

For what it’s worth I’ve signed a contract, this doesn’t mean I’ve exchanged or, oh glittering jewels of celestial light, exchanged, but it does signify that now, as it stands, we’re good to go. Everything is in place. Of course I’ll keep you up with developments.

I had a fine evening, at 6.30 I met up with Harry, Rob and Ruben on Wardour Street for a few pints in what is rapidly becoming a regular haunt. This was followed by a boiling-hot tube ride to Bethnal Green, a short bus trip and a behemoth tinkle when I finally arrived home. IC popped down to say hello and at 9.30 I sauntered off to meet my bro in the Turkish eatery that specialises in lamb-based delights.

I do like this place, it’s cheap (this includes the wine) and the traditional food freshly prepared on a chargrill. I had Pidde, Turkish pizza if you will, which was both ideal following a few beers and bloody ace to boot. At home later the evening faded away in front of some unintentionally hilarious and at times, downright irritating, documentary on Valentino –the fashion designer as opposed to the much preferred Rossi.

So, day before the fucking World Cunt, I mean ‘Cup’ (did you see what I did there, did you?) literally kicks off. You can already taste defeat in the air as the country farts helplessly about with their bloody BNP rags eyeing up their wallcharts and the groaning fridge. Having more interest in the cock bones of lesser-spotted dogfish than I do football, even I’m aware of so-called ‘expert’ opinion on England’s chances, largely down to the Radio 4 error of discussing it at 8.29am for a few minutes (to the dreadful cacophony of those cunting vuvuzelase) every fucking day. The punditry is as follows; we’re going to get knocked out early on.

Believe it or not this doesn’t please me. At the moment football is the opium of the people, most of society seems genuinely pleased at the prospect of spending hours watching lot of little figures running about after a white dot. No word of a porky pie, I’ve noticed that my ride into work is being lubricated by motorists driving in a much more considerate manner, they’re letting each other out of junctions, giving way when they don’t necessarily have to… there’s a palpable sense of unity in the air and, despite my not being part of this bollocks, I’m happy to cream off the benefits whilst not actually contributing in any way to the optimistic mantra.

I think this latter point is best exemplified by my yelling ‘you stupid fat cunt,’ at the top of my voice to some dildo that stepped out in front of me by Liverpool Street this morning. Having said that, maybe it was this aforementioned mantra that inspired a certain degree of guilt right after the expletives had left my lips.

Just discovered that one of our senior members of staff was one of the cameraman at the 66 World Cup, I’ll finish of today’s rant with a direct quote from him, after that, a small homage to 100 years of a true legend.

“Bored senseless I was, when it went into extra time I was furious.”


Another bulb has blown on Brutta. This isn’t an issue fiscally, bulbs cost a quid and I’ve a few sat in my drawer. Well I did until yesterday lunchtime.

Changing a mini-indicator light bulb is about as simple as gnat gynaecology, and probably requires similar skills. It’s a bayonet bulb, such as the ones found in domesticity (though much, much smaller of course) and requires the same ‘push and twist’ process to fit it. But on account of the indicator housing there is no room to either push the bulb into the spring-loaded unit or twist it when it’s in with ones fingers. So you have to use a small flat surface (such as a screwdriver, but this is no good because it shatters the bulb) apply it perpendicularly to the glass-end of the bulb, push like fuck and simultaneously twist it with tiny fucking pliers. Due to the cramped space you only have millimetres of room to affect a decent twist.

After shattering a bulb almost immediately with a screwdriver I spent almost an hour trying to prise the little cunt in with a bit of biro, I nearly did it twice but in the end, just as I was about get myself sectioned, I broke the last fucking bulb.

Whilst attempting to fit the bulb I mentally invented a tool to do the job, simply, a little cup with a rubber interior mounted on the end of rigid stick, the cup would fit over the bulb allowing one to push and twist the bulb with relative ease. I was so convinced someone must have made this device I spent a while researching its existence on the Internet. Bulbs are so fiddly to change on these sorts of indicators you’re actually recommended to buy a new unit, just for the sake of a £1 bulb blowing. If I were a cynical man you can see that the tool described would make a dent in the fortunes of the aftermarket accessories industry.

It doesn’t exist so I, Piqued, have come up with a solution. Not having access to a workshop at present, and necessity being the mother of invention and all that, I’ve invented something with the tools at hand.

