Monthly Archives: October 2010


It’s been a busy week. Monday we had our pals from Spain over one last time before they left. We spent the evening drinking carefully on account of the soon-to-be-walking baby who had a propensity to appear silently behind ones ankles. Pizza, cheesy puffs and titty milk featured heavily too, though I’m pleased to report the latter aspect was destined for the under ones.

Tuesday involved work but in the evening IC and I went out for dinner at a favourite eatery to celebrate a moment of time. Pork Belly went into mine with some booze, IC had some sort of fish, I didn’t pay much attention to her dish if I’m honest, I was rather consumed by the consumption of my porcine-packed plate. This delightful meal heralded the beginning of a day off and sure enough, the following morning, we took the bus to Limehouse to catch the DLR to Greenwich.

I was rather surprised to learn I’d not been on the DLR before, well, not to my memory, and it reminded me of 1950’s comic-book renditions of the millennium. The track seemed to sweep with gravity defying motion through the sky, brushing past monolithic glass and steel structures that twinkled in the bright autumnal light. It was a peculiar sensation that may have been aided and abetted by a fuck-off hangover.

We landed at Greenwich, zipped through the dreadful market and took some time to walk by the Thames that’s flanked with Neo-Classical nods to our Naval Heritage. At 2-ish we made our way to Dave’s pub unsure if he’d be there to greet us, I’m pleased to report he was or I’d never have been persuaded to eat this magnificent burger that was size of Gary Coleman’s head. By the time we left a few hours later we were feeling very cheerful.

We met up with Dave later on that afternoon in another Inn by Victoria Park, after recommending we visit a pub a few yards away he left at 7 leaving IC and I to make a final visit to a very impressive boozer a few yards away before finally heading off home. What a perfect day as Lou Reed may have put it but didn’t.

Yesterday, after a fairly good day at work, Jamie and I met at Angel station for 6, we’d not seen each other in while so thought it wise to catch up over a pint. This wasn’t the sole purpose of our meeting mind; I’d managed to book a pair of tickets for the Ozric Tentacles at the O2 Academy in Islington.

He, I and a group of like-minded friends used to see this band virtually every weekend in a long-since-gone club called The Crypt. I will dedicate a post to this place in the near future but for now let’s just say this place would serve your psychedelic needs with narcotic pedantry. The band were for all intents and purposes unchanged, it transpired they’d not played in a while and the band were as surprised as we that the place was rammed. It’s worth noting that all flavour of person was present, from death metal types to Asian accountants, elderly homosexuals to teenage hippies. White people, black people, Chinese people, Italian, French, German…the atmosphere was one of sheer unity and the band responded with mind-blowing noises.

The show peaked and concluded, Jamie and I managed to get one more pint in before leaving on the bus destined for a kebab of sorts in Hackney. It was half midnight before we finally stumbled into the flat and ate our regrettable comestibles. I’m paying for it today, I’ve spent a good 30 minutes this morning farting out liquid chilli and am due for a return match right after this.

So, to the weekend, both my bro and Swineshead have birthdays to celebrate over the weekend with many other plans besides. These birthdays won’t celebrate on their own will they? It’s bound to be messy, let’s hope so eh? Join me next week to find out what happened.

First the chart o’ Gerry and a tune from it. Please have nice weekends, don’t forget to change the fucking clocks Sunday.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Linkin Park Waiting For The End NE 1 30
29 Cribs Housewife 19 8 8
28 Good Charlotte Like It’s Her Birthday NE 1 28
27 Arcade Fire Ready To Start 17 7 4
26 30 Seconds To Mars Search And Destroy 30 2 26
25 Klaxons Twin Flames 26 3 26
24 Chase And Status Hypest Hype NE 1 24
23 The Ting Tings Hands 15 6 13
22 Dinosaur Pile Up Mona Lisa 18 4 18
21 Biffy Clyro Booooom Blast And Ruin NE 1 21
20 Bombay Bicycle Club Rinse Me Down 23 3 20
19 Grinderman Heathen Child 12 9 4
18 Young Guns Weight Of The World 28 2 18
17 Interpol Barricades 11 8 2
16 Carl Barat Run With The Boys 20 3 16
15 Plan B The Recluse 10 4 10
14 Two Door Cinema Club I Can Talk 22 2 14
13 Bullet For My Valentine Fever 9 5 7
12 A-Ha Butterfly Butterfly……. 13 4 12
11 Kings Of Leon Radioactive 8 7 5
10 Hurts Stay 25 2 10
9 We Are Scientists I Don’t Bite 14 3 9
8 The Wombats Tokyo (Vampires And Wolves) 5 6 2
7 Clare Maguire Ain’t Nobody 16 2 7
6 Jimmy Eat World My Best Theory 3 9 1
5 Frankie And The Heartstrings Ungrateful 7 4 5
4 My Chemical Romance Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na)2 4 2
3 OK Go White Knuckles 4 4 3
2 Tinie Tempah Written In The Stars 6 3 2
1 Killing Joke European Super State 1 6 1


