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

partment

From September I’ll be living with IC in a fucking luxurious 4th floor apartment in the East End. As we’re sharing the rent will be much cheaper than my current locale (just round the corner, literally) and I am still in a state of mild shock as a result of it.

It was the first place I saw inside, most of our flat hunting has consisted of standing outside vast housing estates with potential neighbours having intense conversations with one another, at which point we call the agent (who remain in a perpetual time loop of ‘two minutes away’) and tell him/her to piss off.

I knew this place was the one from the off, admittedly the short dash from the main road isn’t the sort of place one would seek to expand the Laura Ashley empire, but the building, new and, crucially, offering a secure parking space for Brutta, even looked snazzy from the pile of sick under the bridge. Once inside the common parts of the build bode extremely well for the flat, as soon as the door opened into our place to be (one bedroom apartment finished off to very high spec, balcony, view over London) I was thrusting my card into the grubby hand of the estate agent which curtailed any further bleating about stuff I could see with my own face, thank you very much, you chunky tool. We went back to the Agents office and did the necessary paperwork before retiring to the pub for a swift celebratory half.

This is a marvellous development, both IC and I were so chuffed we even did the bottle of 5 quid from Co-Op Champagne and I cooked up some posh tea. We tried to watch TV but were too excited to concentrate. On top of all of this I learnt yesterday that someone made me an offer on my awful fuck-hole in South London, it’s too low but I’m considering accepting just to get shot of it. As I type this my solicitor, agent and maybe-buyer are in talks and I feel pike-sick as a result of it.

Another shortish one this morning, it’s still incredibly busy and getting increasingly fractious. Indeed, I’ve just threaten to cut someone’s penis off.

This song absolutely kicks arse but, quite seriously, contains some disturbing images that rather caught me off guard. You have been warned.

jimm

Short one today, up to my hairy pods in work horror.

I had a jolly eve with some pals eating barbequed grub off a plate with home-prepared Tsatsiki courtesy of Indy who was the sauce (get that, did you) for the impromptu gathering. This was after I’d forced myself to the fucking gym to conclude that my knees aren’t best pleased when being rapidly lifted thence and whence. For some peculiar reason in less than 5 minutes of weakly performing my self-imposed tasks -tasks that are having no Raoul Moat benefits to my smack-inspired physique I hasten to add- my mid-leg articulations began to ache to buggery about one thousand times more than usual.

If going to the gym wasn’t hideous enough this latest development in proceedings is enough to put one off physical exercise, as one would hot and lumpy poo, say.

But I’m no quitt…

parztoo

On Saturday I watched the F1 Qualifying and popped of to the gym after de-corrupting my bloody i-player. For the first time since I’d been attending the eternal nightmare of physical exercise I’d decided to install some speed metal that wasn’t Slayer. I’ve played their output to death and was in danger of Slayer-overkill so a spot of latter career Napalm Death was in order as, unlike earlier efforts, it’s consistently fast without slowing into grindcore before launching off at a million miles an hour.

For some reason my i-player wasn’t too keen with being subject to unadulterated British hardcore and it threw a wobbly. But eventually I made it eat it and spent 30 minutes in the gym going berserk with Shane Embury and Co. The upshot of this was my best cross trainer session to date.

This event signalled the end of my healthy ways until I forced myself to the sweat pit yesterday evening. It was a glorious day so IC and sat in the garden reading the paper and then at 5-ish decided to have a refreshments. At about this time Mary and my bro arrived and joined us so come 8-ish, about the time we set off to meet Swineshead, his missus, Sue and Neil in the park, we were for all intents and purposes, tight.

Obviously, this meeting didn’t exactly stave off the hilarious consumption of (by now) wine. In addition our friends were in full-on picnic mode featuring ham sandwiches, sausage rolls and the lethally moorish Scotch Eggs. We spent a couple of hours in the evening sunshine bantering about suchlike before heading off to Swineshead’s place at dusk to resume festivities. It was a jolly evening though I have to confess my memory of it was laughing too much and something monitoring my drunken prickery. Either way, IC, my bro and I made it home without being ejected or assaulted and we probably watched a French film on our return.

