Monthly Archives: July 2010

chaptar

This is a day of lasts, and therefore firsts. Let’s do the lasts first. My last day living as a single person, last full-time day in this office and the last of the regular postings here. So the firsts are quite obvious, then.

In many respects today is a milestone, and in honour of this auspicious occasion I’m off to Rome (then Lake Garda) tomorrow for a week. This meant the weekend was filled by much packing and box-lugging as IC and I brought her stuff downstairs into the Twatcave where it will remain until we both move into our new gaff in September.

After a go in the gym on Friday, which was a very laboured affair even by my standards, IC and I curtailed plans to go out and eat following some more packing and chose instead to get oven-shovable shit from Tesco that we ate in front of Fight Club.

Saturday got underway after a bacon sandwich around lunchtime, I went to the gym, believe it or not, then Paul appeared in the afternoon and I bribed him with beer in return for helping me carry IC’s boxes into my flat. I was quite surprised to discover that 2 or 3 dozen boxes would stack neatly into the bedroom which will make her stay with me a little more comfortable, in so far I won’t be falling all over her stuff and using blue language such as ‘fuck’ and ‘hairy fat cunts.’

The summer continued to be kind on Saturday afternoon so Paul and I sat in garden, following our efforts, drinking ruddy beer if you please. IC joined us later in the afternoon and we whiled away the warm summer day steadily taking on boozes. Early in the evening we popped round the corner to visit Oscar who had employed his extensive culinary skills to provide a 6-course Japanese meal for a few guests.

It was an excellent evening, the company was just right and none of the dishes were enormous so each one could be enjoyed without feeling as if one would burst, the smoked eel on rice was particularly good, the host had even gone as far as making his own ice cream, it was sublime. By the time we arrived home I was feeling a little shoddy and I took to my bed rather arseholed.

It was Frank’s birthday on Sunday so, after dragging some more furniture about and overseeing the installation of a number of Patty’s plants into my tiny yard, at midday I headed south to attend a barbeque at sirs request. The journey was awful, the initial bus-bit took an age and as the Jubilee Line was inoperative I had to fuck about on replacement services that stuck another 45 minutes on my already laboured movements. The last leg required my using a new-ish tram which was rather enjoyable, the bugger didn’t hang about either and I met Frank at the required stop feeling a bit space-age.

We sat in the garden for the afternoon, after a few beers I stuffed myself with all manner of flesh and caught up with the birthday fella and his recently wedded missus. They’re mid way through doing up the house but the garden was almost completely finished, it seems that Frank has hidden talents as a gardener which made me crave a proper outdoor space of my own, especially as my little yard is soon to be no more.

After micturating half the Thames at 5-ish I took a cab to the very end of the Northern line for a fiver, I felt the cost justified my making the quickest possible way home as I knew I was on a piss-drip. By the time I alighted at Bethnal Green my teeth were floating but the bus came fairly soon after.

I arrived home to find IC and Patty (she’s moving into IC’s old room) in my garden surrounded by plants imbibing Cava. It would seem they’d spent most of the afternoon there as they were both a little arseholed, I decided to help them out a bit.

By means of celebrating the change in circumstances Mary, who loses IC and gains Patty, made a prawn curry for us all. It was a jolly nice way of seeing off an era, indeed, until we sat down to eat together it hadn’t really occurred to me that the room that started off my whole new life in the East was now no more.

And on that note I too close a chapter on here. I’ll be back, of course, look out for me next week when I’ll bore you rigid moaning about being too hot in foreign lands.

Goodbye and thanks for reading.


unded

I’ve just been to the docs to register myself in my not-very-new neighbourhood. Despite excessive aspects of my lifestyle I’ve been given a clean bill of health, so far, but I’m required to have a blood test to check for hidden horrors…

And speaking of horrors, last night IC, my bro, Mary and a few pals popped off to Hackney Empire to see the Bela Lugosi version of Dracula, a barely audible talkie with The Kronos Quartet offering a live music soundtrack. I’ve no beef with the latter, I’ve seen them a few times, even doing much the same thing with F.W. Munarau’s masterpiece Nosferatu (made in 1922, a decade before this offing) but the actual film, apart from the on screen time with The Count, is a bit naff.

Any chance of trying to get into the atmosphere of the film was killed by the audience who kept fucking laughing at overt attempts to portray ‘evil,’ initially this annoyed me intently, particularly when it came to dear Bela giving it his worth but after seeing yet another bat bouncing about on a bit of string I too found myself chortling away with the rest of them.