The weekend got off to a wobbly start after an arrangement with Swineshead was mangled by the jaws of misfortune. Note to self, if you are going to arrange to meet people make sure you get the right venue, especially if there’s more than one venue with the same name.

I, of course, was in the wrong venue and to make matters worse I’d battled to get there on time from the office, which is located on the dark side of the fucking moon. Admittedly it was closer to home but the place I should’ve been at would have been a doddle from work and not subject to the grinding horror of a Friday rush hour train for 30 fear-packed minutes. I couldn’t face the thought of throwing myself back into the boiling broth of livid office workers, besides, I’d managed to tangle up IC in my poorly planned affairs and whilst she was un-fussed about the prospect of my re-departing I was suitably pissed off enough to take my sorry arse out of the social equation and slink off home with her.

All wasn’t lost though. IC had made plans to see some friends later on in the evening so we decided to have a spot of wine on the way home before meeting them at the 8-ish. The friends, if I may interject, are the same couple we stayed with in Cadaqués earlier this year and we re-engaged as if time had remained static.

Due to the couple in question having a 10-month-old nipper we weren’t allowed inside the pub and were forced to remain outside where we happily imbibed in the clement-ish weather. After we got home at a reasonable hour we saw off Friday with a dark and intensely gripping film from Germany called Hotel, consider it a Piqued recommend.

Saturday got off to a slow start, we had planned to meet our visiting pals at a gallery space near Bethnal Green at lunchtime and to my genuine surprise the pieces on display actually had some merit, and the owner of said space was a nice chap and quite unlike the sorts of trustfund ponces that seem drawn toward this sort of thing. We stayed a while before heading off to Victoria Park for a delicious walk in the autumn sunshine and winding up at The Royal Inn for some light refreshment. By now we were 7, with 3 children under the age of 1.

It was a lovely afternoon that bled into the evening, I found myself working with everyone to keep the kids happy, which was like driving 3 cars at once. It was rewarding, exasperating and knackering all at once, even a little profound at times. At 7-ish IC, Patty and I went home via Lidl to stock up on bits and pieces for the evening, my bro joined us at 9-ish and we saw Saturday night off with all the required bells and whistles.

Sunday’s hangover wasn’t aided by my having to visit the West End to meet Bert, Harry, Roger and John for a pint and a curry. It was another beautiful autumnal day that I gawped at from the confines of a very noisy and bouncy bus. As predicted, on arrival, a few sips into the first pint saw me as right as rain and I gingerly entered into the spirit of things.

I wasn’t going to take the curry on but was inspired to do so by Bert who I’d not seen in a while. I picked at the various ordered dishes, delicious, but didn’t outstay my welcome. At 4 I bid everyone a fond farewell and headed back on the bus to the soundtrack of Stiff Little Fingers that made everything all right in the world. Marvelous.

Neil and Sue were at the flat with IC when I barged in a 5. It was the beginning of the end of the weekend’s unplanned festivities and I was determined to make the most of it. I did such a good job I can barely recall the last bit.


Now that my arse has dried up, I’ve wasted no time in re-capturing the time I lost without wine. With help of IC, my brother and a couple of pals I’ve been cheerfully painting east London red. In addition to this I’ve also been eating excessively and with impunity, which means eating shite. Not literally of course.

