Monthly Archives: November 2010

enjinbonce

It took me a while to work out what it was. Why were some fans of popular music trio The Motorheads so unusually restless and, if I’m to be brutally honest, carrying on like pricks? The last few times I’ve had the honour of seeing these gentlemen the audience has been relatively sedate but this evening loads of middle-aged men, most with shaven heads, were engaged in the pre-mosh activity of wrecking. Why was this? Why?

Then I noticed, it wasn’t just gentle English types, there were Northern people, the Scotch were there, but most overwhelmingly, German types.

It was a Saturday, I couldn’t think of the last time I’d been to a gig on Saturday. Now these fellows had all day to get to Brixton safe in the knowledge a lazy Sunday laid ahead. This had inspired these blokes to let down their proverbial comb-overs, they could wheeze-out with impunity then recover before work on Monday…

Aside from this the evening was marvellous. Apart from not being let out to smoke for twenty fucking minutes after the support had cavorted off. Two clearly unwell old women were holding back 500 hairy-arsed headbangers as their colleagues prevaricated over crowd barriers with a view to sorting out an enclave for the smokers whilst simultaneously preventing passing people from slipping into the venue for nout. It was appalling actually, I told one of the security staff that it wasn’t really fair to put two old dears in charge of the doors with hundreds of angry men bearing down on them. He looked at me as if I was ET lap dancing.

But it was still a splendid night, they played all their hits and despite the drummer nipping off for a pee mid way through the set, you’d never know they’re almost due for their bus passes.

The weekend had got off to a cracking start, one of IC’s mates was staying with us from Italy so it seemed rude to not take him out, get him plastered and make him eat a big pile of Thai food. We didn’t over do it mind, to my surprise I was in bed and up relatively early and we headed off to Oxford Street with Patti in tow. It was only when we got there it dawned on me that I a. didn’t want to be there and b. had no reason to be there either. Shit.

To make matters considerably more dreadful Oxford Street had started Christmas in earnest -brass-blowing Santa’s playing carols, wankers in big-head costumes ‘for the kids,’ steel bands, choirs etc. -and thousands of pushy, dour-faced shoppers running about like Cholera. IC and Patti were shopping in earnest, the former looking for shoes, the latter for a dress as I slouched along, cold, annoyed and getting increasingly hungry. More out of boredom than anything I popped into GAP to see if they had any black hoodies, seduced by a miserable Morrissey song I hung around longer than I should and lo and behold I didn’t just find a black hoody, I found one that was lined for extra warmth. It’s worth harping on about this item, so long as you wear a half decent jacket over it, you need no more than a tee underneath for maximum seasonal weather-beating warmth. It’s marvellous.

I felt much better after my purchase, even more so after pork and tofu soup at the Japanese eatery we found ourselves in prior to departing for home. I waited for Lenny to get back from the West-End and we set off at 6-ish. After arriving at Brixton we met up with Ned and Frank in a packed-pub, it took me so long to get served we actually left and managed to find a half empty gaff with good food on offer, Lenny ate and we drank beer until it was time to go to see the band.

After the gig we lucked out again. We were ushered into a bar, again, half empty, and invited to have a few drinks before saying farewell to Frank. Ned and Lenny joined me on the bus and we went home where IC and Sue were waiting for us. A small impromptu party happened and we saw the day off at 4-ish.

Sunday IC and I made a bit of a mistake. It was beautiful day so on the way to the park decided to have a pub lunch, wine happened, my bro joined us a few hours later and we stayed until dark. The weekend was seen off in front of the telly with pizzas and more flaming wine. When will I learn eh, reader

Here is that miserable Morrissey song, in my opinion the only good thing the bugger has done.


scopes

I tried Mary and Patti’s place, as it was the closest to the heel bar. No luck. My final hope before heading to London Bridge was to cycle a mile to Swineshead’s gaff, though I wasn’t entirely sure if he was in or, indeed, what number he was potentially in at. In previous visits IC has led the way while I’ve been enjoying the benefits of Cabernet Sauvignon. I arrived at the assumed address and yelled his name… nothing, I did it again and after a few minutes, and to my joy, the front door opened to reveal a perplexed SH.