Sunday’s plans were split open. We had breakfast and IC left my bro and I to watch the Grand Prix, then he left and IC arrived back. Neither of us could be bothered to do anything, so we opted for the garden and papers again. Later in the afternoon Mary showed up with Lilly and the 4 of us, in view of the gathering to be, thought a hair of the dog was a good idea. You pretty much know the rest, if you could be arsed to read yesterday’s balls.

Incidentally, yesterdays’ meeting was a complete bore. I had to do my mask-act, that is, playing the role of something/someone I’m not to a room full of strangers. During the meeting I became increasingly aware of how false this gathering was and spent the whole hour in this plush boardroom resisting the urge to suddenly get naked and stir my bosses coffee with my dick.

Right this is rare, aforementioned death metaller on guitar with a bunch of rappers… Napalm Death in the house? Oh yes.

in2partz

It’s over finally over! Thank god for that, shot himself in the head, bang that was it.

So, like most people, I spent yesterday evening watching the World Foot. IC and I were joined by 8 friends (nearly all Swedish) and we spent a few hours watching the cheating losers get their comeuppance with pizza and wine. When Spain scored all but one of us cheered, then everyone fucked off leaving IC and I to mourn the passing of the weekend

It began with an absurdly hot bike ride home, on arrival at the flat I was so fucking sweaty I’d soaked through my leathers as if dunked in the Thames. I had a quick shower then set off to meet IC to view a flat that, we learnt on arrival, had already gone. We weren’t best pleased that’s for sure but it was Friday, the weather was glorious and there was a nice pub right over the road. Problem solved.

After a pint we cycled off to another pub a few minutes away to meet the bunch of Swedes that we spent Sunday evening with. The pub was packed full of Hackney bastards, over-privileged twenty/thirty somethings’ visually regurgitating virtually every music craze for the past 40 fucking years whilst shouting in their plumy posho accents over each other. I was informed the pub had recently been taken over by some bar owning tool from Shoreditch and it seems that he’s brought his fucking crew with him. It’s unusual I’m keen to leave a pub, at 9-ish IC and I left more than willingly.

We cycled to a favoured restaurant, the place is cheap and the food marvellous, sort of fusion between English and Turkish, sort of. I had this turkey and stir fry in a giant tortilla, it was bloody lovely, IC had something with fish, I can’t tell you what exactly as I was too busy filling my face. We wobbled home after a few happy hours and went to bed almost as soon as we arrived back, both of us fucking shattered.

More of this bilge tomorrow, I’m required by my employer to attend a meeting.

Do watch this…

http://www.zappinternet.com/video/gacYcuBbiX/The-Mescaline-experiment

bruttafree

My arse feels like Kobi beef. I’ve just ridden Brutta 60 miles from a little hamlet near Winchester to my office in south bloody London.

Whilst she’s a sensation in the city, a phenomenon through town and, as I learnt at the beginning of my journey, at her fucking prime sweeping majestically through fast twisty bends in warm, sunny countryside with the dappled light from the trees exploding in my grinning face, she’s a cunts arse on the motorway.

I’d suspected this would be the case, Brutta has the aerodynamics of Susan Boyle, but the reality was far more laborious than I’d predicated. I’m not used to staring at the open road without screaming for the horizon with my heart in my mouth, my only speed restriction being some sort of primeval common sense and police paranoia. In this respect Brutta is no Black Bitch.

Nor does she offer even the basic comforts, the seat is designed for supermoto racing and nothing else, it’s slim, firm and completely unsuited for sitting on for long periods. Initially it’s uncomfortable, then the dull ache becomes fully formed and pain, actual pain, creeps into proceedings. After 30 miles I had to pull over to allow my coccyx to unfurl.

But none of this really mattered that much, the first 15 miles on the A272 to Stroud where I was headed to collect the fucking A3 is a bikers dream and the weather conditions in which I rode on this delicious bit of tarmac this morning couldn’t have possibly been better. The views are literally breathtaking and the last bit, two miles of a long winding left-hander that descended into a wooded valley, made my dick twitch.