My appetite, due to farting out a stone last week, has decided to up the ante. I’m incapable of passing the fridge or cupboard without reaching in and stuffing a handful of whatever down my face. I’ve eaten enough cheeseballs and chessy-puffs in the past five days to kill a horse. But enough of all this gut chat.

I’m having a few fun and games with the Triumph, to the point that I’m starting to have wet dreams about electric starters. On account of holidays and rivers of effluent coarsening out my freckle, I’d not tried to start Johnston in a couple of weeks a couple of days ago. Replete with groaning hangover from the previous evening excesses, which included bottles of wine and a burger the size of Brain Glover’s head, I always knew that the task ahead wouldn’t be a simple affair. What I wasn’t expecting was to be leaping up and down on the kick-starter for almost a fucking hour until she finally fired. By the time this wonderful noise rippled over the East End I’d sweated so much I’d actually moistened my leathers, which should sound like a euphemism for something dirty, but in reality was just plain dirty and I spent the day stinking like a Chilean Miners bum-crack.

Riding to and from work on the Triumph is a remarkably complex affair. The main issue lies with the engine itself, it has a propensity to drop oil, not much but enough to raise concerns regarding rear-wheel stability. In addition the brakes don’t work so I’m perpetually having to factor in the ‘worst case scenario’ whilst allowing moments of hooligan indulgence. Old she may be but the old girl still has a lot of grunt, a bit like Madonna but less leaky.

Then there are the gears. Finding neutral on Johnston is a bit like trying to find a fat girls bean, you know it’s there but locating the sod proves anything but simple. This means that while the laboured braking is taking place one is frantically trying to get the gears disengaged from drive, bear in mind I’m going right through the city the need to stop occurs every few seconds so this is pretty much a default activity.

But I’m loving it, it turns my commute into an adventure, it’s very comfortable and when running at temperature the engine is sweeter than babycakes. Then of course there’s the public reaction. I get complimented at least five times a day, pedestrians shout from the pavement, cyclists whisper from the road, lorry drivers call down from their cabs. Even the fucking police feel obliged to make positive comments. Lovely.

Right, weekend. This evening I’m meeting some bods off that watchwithmothers website (link right). But first, Gerry’s neglected chart and a bloody arse kicking tune off of it.

Mind how you go now.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 30 Seconds To Mars Search And Destroy NE 1 30
29 Pulled Apart By Horses High Five Swan Dive Nose Dive19 9 2
28 Young Guns Weight Of The World NE 1 28
27 Bright Lights Bright Lights Love Part II 16 6 12
26 Klaxons Twin Flames 27 2 26
25 Hurts Stay NE 1 25
24 Paul Weller Fast Car: Slow Traffic 18 4 18
23 Bombay Bicycle Club Rinse Me Down 30 2 23
22 Two Door Cinema Club I Can Talk NE 1 22
21 Weezer Memories 15 4 15
20 Carl Barat Run With The Boys 26 2 20
19 Cribs Housewife 10 7 8
18 Dinosaur Pile Up Mona Lisa 22 3 18
17 Arcade Fire Ready To Start 11 6 4
16 Clare Maguire Ain’t Nobody NE 1 16
15 The Ting Tings Hands 13 5 13
14 We Are Scientists I Don’t Bite 23 2 14
13 A-Ha Butterfly Butterfly……. 17 3 13
12 Grinderman Heathen Child 8 8 4
11 Interpol Barricades 6 7 2
10 Plan B The Recluse 12 3 10
9 Bullet For My Valentine Fever 7 4 7
8 Kings Of Leon Radioactive 5 6 5
7 Frankie And The Heartstrings Ungrateful 14 3 7
6 Tinie Tempah Written In The Stars 24 2 6
5 The Wombats Tokyo (Vampires And Wolves) 3 5 2
4 OK Go White Knuckles 9 3 4
3 Jimmy Eat World My Best Theory 2 8 1
2 My Chemical Romance Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na)4 3 2
1 Killing Joke European Super State 1 5 1

Gastroenteritis Treatment (a serious post for once)

As I was so completely unprepared for last week’s events I’ve decided to do you, reader of Piqued, a small favour, possibly a fucking huge one.

Apart from that rude word up there, I will now slap an injunction on my potty mouth and present a proper ‘cut out and keep’ guide on what happens if you contract Gastroenteritis. The following information is medically correct with sage advice from personal experience. I even went out of my way to Q&A other former suffers.