I babbled an explanation and we went indoors. Now I had access to a phone, the Internet, warmth and most importantly, tobacco. I called IC who decided the best thing to do was pay for a bike courier to pick the keys from her place and deliver them to mine. In the meantime SH and I had a very civilised afternoon smoking, drinking tea and watching Sarah Silverman, which was splendid.

The courier took a fucking age, not that I that fussed, I was home by 5 following an awful cycle back in the freezing rain and vowed never to mount a velocipede ever again. Fortunately, after getting home at 7 or so, IC was keen to visit the local to discuss a few pressing matters and the horrors of the day were gently overwhelmed and pissed from the system.

I woke on Wednesday feeling properly excited, despite being due in the office. I was finally going to ride Johnston, all I had to do was fit the bulb and ride away. The bulb was fitted in minutes and Johnston started on the third kick, which when you consider it hadn’t been touched for 3 odd weeks (and it was fucking cold) I was sufficiently impressed to let out a ‘woot.’ I was just about to set off when the engine spluttered to a stop, I kicked it, it started. Then stopped. Cunts!

For almost 45 minutes I pounded the kick-start with no joy. By the time I gave up I was both furious and drenched in sweat. By now the battery was barely alive so I removed it and took it into the flat after re-parking the bike and covering it up. Then remembered I didn’t have a battery charger anymore.

But fate has a funny way of resolving things.

Before I headed for the bus I noticed a text from a camera shop regarding a (physically) large item I’d ordered for IC, it was ready for pick-up, which was very convenient. The pick-up place was located near the office in fucking Wimbledon, I was prepared to make a special trip to fetch it, now Johnston wouldn’t start and I was forced onto public transport, I could kill two birds with one stone.

On my way to work I suddenly realised I could stop at the bike shop in Shoreditch and pick up a battery charger. I alighted by the church and walked to the shop, to my delight they had a pile of the buggers under half price! Things were looking up.

After more busses and tubes I arrived at the camera shop to pick up the item I’d ordered, specifically an astrological telescope that I’d managed to get cheap. I knew from pictures the telescope was large but I wasn’t expecting two people appearing from the back of shop carrying something the size of a fucking armchair.

‘How the fuck am I supposed to get that home!’ I said loudly, the person in the queue behind me melted away.

‘Put it under your arm, sir.’ Said one of the men, visibly annoyed by my outburst.

That was not going to work, but maybe if I carried it as if hugging,, well, an armchair. I experimented; the bugger weighed the same as, well, an armchair but I could get it off the ground. After moaning about the lack of handles to the tit in the shop I paid and left, almost immediately I had to put the box down, it was both heavy and awkward to manoeuvre. 50 yards took me 5 minutes.

I made it to the station and took the tube a couple of stops. I wrestled the ‘Scope out the carriage and dragged it up the stairs before having to carry it a quarter of a mile to the office. The 5 minute walk took me almost half and hour. By the time I arrived at the office I was in agony and shattered shitless.

I left the office at 3-ish as I intended to both cadge a lift to the station with a colleague and avoid the rush hour. By now I’d made a makeshift handle to make things slightly easier so, after getting dropped off and onto the platform, I parked the ‘Scope on the tube and forgot about it, until my stop came. Now I had to get the fucker from one tube line to the other. The platform and stairs were packed solid, how on earth I managed to get the bugger down the platform, let alone up the flight of stairs to the central line is anyone’s guess. Only one bloke helped and that was half-arsed, still, I was grateful enough to scream ‘thank you,’ to his face.