I removed all the debris from one of the shattered bulbs and lined it with impact adhesive; this has now dried into rubbery matter. Tomorrow, when the fresh set of bulbs arrive I’m going to use this object to cap one of the new bulbs and, using a tiny pair of fucking pliers, tease the cunt home.

spoo key

Of course I found my fucking keys. They were in my motorcycle jacket, I’d never even taken them to the gig yet was (and still am) convinced I did, and lost them. I’m refusing to believe that I left them here on Friday afternoon. More probable was that a ghost found them on The Goldhawk Road and put them in my bike pocket yesterday lunchtime when I was at the Co-Op buying Thai chicken and sweet chilli noodles.

Brutta started on the button at 5, as expected, and I popped off home with every intention of having a quiet evening in front of the TV and the pages of a book. I arrived home and my mobile was yellow with missed calls and texts. Some from IC, some Mary, ‘good Lord,’ I shouted, ‘what the fuck is going on here?’

It was an emergency.

One of our friends had demanded our immediate assistance in a knowingly sniffy cocktail lounge on the perimeter of the city to celebrate the day of his birth, and I was already late. I peeled off my leathers, shook on some togs and 5 minutes later I was on the bus after barely having had a chance to smoke a tab.

Twenty minutes later, after almost falling down the stairs (the place is darker than Geoffrey Archer) I wandered in and found IC, Mary and Oscar in the dimmest corner using a combination of fumbling and echolocation. I’d already been to this gaff with both Oscar and IC so I was fairly au-fait with the menu and perhaps more pertinently under the immediate circumstances, the layout.

After greeting my pals and passing on the necessary birthday greetings I tucked into a Martini based glass of apple-tasting liquid, it was excellent, then followed it with a potent short featuring a frozen melon ball which was even better (that one was so good I had another after.) Alice joined us making us five and we passed the evening bantering and giggling. It was just a shame it was a Monday, I’d not been expecting this sort of a carry-on so I took full advantage of the matter in hand, even when IC slipped away for home at 10, I decided that not having one more would be a little, well, off.

I took the bus back with Mary and Oscar and said goodnight to IC on the way down to the Twatcave. ‘What a splendid Monday evening.’ I screamed at the top of my voice before slipping off to sleep, my sweet little head laying gently on the pillow ‘n’ shit.


It was about 11.30pm when I realised my keys were fucking missing. I wasn’t in the best condition for logic so I panicked before deciding to re-trace my steps, a bit. I bid Gerry farewell and walked back to the pub then the stage door of the Shepherds Bush Empire. Nothing.

My bro has a spare set so I called him up and yelled at him for a while, he suggested sending a cab from his gaff to mine with the keys. I could get back and stay with IC until it arrived… All I had to do now was get back there without pissing myself.

I wasn’t in the best of moods Friday. Brutta failed to start again as I was leaving the office (pretty sure direct sunlight is causing some sort of fuel lock cos it fired on the button this morning, again) so I left her there for the weekend and set off for Shepherds Bush on the bastard District Line wearing the stuff I’d been sat in at the office. My plan to ride home, change and get to the designated boozer for 7 was lying down a back-alley weakly calling for an ambulance.

I arrived at Shepherds Bush and instantly managed to get hopelessly lost in a shopping mall that was the size of a small European country. I was stomping around the place in disbelief. Unlike the smug bastards drifting past with armfuls of tat this was the last place on earth I wanted to be. Holding itself up like some sort of cure to the human condition with its nasty little plastic shops and gaudy coffee bars the place reeked of grabbing consumerism. Is this what we’ve become? Thousands of people have spent time, money and effort dedicating their miserable working lives to this revolting corporate fucking church, a vile greedy hall with its ‘leisure’ smile devoid of compassion or nature. And I was actually lost in it! Lost! Jesus fucking arseholes Christ.

It took me half an hour to work out how to get out, and then I was merely on the outside of it trying to navigate away. It took me almost an hour to untangle myself from its filthy grasp but finally I arrived at the pub with almost an hour to spare before Gerry was due. Now I had a chance to unwind from the working week and the woes of my journey with a pint and some staring into space.

It was a glorious evening, hot/sunny and after the first pint I was in more congenial cheer. By the time Gerry showed I was quite merry and when John and Nath arrived, themselves worse for wear, I was well on the way. At 8.30 we headed off to see The Damned, they came on pretty much as soon as we’d got the drinks in and settled in a spot.