I wasn’t expecting to get Brutta back so quickly from her service following the breakdown last Tuesday week; I was called yesterday evening by the garage to tell me she was ready as I rushed through the rush hour to make an appointment with IC to view a prospective flat. I arrived on time a sweating lump of anger outside some awful council block. The agent was late already and we had another place to see, so we blew it off and breezed to the next place where the fucking agent failed to show at all. I was that fussed, I wasn’t mad-keen about the places based solely on where they were situated, so we popped down the pub instead.

After a quick drink I headed off in the warm evening sunshine to meet Harry, Rob, Mike and my bro at a proper spit and sawdust boozer off The City Road. It’s one of my favourite places, it serves award winning ales, the best salt beef sandwiches I’ve tasted and the pub quiz is truly hardcore. So much so that after a few pints and too many questions on sport we came joint last, and to think the last time we went we came second.

It was a jolly good evening but I didn’t stay to closing, I had an early start this morning, fucking 6 am I got up. I had to take bus/tube to Waterloo to catch the 7.35 to Winchester, which I made in a whisker. On the hour-long train ride I had to put up with droning conversation around me, some arsing business type, a loud American tourist, the boring lives of a couple of musical-loving dullards before a 20 bloody quid cab ride to the bike shop and parting with almost £400 for the service and parts. Still, at least I’ve my Husky back.

Weekend rushes forth, so, chart, tune and my good wishes, one each. Now sod off.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Stone Temple Pilots Between The Lines 21 6
29 Pendulum Witchcraft NE 1
28 The Drums Forever And Ever Amen 19 4
27 Stornaway Zorbing 27 4
26 Avenged Sevenfold Nightmare 18 7
25 Foals Miami 30 2
24 Aeroplanes We Cant Fly NE 1
23 Xx Islands NE 1
22 Vampire Weekend Giving Up The Gun 24 3
21 Rammstein Haifisch 16 10
20 Funeral Party NYC moves to the sound of LA 12 7
19 Gorillaz On Melancholy Hill 29 2
18 Young Guns Sons Of Apathy 11 6
17 The King Blues Headbutt 8 12
16 Arcade Fire We Used To Wait 22 2
15 Brandon Flowers Crossfire NE 1
14 The Coral 1000 Years 13 5
13 Paramore Careful 17 3
12 30 Seconds To Mars Closer To The Edge 15 3
11 Athlete The Getaway 7 5
10 Kele Okereke Tenderoni 10 4
9 We Are Scientists Nice Guys 6 8
8 Delphic Counterpoint 5 5
7 Liars The Overachievers 3 5
6 Bullet For My Valentine Your Betrayal 4 5
5 Broken Bells The Ghost Inside 20 2
4 Feeder Call Out 14 2
3 Editors Eat Raw Meat = Blood Drool 2 4
2 The National Bloodbuzz Ohio 9 2
1 The Hurts Better Than Love 1 8

boyger

Nothing today, too busy.

I will say that I watched that TV kick-about in a pub last night with lots of shouters. For a portion of it I was eating a round lump of minced beef smothered in Stilton encapsulated in a split open bread roll. This strange comestible was rather tasty. I washed it down with some correct beer; this drink inspired me to shout when one of the men, the bassist from Dokken, used his face to urge the ball into a giant web.

?

Doesn’t seem like five years since four religious maniacs gave their lives in order to take others. That doesn’t even read right, the concept of killing yourself for the sole purpose of claiming as many lives as you can is both inhuman and inhumane and flies in the face of everything ethical, moral, and basically fucking decent. And blowing your cunting self-up is wholly illogical and pitifully, woefully witless. I remember being confused by Kamikaze pilots as a kid and thinking ‘how does that work?’ They going down to the last man with this? Adulthood has shed no further light on my musings but at least there was an enemy to attack. Here we’ve got blokes just blowing themselves up, killing people minding their own business for, guess what, no fucking reason whatsoever.

There was a police presence at the barriers at Old Street this morning and they succeeded in making commuters twitchy, strangely, the atmosphere on the not-as-packed-as-usual tube was one of stale calm. The previous bus journey involved the driver hitting the ‘this bus has CCTV’ and ‘don’t forget to take your shit’ button over and over. The paranoia was palpable but probably forgivable. I don’t know where he was 5 years ago today but I’ll wager he was driving a bus as one of his colleagues watched 13 of his passengers turn inside out.