First off, I suggest, very strongly, you pop down to the chemist right now and purchase these seven essential items, especially if you’re living alone. I can assure you, when the bugger strikes you’ll be weaker than wartime tea and unable to get more than 10 yards away from your toilet due to a combination of strength, bowel confidence and inexplicable agony. Bear in mind one in five of us will contract this at some point so making a minor diversion to the chemist isn’t that big an ask is it, besides you can use most of the items to treat other ailments. Oh, it’s worth noting, not wishing to sounds melodramatic or anything, gastroenteritis can be fatal if the symptoms of the virus aren’t treated properly.

*Digital Thermometer
*Paracetamol (at least 60)
*Dioralyte (3 boxes)
*Buscopan (at least 60)
*Un-fragranced baby wipes (at least 4 packets of 80)
*Mutivitamins (at least 20)
*Anusol (1 tube)

So, what to do if you get it. Initially, like all illnesses, you won’t know what it is from the outset, yes, it kicks off with diarrhoea but we all get that randomly. The thing that sets this apart is by the time you start making frequent trips to the can you’ll be feeling very weak and the cramps with have just started, deceptively mildly at first.

For crying out loud don’t use toilet paper after you’ve squirted, you’ll be making a horrific mistake. Your priority to your ringpeice is to keep it moist, clean and supple, not bedecked with rolled up bits of spiky wood pulp. You’re going to need this part of your anatomy to be as efficient as possible over the coming week, believe me, so use the baby wipes from here on in.

Some suffers of this awful condition throw-up too; my brother did when he got it. He advised being sick into a container only when sat on the toilet as one has propensity to follow through with the inertia caused by retching. A washing bowl or bucket should be kept in the loo at all times. By now I hope you’ve used your common sense to fill your toilet with magazines and a transistor radio tuned to ‘4’. You’re going to be spending an awful lot of time in here so you may as well make it comfortable. Even Jennie Murray can be useful in emergencies.

For the first few days you’ll have a fever so keep an eye on your temperature (feel free to call an ambulance if it goes over 39) and start taking on water, loads of it. Most deaths from Gastroenteritis arise from dehydration, it’s easily preventable and by using Dioralyte following a particularly harsh evacuation, you’ll be replacing essential salts which aid recovery, something you’ll be rather keen to encourage.

By the second day the cramps will have kicked in, your routine of water, water and water, with the odd Dioralyte should be habitual by now. If you’ve not already introduced Paracetamol and Busopan into the programme too, the former for pain, the latter for contractions, then do so now. They won’t seem as if they’re having any effect as the cramps you’ll be experiencing will be off-the-scale in terms of agony. I went without pain and cramp treatment for two days and whilst happily admitting the treatment is inadequate, it’s significantly better to have it than not. Really the only painkiller up to the job is Morphine.

By now you’re probably exhausted and are grabbing bits of sleep in between visits to the bog. Get used to it. Gastroenteritis is a 24 hour disease, it won’t adhere to the day/night mantra, it’ll just keep going irrespective of what, when, where. Rest as much as you can but do keep an eye on the treatments, missing one pill or potion at the right time will have dire consequences for you, maybe even setting you back a day or two.

Now we get onto the sticky topic of food. You won’t want to eat as you’ll be feeling/being sick but you must try. The worst thing about eating as that it will exacerbate the cramps so make it count. Avoid all dairy and anything spicy, apart from that you’re encouraged to eat as normal as diet as possible. I found bananas were good, white bread, digestives, plain crackers etc., anything that will help absorb the seething horrors going on downstairs. Take the multivitamins, you know it makes sense.

So there you are, in the thick of it with all possible aids to recovery at you disposal. There is just this one thing…

On account of the enormous time you’ll be spending on the loo, much of it waiting for another obscene movement after the initial drop, you may find alien beings appearing in the vicinity of your anus. Hello! You’ve got haemorrhoids .

This is very common though you’ll be cursing their arrival; it’s the last thing you want, really. The only consolation is that they don’t hurt as much as the cramps and they’re treatable with Anusol. Should one go off (you’ll know when that happens) don’t be too alarmed, just deal with it and carry on being ill.