The crowd were relatively elderly (I was certainly one of the youngest there) so what inspired their set I’ve not idea at all. The sound was good, they were nice and tight but the set-list was baffling. We didn’t want the b-sides and new shit, we wanted the classics! We got a few, sure, but too little too late as far as we were concerned.

By the time we popped next door for a nightcap I was roundly pissed, it was leaving this place that I noticed I didn’t have my keys. I got back home relatively easily but had a few issues getting IC to let me into her gaff, she’d had a sizeable Friday too and the booze had rendered hers ears useless. After much ringing I was finally let in by Mary at 1am, I grabbed IC’s keys and went back onto the street to await my flat keys from the incompetent cab driver.

My priority on Saturday was to get a new set of keys cut, 30 fucking quid later I had a new bunch, after breakfast and a quick blast of the papers IC and I, astonishingly, found ourselves at the gym which killed off the remaining bit of hangover. Buoyed up by this we decided to shut the door on the world, sit on our arses and watch some films.

It was 4pm, apart from going out to get some pizza we stayed on the sofa throwing lazy shapes until 2am. We watched Das Experiment, the first and best of the four movies consumed (highly recommended, even if it is German) this was followed by Arlington Road, Tenacious D for a bit of light relief, bit too light for IC who fell asleep for the last 15 minutes allowing me to watch all of the marvellous Wolf Creek after without giving the better half counselling. Following this I started to watch something else with Jamie Bell in it but it I was fucked. It might be worth qualifying this by mentioning that we’d enjoyed the odd glass of vino rosso throughout.

Got up late and ate a banana. We were both feeling remarkably well in spite of everything so, once again, we hit the gym. I’d noticed yesterday that once the awful process of gym-based puffing and grunting was out the way I felt considerably better, I’d go as far to say that it was more than worth the effort. We had a chuck-it-all-together lunch in front of the Moto GP (my enjoyment of this wonderful season has been curtailed by Rossi’s vicious accident, but it was still a great race) a quick go on the papers and we then cycled off to a boozer in the sunshine at 3-sh to meet some pals.

We stayed outside drinking for a couple of hours then headed off to meet some more mates on Broadway market. Once we’d gotten back home I made roast spuds with a roasted tomato and onion sauce which was covered by a layer of fresh salmon and smoked haddock. By now the prospect of fucking work had arrived into my brain, this was compounded by the reality I’d have to take the fucking bus/tube/train/tube to work. Anyway, I’m here now. It’s awful, naturally.


The bloke with the head covered in tattoos and the heavy gauge septum piercing was pointing towards a sinkhole in the crowd, Slayer, mid way through their second song, were getting distracted. I approached the ring of fans holding back upside down men and flailing limbs, a fat bloke was lying on his side screaming in pain. I went down to make sure he was really hurt.

‘You alright mate?’ I said
‘Me fucking knee, dislocated.’

I looked down; his kneecap was on the side of his leg. Second bloody song in and this cunt had already succeeded in pouring effulgent all over my fucking gig. Medics arrived, and Slayer stopped playing. They were visibly concerned (hilariously) and asked the medics over the PA if the bloke was okay. A goth was trying to bust through the crew to get to the prone man, she was rebuked until she curtly informed one of the staff that she was a doctor. After 20 minutes the chap was carted off to a round of applause as Frank, Nick and I watched from the bar.

My evening began in a boozer in Kentish Town; I’d wisely chosen one in the opposite direction from The Forum and was rewarded by ample space and real ale in a jug if you please. Frank and Nick arrived at the same time and we three set to work in the sunshine, only to be joined shortly by Andrew and a couple of his pals. Now we were six.

We got to the venue fifteen minutes before Slayer went on stage, time for a quick one and a tee from the merch stand and then we were off… Until porky bust his knee. I have to say I was concerned, for a start the last few times I’ve seen Slayer it’s been so loud it’s taken my ears at least 5 minutes to locate the music, this wasn’t happening here, though I should imagine in layman’s terms it was deafening. Now the flow had been curtailed, Slayer looked a bit, well, disappointed.

They kicked off again after some (again, hilariously) kind words from Tom Araya, lead fellow and bass, who himself has been recently laid up with a back injury (indeed this very gig was rescheduled from November, then March.)