In comparison to the Nosferatu effort (which even by modern standards is creepier than Peers Morgan examining his nuts in a playground) Dracula doesn’t quite do it, it gets sort-of close at times but never quite make the grade. The crackly dialogue over the music wasn’t a particularly good plan either. Anyway, it was still entertaining so we seven took ourselves off to the Turkish place in cheery disposition where we ate and drank in moderation before nipping back for a night cap.

I’ve a busy weekend involving packing and the moving of boxes, a birthday-related Barbeque that requires a spot of travelling and, I hope, plenty of wine throughout.

Gerry’s chart ladies and gentlem…, oh he’s gone.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Plan B Prayin’ NE 1
29 The Coral 1000 Years 21 7
28 Diagram Of The Heart Dead Famous NE 1
27 The Drums Let’s Go Surfing NE 1
26 Paramore Careful 15 5
25 Delphic Counterpoint 14 7
24 Tired Pony Dead American Writers NE 1
23 Richard Ashcroft Born Again 29 2
22 Aeroplanes We Can’t Fly 19 3
21 Pendulum Witchcraft 24 3
20 Bullet For My Valentine Your Betrayal 9 7
19 Murderdolls My Dark Place Alone 23 2
18 Liars The Overachievers 11 7
17 One Night Only Say You Don’t Want It 22 2
16 Xx Islands 17 3
15 Klaxons Echoes NE 1
14 We Are Scientists Nice Guys 12 10
13 Kele Okereke Tenderoni 7 6
12 Arcade Fire We Used To Wait 13 4
11 30 Seconds To Mars Closer To The Edge 16 5
10 The Futureheads I Can Do That RE 3
9 Editors Eat Raw Meat = Blood Drool 5 6
8 Band Of Horses Factory 18 2
7 Gorillaz On Melancholy Hill 8 4
6 Feeder Call Out 3 4
5 The Hurts Better Than Love 2 10
4 Brandon Flowers Crossfire 6 3
3 Broken Bells The Ghost Inside 4 4
2 Korn Oildale (Leave Me Alone) 10 2
1 The National Bloodbuzz Ohio 1 4


oooh revwah?

I’ve some distressing news.

Piqued is winding down, I’m not going anywhere but I’ll not be in a position to post on a daily basis. You’ll here from me at least twice a week and I’m sure at times it’ll be as frequent as it’s been over the past three and a half years. But probably not.

The reason for this is straightforward enough. I’m changing the way I work, less time in the office, more time at home, and this has fiscal consequences. In short, instead of sitting, nay, rotting, in this fucking place getting paid for getting cross, I’ll be required to actually do some work. In addition I’d like to use the extra freedom to pursue other avenues that are more in keeping with this crap.

I’ll post as usual tomorrow and Monday but after that I’m taking a week off to visit the Pope and look at some nice ceiling decorations and shit.

I suppose I should take this opportunity to thank my regular readers and I hope that you’re not too disappointed, mum.


barskit

What is the bloody point of a weather forecast? I should imagine rather a lot if the bugger is in anyway accurate, but as it’s nearly always wrong, it’s as pointless as 24-carat nipples.

According to the Met Office today was supposed to be pissing sodding rain, colder than yesterday, with a chance that things may improve in the afternoon. I woke up to cloudless blue skies and after discovering it was as hot as Libya spent a good 5 minutes re-configuring my layers of clothing and removing all the fucking lining from my jacket. On account of the forecast I’d spent a good 10-minutes the previous evening attaching my lining and generally ensuring I wasn’t going to die prematurely of death.

The weekend weather was almost the reverse of what was predicted so you wind up leaving the house in shorts and a tee with a ‘just in case’ rucksack containing a trench coat, sturdy boots and medicine. They managed to get it utterly wrong yesterday as well, showers were predicated, instead it was muggier than the hoodies that gather on Dalston Lane and perfectly sunny.

By the time I arrived home from my harrowing day in the office I was forced to towel myself dry after unpeeling off my bike clobber. Even my fingernails were sweating, god it was awful. I’d intended to hit the gym but before leaving the office IC had suggested we meet in Hackney for a couple of poncy cocktails and I wasn’t about to start dissuading her. Once dry-ish I got changed and took the bicycle to Broadway Market, en route I nearly had a head on collision with some bearded berk on board a baby blue bike bearing a basket, it was entirely my fault as I wasn’t looking where I was going but he was in the wrong on account of the fucking basket and that alliteration.