The last part of the journey required me to lug the ‘Scope to the bus stop and from the bus stop to home. It took me an age. I can’t tell you how chuffed I was when I got back but I’ll try. I was jolly chuffed. IC was jolly chuffed too.

So there you have it, I’m seeing pop combo The Motorheads tomorrow with some pals, so join me next week when I try and remember what the fuck happened.

Gerry’s chart first, then a great tune. Have fun, yeah.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Paramore Playing God NE 1 30
29 Brandon Flowers Only The Young NE 1 29
28 Plan B The Recluse 18 8 10
27 Gorillaz Doncamatic NE 1 27
26 Kings Of Leon Pyro NE 1 26
25 Clare Maguire Ain’t Nobody 13 6 5
24 Apocalyptica ft Brent Smith Not Strong Enough30 2 24
23 Manic Street Preachers Some Kind Of NothingnessNE 1 23
22 Blood Red Shoes Light It Up 28 2 22
21 Enter Shikari Destabilise 17 3 17
20 Escape The Fate Issues 24 2 20
19 Young Guns Weight Of The World 11 6 11
18 Tinie Tempah Written In The Stars 8 7 2
17 Crystal Castles ft Robert Smith Not In Love 27 2 17
16 Killing Joke European Super State 9 10 1
15 The View Sunday 22 2 15
14 Eels Baby Loves Me 16 3 14
13 The National Terrible Love 14 3 13
12 Biffy Clyro Booooom Blast And Ruin 7 5 7
11 IsobelCampbell/MarkLanegan YouWon’tLetMeDownAgain152 11
10 Grinderman Worm Tamer 10 3 10
9 We Are Scientists I Don’t Bite 4 7 4
8 The Courteeners Scratch My Name Upon Your Lips19 2 8
7 Alice In Chains Lesson Learned 5 4 5
6 Skunk Anansie Over The Love 12 4 6
5 Frankie And The Heartstrings Ungrateful 3 8 3
4 Pulled Apart By Horses Yeah Buddy 21 2 4
3 Sleigh Bells Infinity Guitars 6 4 3
2 Two Door Cinema Club I Can Talk 2 6 2
1 Hurts Stay 1 6 1


quayz

Pete showed up at 4 pm bearing two bottles of wine. He noted my comprised state and opened them on the spot, 10 minutes later I was back to normal. We spent a hilarious couple of hours catching up, generally reviewing the year since we last saw each other before Ned and James arrived and we headed off to the pub. Despite being drunk I ordered more wine that set off a war of attrition with my balance, I only won the battle an hour or so later after Ned went off home and we three settled into a Turkish restaurant and rammed our faces with whitebait, bread, meat and meat. More wine happened, one of the four bottles we’d bought for later broke under the table and soaked the shoes of our neighbouring diners. Why on earth we went back to the pub afterwards to carry on drinking before we went home to do more of the same remains shrouded in mystery.

By midnight we were arseholed beyond belief, Pete crashed and James and I stayed up drinking and chatting until I’ve no idea at all…

Sunday was fucking horrific, we three had breakfast with Mary and Patti who were passing by and my brothers in arms took themselves off to their respective homes. I spent a miserable afternoon cooking, cleaning and swallowing back bile before my bro joined me for a spot of Walking Dead and a horror film, both went some way to cheering me up (as did the large pile of spaghetti bolognaise I’d made) my brothers departure didn’t. I went to bed still dire.

Monday was only saved by the return of IC. Thank fuck for that. She had some thrilling news, it may be divulged later on, and we ate fisherman’s pie and watched a spot of telly.

On Tuesday I worked from home in the morning and went to the gym at lunch. On the way back, after un-locking my bike (dropping the lock with my keys in it, remember that bit for later) I peddled home all sweaty and chuffed I’d made it there, locked my bike (dropped the lock again with my keys still in it, remember now…) I went to my front door to notice my key was fucking bent (this is why I suggested you remember the dropping of my lock bit) and following one careful attempt to straighten it the cunt snapped in twain.

