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.