Oh, Danni Minogue has become a mum. Aw, that’s nice isn’t it.

(the kid’s going to have to suck hard, her tits are made of plastic, right kids)

needawl

‘Intermittent.’ It’s only a word pertaining to phenomena, but when applied to machines, namely Brutta, it transmogrifies into something with overtly sinister connotations.

Usually intermittent problems relate to electrical matters, not an issue in this instance, or problems surrounding the administration of fuel from tank to the point of ignition. I was suffering from the fucking latter, which is why I broke down this time last week in the middle of the city.

After Brutta and the keys were re-united in Hampshire on Friday the mechanic was able to make an attempt at finding out the source of the issue, after having it for the best part of four days he finally called this morning while I was on the sodding train. He admitted to thinking I was being a little naive with my claim of their being a problem in the first instance as, predictably, Brutta started on the button, but, according to him, he didn’t think I sounded ‘like a berk’ so he actually listened to my diagnosis and reluctantly checked the fuel pump.

This component was pretty much the safe bet in terms of its welfare, so the mechanic was astonished to learn it had an ‘intermittent’ pumping issue, something almost unheard of, this borne out by the fact they don’t have one lying around and a new one needs to be ordered directly from the factory in Italy.

In short, I get Brutta back next week, if I’m lucky. This means at least another fucking week on public transport, a journey that is becoming more contemptible by the day. I turned a furious eye to the tube last week. Now it’s the turn of the bus.

The 55 is without question the most popular bus in my neck of the woods, yet they run them at the rate of one every 15 minutes, supposedly. As streams of virtually empty 38’s, 48’s, 106’s, 242’s flow past my stop at a rate of one a minute, the 55 lumbers into view, eventually, its bright red livery blackened by two wide bands of steaming passengers.

It’s not as bad as the tube, of course, as you aren’t physically allowed on if the bus is to capacity, so on occasion, usually on my return journey, the bus breezes cheerlessly past after a 20 minute wait. What gets my goat is when you’ve finally clambered upstairs to be greeted by a sea of smug I’ve-a-seat-and-you-don’t faces there will be at least one turd sat an aisle seat guarding a spare seat by the window with sneer.

Without question all the people that undertake this sort of behaviour are fucking cunts, they’re usually turned out like ticket touts and nearly all, without fail, chewing on some sort of cud which requires them to open and shut their fucking mouths as if regurgitating hair. Even if the bus was completely empty, I’ll make it my mission to insist I sit right next to them, putting myself in the firing line of what ever piss-spray they’ve overused that morning and the perpetual sound of their unhinged mastication.

To even consider behaving in such an anti social manner screams so much about the nature of these individuals that I should be allowed to casually inject them with botulinum toxin. They’d be dead in seconds, I’d push them off the seat to make a space for someone worthy and we could all simply step over them until they’re unloaded into a giant furnace at the depot.

bigpiggg

I’m not sure how or why Terry Waite found his way into the end of my dreams this morning. On waking I remember thinking that since he’d been unchained from that Lebanese radiator he’d kept a fairly low profile, the berk.

This morning I rushed on that internet to glean some info, apparently Terry is now a best-selling author, but it wasn’t that that caught my eye, it was what he had for his tea when he first came back to the UK after spending 4 years as a hostage. In fact if you can get to a certain Indian takeaway in Blackheath you can order a “Terry Waite Special”, which consists of a bed of curried beef, curried eggs, a whole curried chicken and rice with cheese melted over the top, accompanied by two nan breads.

Like Terry, though not in one sitting, I reckon I must have put on a stone this weekend, I ate like a bloody horse. Mentally I may have justified this gorge-fest by a gym visit following a day in the fucking office. This was fortuitous in more ways than one for on the way home, after nearly snapping my brittle limbs off, I passed by the Somerfield to get some weekend provisions when something bordering on unadulterated magic happened. Somerfield is being taken over by the Co-Op so they had to get rid of fucking hundreds of bottles of booze -wine, champagne, whisky, the lot- all at absurd prices. A 20 quid bottle of Champagne, a fiver, wine for a buck, whisky for a fucking song, I was almost in tears at this sea of cut-priced joy and nearly broke my back trying to carry home £200 worth for about 40 sheets.