All in all you’ll be ill for a about a week, and then another week to get you back to the sort of condition you were before it hit you. You’ll have lost weight and still be feeling very weak but the worst will be behind you, probably literally. It’s not uncommon to develop IBS as a result of contacting Gastroenteritis, one person I spoke to had it for 18 months after they’d made a full recovery. And then there are the piles of course.

I would like to pass on my sympathies in advance, especially if you’ve no one to rub your back and take care of you.

On a final note, if you’ve not had Gastroenteritis before and found this article a tad patronising, let me assure you that if you do contract it, this short piece of writing will mean more to you than your mum.

As you were.

anus horrdribblus

The week off had been marvellous. I look back on it now from the bathroom with teary-eyed nostalgia, from the heady party on Saturday, the delightful Sunday afternoon with my parents who, early evening, left us to arriving friends and a game of Monopoly with a gut-busting curry for afters. Then the Monday at the museum in Bethnal Green revisiting childish memories, a pub in a sunlit park, sultry leaves of russet red falling, down, so softly down before a quiet meal for two at a favourite haunt on Mare street. Tuesday, a trip to town for birthday drinks with pals, the evening in Soho, Wednesday, a late, long lunch and unplanned pub crawl with Mary, Thursday, oh Thursday..! We conquered the Natural History and Science Museums, had Japanese food for lunch and took a long lazy walk through Kensington Gardens, sublime in the season, serendipitously bumping into Anish Kapoor along the way. It had been the best day so far so we popped by a local for a drink or two to toast our good fortune before heading home later.

Friday we had lunch at a posh, yet unbelievably cheap, ‘foodie’ haunt in Shoreditch. The gaff has no license so we took our own wine, well worth the £5 corkage it was. We shared a starter of chard, blue cheese and a pickled walnut, the latter taking a while to get the hang of, for main I had a lump of lamb shoulder on white beans, it was incredibly good and whilst almost positive this meal was blameless I’ll never look at either lamb or beans in the same way again. It was also the last proper meal I’ve eaten in 5 days.

We went to Camden that afternoon, I was feeling exhausted, it then occurred to me that I’d been feeling shattered since Thursday. The weather was very warm, almost hot, as we wondered about this strangely familiar place that has completely given into itself. Traditionally erring on the side of tacky, these days Camden is no more than one uniform stall selling kiss-me-quick tees, pseudo fetish-wear and heaps of shit shitty jewellery. I was feeling shit too. Not even a drop of the good stuff was helping. I just wanted to go home; I even think I wanted to go home and rest.

At about eight pm that evening it started, a creeping awareness that I was feeling tired over and above the need to simply sleep. My appetite was long gone, and perhaps more worryingly, I didn’t want to drink anything. It was around this point I had my first Donald Duck explosion.

Come Saturday it was apparent things weren’t improving, but due to a combination of Lemsip, the fact we had a couple of guests over in the evening and sheer bloody-minded denial, I managed to refuse the ailment to get a psychological grip. By now I was sharting ten to the dozen, visiting the bathroom every 30 mins, more on occasion, and, when I think back on it, I was delirious too. But still I insisted to IC I was well enough for a couple of friends over later-on, despite being too weak to go out and get supplies for their arrival.

My bro arrived at 7-ish, IC had laid on a perfect spread of cheeses, salami and bread which he took instant advantage of. Mary arrived a bit later and joined in. I was no closer to eating than I am to the moon -though I did try to drink but it wasn’t working. I think it’s fair to say the illness kicked off properly when IC and Mary went off to a club at midnight leaving my bro and I to play Red Dead Redemption. My clothes began to hurt me, I was freezing cold, even the act of physically sitting on the can to fire out yet another of jet of sour-apple korma was agony, and this was even before I’d let rip.

My bro left at 2-ish only partially aware that things were as bad as they were, I went to bed immediately only to be awoken in two hour periods with the most sensationally painful cramps heralding another delivery of unfriendly gutmud. My end of holiday wasn’t going according to plan.