IC and I were fortunate enough to secure a table on the outside of this loathsomely trendy drinking emporium, as it was a Tuesday we were saved by the patting sound of a hundred tiny loafers from the predictable Harknae media types, the odd one could be found in isolation twonking into his Apple but mainly it was groups of dead-eyed women. The drinks were fucking lovely though, I had a Manhattan, Marguerita, a whisky sour, balls they were good, nice and sharp without being shit. We accidentally stayed until it was dark before wobbling home via Tesco to get in-the-oven pizza because neither of us could be arsed to cook. So up yours.

I’ve just read that the bastard who sprays letters of the alphabet onto shutters round our way was responsible for the woefully dull ‘painting’ presented by David Cameron to Barack Obama on his first trip to Washington as PM. On sight of the news story I actually felt my testicles retracting with embarrassment, the article featured on the BBC website doesn’t improve as it goes on either, the bit about ‘joke swapping’ nearly caused me to bite my keyboard in half.

I distinctly recall playing this song when I was 18, a couple of years ago.


pim

It was all a bit subdued in the office yesterday. Looney came in with his tail between his legs and made a stab at apologising to the old fellow he was sensationally rude to on Tuesday. Indirectly he made it known to me that he regretted his behaviour on Friday and business, as they say, resumed its normality.

The remainder of my weekend was a jolly affair. On Sunday IC, my bro and I met up with Mary and The Swedes for a fry-up in the café very close to my new gaff-to-be. My bro departed and I was home in time for a sensational Moto GP featuring a blistering performance from Valentino Rossi who, despite having a broken leg, came 4th after a frenetic tussle with Casey Stoner. It makes Formula One look like pink Netball.

Following this I joined IC and Mary in the garden, it was a lovely day so we decided we’d be better off enjoying the weather from the vantage point of a beer garden, maybe, perhaps the rose garden in the park, feeding some ducks or shit. We were in the pub by 3 taking advantage of an overt lack of punters. Victoria Park was hosting Lovebox, some reprehensible dance music affair that’d attracted the sockless East-End posse as rotting eyeballs might rats.

I kicked things off with a Pimms in the garden. I have to say I felt a bit of a tit cradling a glass that resembled Carmen Miranda’s hat whilst swaggering about in a sawn-off Slayer t-shirt, but needs must (I think.) Soon wine happened and we three settled into our stride, I was taking time to fully acknowledge how delightful this all was, especially after suffering from some completely obscure panic assaults for the first 30 minutes after we’d arrived. It must’ve been all that fruit in the Pimms.

It was a lovely afternoon I have to say, 3 of us for a few hours before being joined by Oscar and Emy for the final hour at around 6. I’m not sure who made the decision to fuck off cooking food and make another visit to the Vietnamese on the way home, but I’m glad it happened like that. I didn’t want Sunday to end, so before eating a pancake stuffed full of goodies, I spilt a glass of wine all over Mary and we headed off home to take to our respective beds in condition-inspired denial of the working week.

Oh. Looney just walked into the office, he’s just come back from the bank after being told by the boss to apologise for his shit-eating behaviour on Friday. He’s 50. Fifty.


hatstand

Bit of action Friday afternoon. Following a conversation with Looney about his appalling behaviour the previous day, things almost got physical due to the completely random set of rules and codes that operate his addled brain. The matter was diffused by a barrage of filthy language from my face and then lunch happened. Following this merciful hour Looney arrived back in the office looking somewhat perturbed, before his crazy bum had rested on the desk-chair he was summoned to see the boss.

Apparently the local bank had called the boss to complain about the behaviour of someone in his company. Please read that again, the person in question is 50, not 15. But this is what made me honk… the complaint derived from Looney visiting the bank at lunchtime to pay in some cash, but because he’s such a wingnut he didn’t put the cash in the envelope, no, he just fed the money straight into the machine. When no receipt for his deposit appeared and as dawned on him that he’d fucked up -he makes this trip most Fridays- he went fucking nuts and started banging on the cashiers windows screaming for his money back and calling everyone cunts. He had to be physically ejected by security.

The atmosphere for the rest of the afternoon was fractious to say the least, but there was an enormous amount of giggling during the Friday fag breaks. It made for a lively start to the weekend that was quelled for 30 minutes in the sodding gym after I’d arrived home on Brutta.