I babbled the news to IC as soon as I got back to the flat, she instantly shot off and came back fully laden. Cool right? Then we went back the Vietnamese we’d been to Monday and met Mary, as we did Monday, but unlike Monday we feasted on starters though similar to Monday, we ordered way too much and ate until our seams showed. Friday was seen off with the second half of Downfall, what a barrel of laughs that is (it’s excellent) and the odd glass of tuppenny wine.

Saturday, the first thing to do was to go straight to the Somerfield and buy more booze and what have you. Mary had been earlier and cleared half the store, the choice was diminishing but we still caught a few last minute bargains. I mean a quid for a bottle of 2006 Pinot Noir, a fucking quid!

Following a bacon sandwich, IC and I hit all the estate agents in Hackney, a predictably dour affair (they’re such excruciating creatures) before trying to view a flat a few minutes away from our current locale. No one answered. Cunts.

Through London Fields to Regents Canal and a long burning walk on the Towpath to Angel. IC had said it’d be 15 minutes in order to encourage my lazy arse northwards, it was holiday hot and I was feeling a tad exhausted from the previous evening. Despite the effort of walking it was a lovely meander, seems like a lifetime away from here and after almost an hour we popped out into Angel and directly into an excellent pub that featured out-of-building seating that we commandeered like cancer.

After a couple of delicious ales and a lot of jaw-wagging we headed into Islington for some food. The designated eatery was packed full of screaming football types so we opted for cheap cocktails at this Cuban gaff. Nice interior but the fucking music, all trumpets and bongos, nearly defrosted my frozen Margarita. We made an impromptu decision to visit Neil and Sue on the way home, they were about to watch the World Net Cup so we settled down with them for a bit of banter and a spot of wine.

It wasn’t that late when we set off, but it was late enough to face the prospect of cooking anything. Astonishingly we found ourselves at the Vietnamese place again, but this time took the decision to take-away our food. At home we feasted on the food, I’d opted for a prawn and beansprout pancake that was size of a two-year old boy, and we watched a film o’ horror. IC fell asleep on the couch but I stayed up listening to some pop music and making sketches, by 3 I was all tuckered out so off to bed to lay my sweet fucking head to rest.

Sunday. Priority, get some more booze before the place runs out. And some bananas. A banana anyway. When we got there the gaff had run dry, this wasn’t good at all, especially as we’d told Neil n’ Sue about it and they were already hot-footing it over. We warned them of this latest devolvement but they came over anyway bearing a pile of fucking cream cakes and doughnuts just as the Moto GP finished. I’d already had some toast, I couldn’t possibly eat fucking cream cake and doughnuts could I?

After a load of cake and doah!nuts we sat outside in the garden sipping water and chatting. My blood sugar levels had shot through the top of my head and I felt as if I’d eaten the geriatric drug trolley. Neil n’ Sue left us mid afternoon so we watched Chopper and I prepared a load of beef and tomato sauce for the week ahead. I still felt fucked.

The rest of the afternoon and evening were conducted in splendid laziness on the sofa watching stuff on the telly and eating big piles of fishcakes undertaken before and after bad snacks. I don’t know what had come over me, I felt like Elvis before he’d decided to pop off to the bog with a copy of Exchange and Mart under his fat arm.

Fucking hell! Oh, thankyouverymuch.

(link will work by cut and paste, it won’t imbed)

mormownin

I hate the fucking tube. Well I don’t really; it’s a miracle of Victorian engineering and to be able to travel about this fair city unhindered by the world above, elements included save heat, is something to be proud of, by proxy of course. But in this weather, in the rush hour the tube becomes a means to an end with absolutely no additional frills, such as basic comfort, like sitting, or breathing. Sweet air is further away from this place than I from the rings of Saturn.

It’s toaster-hot down there. You hang about the platform behind queues of people stood in the exact spot where the doors will open (they know this because three trains have already gone through and there still hasn’t been enough room for them to clamber on) waiting for the ‘train approaching’ message and the sudden hush of clammy air pushed ahead from the giant metal snake, its eyes a-burning as it thunders into view.