I can barely recall Sunday outside of the most excruciating agony in my stomach. I have been unfortunate enough to have ‘passed’ a kidney stone and when these cramps hit their peak they give ureterolithiasis a run for their fucking money, it is/was without doubt the worst part of this whole experience. It genuinely felt like there was a vindictive creature inside slowly slashing the stomach walls with a red-hot bread knife, and unlike the kidney stone, no Morphine to combat the searing agony.

These cramps would come and go in phases, you’d be guaranteed to get at least one every 30 mins but you could get as many as 4 or 5 in this time too, each cramp would last a good two minutes starting out, without warning, as a severe stomach ache and peaking into something you could only describe with shots of actual torture and that ‘we buy any car’ advert (I know where you live, by the way).

The Cramps ran a similar schedule to the trips to the toilet, indeed, most of the time they were working in unison, cramps, crap, cramps, crap, and so on. All the while I was glugging back water like Leah Betts in order to prevent mutating into leather. Eating was virtually impossible, if so much a morsel of food dropped down my poisonous throat I would feel it splash into the boiling seas within followed by more cramps, though ones with a purpose. I stopped eating.

When I wasn’t emptying Hungarian sludge out my spissing nipsy IC stoked my burning head. My temperature had hit 39 and I was off the planet. It’s the only other thing I can remember from the whole day.

Sunday night and Monday morning were vicious, I’d dosed myself up with Immodium which was about as useful as stopping Niagara falling with a string vest. I visited the out-house over a dozen times that night, all the while getting increasingly aware I was dissolving my freckle. This small yet significant part of my anatomy was beginning to smart somewhat, though in comparison to the cramps, it was a mere itch.

I’d already decided on Monday morning I was going to attend the doctors, by cab. IC called them up and my symptoms warranted an emergency appointment. At 11.30 I shuffled into the surgery where I was diagnosed (from a distance) with Gastroenteritis and prescribed a bunch of pills and potions that IC kindly collected for me as I made my way home in a fug of delirium. It’s worth pointing out that Monday was supposed to be our final day off, instead IC played nursemaid to me as I cheerlessly spent it farting piss through my corroded ringpiece, which by now resembled a squashed plum.

On account of the prescriptions, largely being given a free-for-all with Paracetamol, Monday remains a little clearer in my memory. My temperature was down a bit, my clothes had stopped hurting and I was forced to drink ‘pleasant tasting’ Dioralyte on account of it being flavoured with raspberry. It’s about as ‘pleasant tasting’ as 14-pint puddle of regurgitated Carling and half a mixed grill kebab, sprinkled with white truffle.

I still wasn’t eating though. I felt sick for starters and was terrified of the consequences of food hitting my poor stomach. Besides, the lack of protein was helping my state of delirium which was working nicely as a substitute for the lack of wine I didn’t want.

That was Monday, and it’s been the same right up to this point, the only minor change being that the cramps are being controlled by a meagre degree due to inadequate painkillers and I’m facing the increasingly possibility of an arsehole transplant.

Two things of note. I recall reading an interview with Kurt Cobain saying he only did heroin because of his stomach pains, well if he did for himself on account them, I can totally understand. There is one side effect to these cramps incidentally, because my muscles are in spasm it’s temporarily sorted my back, which is aiding the thrice nightly dash to the watering hole.

norman wisdom

The little fella in the wonky hat,
Chirpy grin, prat falling prat
Screeching, pointing, disbelief,
It’s happened again! Oh good grief!

Innocent giggles in black and white,
Wrongs resolved, bad made right
A time-gone stage on which to play,
But Wisdom never goes away…

His visceral talent we took for granted
And as we looked back (now he’s parted)
Let us regret these recent years
Left to fate with cold clown tears.

So to Norman, my hero, hear my cry,
May your soul shine forever, your laughter never die!
Let’s pull off the pall and cast off the veil
And scream to the heavens, “Oh Mr. Grimsdale!”


It’s probably my bloody age, actually, it’s almost definitely my fucking age, that has led me to notice the vast quantity of very young mums sloping round this ‘ere London. As I have to travel from North East to South West a few times a week, both by road and rail, I get to see a large slice of my hometown in its various incarnations. And this phenomenon isn’t unique to specific areas either, it’s pretty much ubiquitous –teenagers of all shape, size and flavour pushing loathsome buggies containing little human beings who stare up at the world with detached nonchalance.