IC and I took the bus to see my bro in Angel, we met in a splendid boozer near the canal and took in the Friday aspect of the week. Following a short visit to his new gaff round the corner we went out for some Turkish food in a packed little place off the high street and wound up at a late bar drinking and laughing our socks off. The bus journey back home was a relatively straight affair, despite it being after 1pm and the bus packed full of yelling piss-pots.

Saturday. Following a trip to the estate agents to hand over paperwork for the new place we did a spot of shopping and, after a very late breakfast, were joined by Patty and my bro in the garden for an afternoon of lazing. We had an early supper in the Vietnamese place down the road, I ordered a pile of beef and stir-fry that was just perfect, and we were home by 10pm to watch Eastern Promises, followed by The Ipcress Files and half of Dr. Terrors House of Horror that boats the most unbelievable cast in the history of cinema… Alan ‘Fluff’ Freeman, Donald Sutherland and Roy Castle. All in the same film. Mindblowing.

More of this bilge tomorrow.


klash

In this ‘ere office we have some rather peculiar members of staff, factor in deadlines, pressure and in this instance, computer issues, then this idiot dynamic can come to the fore. Yesterday, the rather sad, old character that came from a privileged world of private education, classical music, and eventually, alcoholism (from which he’s recovered I hasten to add) clashed with the middle-aged lunatic I have frequent run-ins with.

In short, the looney’s computer wasn’t working for the third morning that week, and he was coping with it by screaming at his hands before speed walking about the place informing other members of staff that he was going to smash the place up. Eventually he returned to his seat and whined at his blank monitor as the rest of us sat in stony silence waiting for the next psychotic episode.

In an attempt to diffuse the situation the older character, who isn’t very well if I’m honest, made a quip in his rather high-pitched educated voice about the condition of wanker’s PC. Unfortunately he’d used the same quip for the third morning that week, something about the PC only understanding Polish, and that was it. Looney went berserk, a string of expletives directed at the older fellow, each word forcing his comb-over to unfurl further off his head, was bordering on what some might see as disturbing. As the fruitcake hissed his objections the colour drained from the old chaps face and he slumped into his chair like a deflated space hopper found in the back of a townhouse garden. It was a completely outrageous and unnecessary verbal assault and, of course, a sad sight to behold, but amongst it all it was fucking hilarious.

Due to said deadlines I was unable to meet some pals in a boozer off Oxford Street, instead I went home and found myself in the gym which, afterwards, went some way to leaving the shit of this place sat a million miles away at a desk somewhere in time. I’d intended to have a quiet night in but I got a call from Dave inviting me to the local pub, so, of course, I went. IC joined us a little frazzled from some office-do and she and I went home for some food and spot of TV and make plans for the merciful weekend.

I’ll leave you with Gerry’s chart, a music clip extraction and my good wishes for the two days ahead. Take it away, Jonathan…

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Rammstein Haifisch 21 11
29 Richard Ashcroft Born Again NE 1
28 Young Guns Sons Of Apathy 18 7
27 Foals Miami 25 3
26 Vampire Weekend Giving Up The Gun 22 4
25 The King Blues Headbutt 17 13
24 Pendulum Witchcraft 29 2
23 Murderdolls My Dark Place Alone NE 1
22 One Night Only Say You Dont Want It NE 1
21 The Coral 1000 Years 14 6
20 Athlete The Getaway 11 6
19 Aeroplanes We Cant Fly 24 2
18 Band Of Horses Factory NE 1
17 Xx Islands 23 2
16 30 Seconds To Mars Closer To The Edge 12 4
15 Paramore Careful 13 4
14 Delphic Counterpoint 8 6
13 Arcade Fire We Used To Wait 16 3
12 We Are Scientists Nice Guys 9 9
11 Liars The Overachievers 7 6
10 Korn Oildale (Leave Me Alone) NE 1
9 Bullet For My Valentine Your Betrayal 6 6
8 Gorillaz On Melancholy Hill 19 3
7 Kele Okereke Tenderoni 10 5
6 Brandon Flowers Crossfire 15 2
5 Editors Eat Raw Meat = Blood Drool 3 5
4 Broken Bells The Ghost Inside 5 3
3 Feeder Call Out 4 3
2 The Hurts Better Than Love 1 9
1 The National Bloodbuzz Ohio 2 3