What followed was astonishing, I’ve been to plenty of gigs in my time, I’ve seen Slayer a few times too but this was without exception. For a start the porky incident had sort of bonded the crowd, this meant that whilst the mosh/circle pit was generating the usual feature of upturned legs and flying shirtless headbangers, there wasn’t any unnecessary violence or stupidity. Frank, Nick and I were right at the front and we remained there for the whole gig right in the thick of it.

Slayer too were visibly enjoying the show. This was the smallest venue I’ve seen them play and I got the impression that they delighted in seeing the old lot (me) and the younger upstarts embracing their marvellous tunes as if life and limb depended on it at close range. By the time we got to Raining Blood and (so help me god) South of Heaven, which is actually causing me to grin like a retard typing this, Tom had all but given up singing, he’d cue in the crowd and let us get on with it. He looked almost avuncular up there, smiling away, watching his fans having a killer time. Paradoxical isn’t it? The aggression in sound and lyrics, the sheer wilful intent to convey something abhorrent (let’s face it, we’re not talking about an outfit known for ballads of unrequited love, I mean even if you know nothing about them at all, the ‘Slayer’ bit doesn’t paint a picture of bucolic countryside and floppy-eared bunnies frolicking in the fucking meadow now does it) resulting in everyone laughing their arses off having unadulterated fun.

We managed to get one more in the boozer before we headed off home, by now my voice was reed-thin and I anticipated (correctly) that today I’d be virtually speechless outside of a rasping drone.

Off to see The Damned tonight but before the chart and choon, regular readers might be interested on an update on the engraved plague. As stipulated many times, the rules of Piqued are thus, everyone name on here is a pseudonym, unless they’re confirmed dead.

Private Walter Henry Linn of the West Yorks Regiment (Prince of Wales Own) died in battle on May 9th 1916. Poor bugger had barely got his leg over. He’s not part of our family so I suspect granddads clock is one he picked up in a saleroom. He loved going to auctions and often bought clocks and pictures, one of his brothers shared his love of horology so it’s also possible he might have given it to him. Either that or he was a fucking thief.

Have good weekends, be good. Best of luck Gerry.

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


I’m seeing Slayer tonight. I’m about as excited as I was at 7 on Christmas Eve. As I type this I’m having a 3 way chat with a couple of chaps about this auspicious occasion, one went last night and one, like me, is due to go later. Our combined age is well over 100 yet we are carrying on like teenage mums about to see Nsync.

I had an unexpectedly marvellous evening, incidentally. Though it didn’t begin like that. My intention (oh the road to hell…) was to ride home, go to the fucking gym and maybe meet with IC. I got on Brutta at 5 and hit the starter, she turned over, sure, but did she fire? Did she sod. She just turned over and over like a Potter’s Bar train carriage and refused to ignite.

Enraged, I unpeeled my leathers, got into my civvies and stormed out the office to the tube. It was a hot afternoon so as expected the tube journey was revolting but my reward in the form of a text from IC (‘Mary and I in pub by park, come along!’) when I arrived blinking into the sunshine at Bethnal Green lifted my spirits to the hea’ens.

We three sat outside on the decking popping away booze and chatting like twats. It was rather splendid, what. Then, just as we were about to nip off home, I suggested we shoehorned in one more, by the time I’d returned from the bar the girls had decided we should take on a Vietnamese dinner, this new development was almost as good as the day I learned to ignite my own arse gasses.

We ate ourselves taut. Salt and pepper squid, prawn dumplings to start, then I had a huge bowl of char-grilled pork with spring rolls and rice. IC had these huge prawns and Mary opted for the spicy beef soup that was hotter than the armpit of the sun. By the time we arrived home I was shattered, it was 10-ish and we decided that we weren’t going to make the pre-arranged film, instead we went our separate ways. I had some washing and shit (a shit) to do, I needed a shower also, I reckon after all the biking, public transport, spicy fare and drinking I must’ve smelt like a Cumbrian cabbies undercrackers.

I was intending to take public transport to work this morning on account of the pop concert, but of course, I had no choice anyway. I’d left Brutta in the office overnight and on the train in this morning had a plan of what to do with regard to her being fixed, to wit, get the garage from whence she came to pick her up and sort her out.

On arrival at the office I just thought I’d check to see if, by any chance, she might actually start…. The cunt fired on the button.

Tune in tomorrow for the gruntings of a hungover and partially deaf Piqued.