One hopes that the reasons these mums are alone with the child is simply because their boyfriends (husbands?) are out working, and despite myself I’m not going to sit here and judge, make assumptions and what have you. But each time I see one I imagine them bumping into one of their former teachers and being given a ‘I saw this coming’ session, and I’ve fuck all idea why…

Just thought I’d share, like.

It’s been a monumentally busy week. Last Friday one of my pals got hitched in the ICA if you please. IC and I arrived for the evening party following a quick stop at The Cork and Bottle on Leicester Square that nicely set the precedent for the forthcoming gushings of wine that passed cheerily down my throat. It was a lovely evening, Frank, Den, my bro, a host of pals past and present, led to my enjoying the occasion with such vigour I found myself dancing like a tit. IC had to leave early-on due to exhaustion brought on by an awful campaign at work, but like the lush I am I stayed until the 2am curfew. I can barely recall the taxi ride home but I have a vague memory of vehemently agreeing with the Kurdish driver with regard to a conversation about UK manufacturing.

I’ve no idea how I manage to prepare for the small house-warming party IC and I had for a few pals on Saturday, I was feeling shocking, but prepare we did, a trip to Tesco to get provisions and get the house ship shape for the evening… I confess to recalling little of it but was quite pleased that we hadn’t gone overboard, or underboard, or whatever frankly.

An hour into our little shindig I was feeling much, much better. It was a tight little group, no more than a dozen folk, and everyone seemed to be getting on just fine. Shortly I would be gently lowered into the warm hands of inebriation but for now, all was probably excellent. Yes. The next day I amazed myself, I learnt that during the wee hours the previous evening I’d cleaned up and everything. IC joined me in feeling shit and I watched the F1 through half an eye as she tried not to. We managed to go out, fuck knows where but we went out and came home again with Sunday papers and that was end of the weekend, not precisely there but somewhere it ended. Just don’t ask me/us.

I went to work a lot this week, I’m even here now as I type this shit. The evenings have been rather nice as IC and I settle into domestic bliss as an item. We went out for a dinner of Turkish food on Monday evening that resulted in my a-waddling home with a doggy bag, Tuesday I spent the evening with my bro in his local, Wednesday we spent in front of the TV, last night my bro came over for pizza and a shot on Red Dead Redemption and this evening, well, you’ll have to fucking wait won’t you. I’ve not done it yet… I MEAN GIVE ME A CUNTING CHANCE.


Gerry’s chart (bloody great song after) a prayer for your weekends, and new legislation that requires absent teenage fathers to be castrated.


NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Fenech Soler Lies 22 4 19
29 Robert Plant Angel Dance NE 1 29
28 30 Seconds To Mars Closer To The Edge 23 15 3
27 The National Bloodbuzz Ohio 21 14 1
26 Inna Amazing 19 6 13
25 Paul Weller Fast Car: Slow Traffic NE 1 25
24 Pendulum Island 27 4 24
23 Weezer Memories NE 1 23
22 The Pretty Reckless Miss Nothing 17 7 11
21 The Ting Tings Hands 28 2 21
20 British Sea Power Zeus 25 2 20
19 The Coral More Than A Lover 16 5 12
18 Bullet For My Valentine Fever NE 1 18
17 You Me At Six Stay With Me 13 7 9
16 Skunk Anansie My Ugly Boy 11 5 8
15 Bright Lights Bright Lights Love Part II 20 3 15
14 Archie Bronson Outfit Hoola 7 7 4
13 Eddie Vedder Better Days 18 2 13
12 Cribs Housewife 15 4 12
11 One Night Only Say You Don’t Want It 9 12 2
10 Linkin Park The Catalyst 6 8 2
9 Hurts Wonderful Life 4 10 1
8 Kings Of Leon Radioactive 12 3 8
7 Pulled Apart By Horses High Five Swan Dive Nose Dive 3 6 2
6 Killing Joke European Super State 14 2 6
5 Grinderman Heathen Child 5 5 5
4 Arcade Fire Ready To Start 10 3 4
3 The Wombats Tokyo (Vampires And Wolves) 8 2 3
2 Interpol Barricades 2 4 2
1 Jimmy Eat World My Best Theory 1 5 1