There I was in full smack gear without a phone, money and a fucked key to my world.

My mind raced for sanity, what to do? I had a few options, cycle to IC’s workplace, which would take an hour there and most likely two back, get the key fixed and leave my I-pod in lieu of payment, or three hope someone is in.

I wasn’t prepared to cycle to IC’s workplace, it was cold and I wasn’t dressed for such a task, in addition I was knackered from the gym. The best bet was the fix-key idea so I alighted my fucking bicycle and cycled to the heel and key bar a mile away before realised I’d lost the broken bit of the key.

I could’ve wept.


textidryver

Friday, 6pm, I met Den and one of his colleagues for a pint in Soho, Harry joined us, then Rob and finally Bill with his agent and assistant. Bill was over from New York to shoot a famous person (not with a gun like a machine gun, pistol or a gun. A camera) and we’d all arranged to meet up, like.

We’d decided to go to Cafe Boheme, not my first choice of eatery but I knew the food and immediate company would be more than acceptable. The place was jammed to the rafters with sods, awful rich types, not the sort of media-trustafarians one finds round my way, no, balls out poshopricks. It took ages to get to the back where our table was waiting because these people are so bloody rude they just refused to respond to polite ‘excuse me’s and ‘pardon you cunt’s.’ I was relieved to discover our fellow diners were a little more civilised.

My bro joined us presently and we began, my starter of duck terrine and main of pork belly was marvellous and wine began to flow, not in vast quantities but sufficiently, along with the banter. After paying the bill (place is very reasonable as it goes, which was handy as I’m not particularly flush at the moment) Bill paid for more wine at The Coach and Horses down the road, we stayed outside as everyone was keener to smoke than be warm, it seemed.

As Bill was leaving for home the following day he was keen the remaining revellers’, of which I was one, pop back to his hotel round the corner. With a moderately grand entrance, I wasn’t expecting the opulence contained within. This place was sublime. It managed to be discreetly luxurious, quintessentially ‘English,’ without being ostentatious or pretentious, think wood panelling, beautiful antique oil paintings and leather- bound books, and Colonel Mustard with a knife in his pee pee. The bathroom featured a marble bust of Hermes and an exceptional pen and ink portrait whose gazes colluded, conspired, to watch you micturate before following you round the room, bit rude and little bit sexy. And the drinks in the cabinet in the drawing room (and it was a drawing room, like off of the telly) were fucking free!

We didn’t outstay our welcome, Trish, Bill’s agent, lives nearby to my gaff in that East End so she called a cab. My bro decided to join us and at 1am we were heading East Side, but not before the driver threatened to chuck me out when I bollocked him for texting and driving. I reminded the driver that I was a lawyer and he shut up and did his job with his phone switched firmly off.

A home my bro crashed straight away and I went down at 4-ish following a music session. Subsequently I wasn’t ideally suited to deal with all the stuff I had to do on Saturday and the last thing I wanted was to do was cycle. So I cycled to Argos in Dalston to take back a faulty camera I’d bought for IC, Christ it was awful. Getting the refund on the camera wasn’t easy other, they were happy to exchange but I wanted my money back. I was forced to resort to ‘come on mate’ tactics before gently reminding him I knew my rights, after ten bloody minutes he folded and I wobbled off feeling both happy and pig-sick.

My next destination was the auto factors, annoyingly that’d shut down so I puffed my way home without the rear bulb for Johnston. As I wasn’t entirely convinced Johnston’s rear bulb had blown (it’s rare for both filaments to go so I suspected a loose wire causing the lack of illumination) I dismantled the rear light unit to find both an intact rear light bulb and, lo and behold, a detached wire! With a joyful heart, though still feeling dreadful, I had just started to assemble the unit when the little boy from over the way rushed over to say ‘hello,’ and trod on the fucking bulb. I managed to keep calm, poor little bugger looked petrified and even went so far as to say I had loads more bulbs, loads… which of course, I didn’t, or don’t.