The people on the platform start shuffling, firstly to bear witness to the heart-sinking aspect of what resembles a jumble sale pressed against the inside of the glass, and then to work out how they will possible seg themselves into this revolting bundle of rags. The doors open and a sold wall of people start to undulate and shift, from it pop red-faced and sweating humans escaping their prison like rats from a burning lair, yet the wall doesn’t yield, like an outgoing tide it reaches back by half a foot as other confined humans fill the missing gaps allowing two or three other passengers access into its rammed stinking bin.

More often than not it’s just impossible to gain access leaving one to remain on the platform dreading the next arrival. At some point it’s just about possible to squeeze on, so long as one contorts the body as if partaking in a hideous fleshly game of tetris, then remain in this twisted shape as other people press and leak upon you with what seems like a lifetime. When finally you hit a main station the doors burst open to allow thousands of exasperated commuters passage to pour forth, as the pressure releases like a shaken bottle of soda on opening, your body unbends from its unholy posture and you’re lowered slowly into a more dignified aspect. The inside of the tube is visible now, as you watch the throngs scuttle away, the brain cannot conceive how they all managed to fit inside.

At this stage it’s essential to either grab a seat or locate a corner where you’ve some concept of space because, before you have time to draw breath, the carriage is suddenly egg-full with a fresh wave of burning people, a mass of elbow and knees flaying with scant regard for anything approaching dignity. All of us reduced to animals again as the train sets back off into the dark, blackened interior of this, our city.

I was so pissed on Wednesday night, following an evening with Dave, IC and Mary I had to take the morning off. IC and Mary left Dave and I at 1-ish to giggle at motorcycle shenanigans, one of which featuring in yesterdays non-starter. I’d had a diabolical day at work, in addition to the fucking commute, which features the above twice daily, I’d witnessed Brutta being shoved lifelessly up the back of a van at lunchtime, to the tune of £100, and whisked off to the Hampshire country side to get fixed. It was only a few minutes after she’d gone I realised I still had her fucking keys in my pocket.

Last night IC and I watched a movie imbibing nothing more than tea, I made a fisherman’s pie to eat in front of a film and we turned in early, both shattered from the previous evenings unplanned festivities.

I’ve solid weekend ahead, I can only give a clue how much I’m looking forward to this by dancing, dancing like a queen.

But before I put on my tutu, here’s the chart, look at it, hear a song, then fuck off to have good weekends. Ta

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Foals Miami NE 1
29 Gorillaz On Melancholy Hill NE 1
28 Rob Zombie War Zone 19 7
27 Stornaway Zorbing 25 3
26 The Pretty Reckless Make Me Wanna Die 15 6
25 Black Rebel Motorcycle Club Bad Blood 17 4
24 Vampire Weekend Giving Up The Gun 28 2
23 Inna Hot 16 4
22 Arcade Fire The Suburbs NE 1
21 Stone Temple Pilots Between The Lines 9 5
20 Broken Bells The Ghost Inside NE 1
19 The Drums Forever And Ever Amen 20 3
18 Avenged Sevenfold Nightmare 13 6
17 Paramore Careful 24 2
16 Rammstein Haifisch 11 9
15 30 Seconds To Mars Closer To The Edge 23 2
14 Feeder Call Out NE 1
13 The Coral 1000 Years 18 4
12 Funeral Party NYC moves to the sound of LA 7 6
11 Young Guns Sons Of Apathy 12 5
10 Kele Okereke Tenderoni 14 3
9 The National Bloodbuzz Ohio NE 1
8 The King Blues Headbutt 5 11
7 Athlete The Getaway 8 4
6 We Are Scientists Nice Guys 4 7
5 Delphic Counterpoint 6 4
4 Bullet For My Valentine Your Betrayal 10 4
3 Liars The Overachievers 2 4
2 Editors Eat Raw Meat = Blood Drool 3 3
1 The Hurts Better Than Love 1 7

dayofz

I’m having one, watch this instead

These guys are real, they take off their plates and behave like complete cunts on the most powerful bikes available. I absolutely love it.

Footage shot in Sweden…