More of this crap tomorrow, in the meantime. This…


yawney

It’s one of the most beautiful days we’ve had in weeks, one of those crispy winter fellows with lemon sharp sunshine, ice blue skies and a retreating fog, virgin white, all fluffy and shit. But I’ve just had a thoroughly miserable journey into the office and IC is away this weekend, the flavour of the occasion is dulled before it starts.

If it hadn’t been for the sensational vapours this morning I’d have thrown myself under a bus. I had to come into the office by public transport this morning, as I’m straight out after work, so I decided to come in via an alternative route. Indulge me if you will, there are about 14 ways of getting from my gaff in the east to this Turd in southwest. Most are either too long, too expensive or it involves a protracted amount of time jammed below on a tube, which is unacceptable.

A colleague suggested I go to London Bridge and instead of fannying about after the bus journey from Hackney (tube, train and tube again) I get the overland direct to a station near to my destination. All good on paper.

I arrived at London Bridge and located the station in question on the board, which helpfully had written next to it ‘see a member of staff.’ Every other destination, over 100 of them, had a platform number. The first member of staff I tried to consult was too busy shouting to a mate about how he was going to arrest ‘that cunt in the wheelchair what gave me the finger,’ the other waved in the direction of a distant corner of the station and muttered something about ‘on the left.’

After 15 minutes I found a platform that featured a station that would connect me to the right train, I waited 10 minutes and boarded. It took nearly 30 mins to get to the connection, instead of the usual London buzz one finds on the Waterloo to Wimbledon it was like sitting on the 10.40 to Treblinka. It was a thoroughly miserable trip through industrial estates, shit housing and scraggy wasteland; though occasionally pretty (largely due to sunlight/trees) it was deadly, deadly dull.

I alighted at Tulse Hill and waited on a soulless platform for another 20 fucking minutes before the train crapped into view. This final leg was the worst part as I had to snake around my old neighbourhood, which caused much snarling and gnashing of teeth. The final insult was the 20-minute walk from the station to the office past rotten little buildings with rotten window frames and stone cladding. The entire journey had taken 3 hours. THREE!

Right, rant over, it’s still number one! It’s still Top of the… er, chart time. Have good weekends, I hope I do.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Apocalyptica ft Brent Smith Not Strong Enough NE 1 30
29 My Chemical Romance Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na)17 2
28 Blood Red Shoes Light It Up NE 1 28
27 Crystal Castles ft Robert Smith Not In Love NE 1 27
26 Jimmy Eat World My Best Theory 15 12 1
25 Tame Impala Sundown Syndrome 27 2 25
24 Escape The Fate Issues NE 1 24
23 30 Seconds To Mars Search And Destroy 17 5 17
22 The View Sunday NE 1 22
21 Pulled Apart By Horses Yeah Buddy NE 1 21
20 OK Go White Knuckles 10 7 3
19 The Courteeners Scratch My Name Upon Your Lips NE 1 19
18 Plan B The Recluse 12 7 11
17 Enter Shikari Destabilise 22 2 17
16 Eels Baby Loves Me 23 2 16
15 Isobel Campbell Mark Lanegan YouWon’tLetMeDownAgain NE 1 15
14 The National Terrible Love 20 2 14
13 Clare Maguire Ain’t Nobody 7 5 5
12 Skunk Anansie Over The Love 18 3 12
11 Young Guns Weight Of The World 13 5 11
10 Grinderman Worm Tamer 19 2 10
9 Killing Joke European Super State 5 9 1
8 Tinie Tempah Written In The Stars 4 6 2
7 Biffy Clyro Booooom Blast And Ruin 9 4 7
6 Sleigh Bells Infinity Guitars 14 3 6
5 Alice In Chains Lesson Learned 8 3 5
4 We Are Scientists I Don’t Bite 6 6 4
3 Frankie And The Heartstrings Ungrateful 3 7 3
2 Two Door Cinema Club I Can Talk 2 5 2
1 Hurts Stay 1 5 1


dranks

Due to the horrors of employment, IC was late arriving at the pub near Liverpool Street on Thursday evening. I thought I’d selected my establishment wisely, I was keen to avoid the sharp-suited sneering city types, but I failed. Unconvinced anywhere else would be better I grabbed a stool (the none faecal kind) and a pint and settled down with a battered copy of Bike.

The group of cunts stood next to me were just the types I’d sought to keep my distance from. Vile, reprehensible shits shouting loudly with the sort of language that would make a docker blush. I’m not known for colourless language at the best if times but screaming obscenities aggressively across the bar is just appalling. I was subject to this for a good hour; by the time I left to meet IC outside it became apparent that these young buggers were sparring for a punch-up. Awful types.

IC and I arrived at the restaurant in Whitechapel dead on 8.30, the place was half empty which was surprising as it’s new, very reasonably priced and already has an excellent reputation. I had the Guinea Fowl, IC the sea bass, and we drank a decent wine over conversation, it was a jolly nice evening and the food stunning. On the way to the bus stop I was asked for change four times in under a minute as a skinhead vomited copiously on the pavement. Good old Whitechapel.

By the time we arrived back at Hackney it was still a little too early for home, so we nipped to our local. Unexpectedly a large goth chap recognised us from the gym (of all places) and ushered us to the regulars space by the bar. At 3am we were still there following the pub singing ‘happy birthday’ to IC and free cake courtesy of the Italian chef (nor the one from The Muppets)

We didn’t resume birthday celebrations until lunch the following day, we went to a cafe in Victoria Park and I indulged in a fry-up, then we went to Shoreditch to see Mick Rock’s photographs of rock royalty. As it happened the great man was there, I would’ve barged in to the room where he was giving an interview but thought better of it at the last second. Some of the shots of Syd Barrett and The Ramones brought a lump to the throat… do go, free entry an’all.

By now it was mid afternoon; we had to be at Farringdon for 4 because Mary had invited IC and I over for a bit of hair-cutting action. We grabbed the bus and made it with 5 mins to spare, after an hour of chopping we were back on the bus, suitably shorn, aimed squarely for the doors of a small cocktail lounge itself on the way to the designated boozer for the evenings indulgencies. By 8pm IC was surrounded by well-wishing pals and I was well on my way. I thought I was too tired, I wasn’t, in fact after the pub we invited a few friends back to the flat and carried on until the smallest of hours.

Saturday lunch saw the second fry-up in as many days, but only after IC and I visited a person whose identity I’m not at liberty to disclose, it was a harrowfying ordeal as well, and you’d fucking love it too… oh well. I have to say I was feeling a little ropey before I ate, especially after the dreadful ordeal, but I left the cafe in much better condition. We meandered home via the shops and watched Frantic when we got in. By the time that was done it was dark, we had plans for the evening so we slowly got ourselves ready and prepped to go out.

I wasn’t in the mood for a club but I’d had a few stiff drinks to take the edge off proceedings, we strolled to Dalston mentally preparing ourselves for the sweating throngs within the destined club at 10. As it turned out the joint was quite empty when we arrived, this allowed me time to make my acquaintance with a couple of the bar staff in order to increase my presence when the place packed out later. Believe me, it works.

An hour later the club was solid, Mary had played a marvellous set during which I was knocked flat to the ground by a fat bird that had leapt off a ledge and missed her fucking boyfriend stood to my right. I wasn’t happy and swear words came out of my mouth in a long, loud stream. A few drinks later and I was as right as rain and, to my surprise, having a splendid time. I think it was 3am when the houselights came on and we blinked our way into the cold, wet evening and buggered about all the way home with a few mates. I recall running, I’m not one for running.

I suppose it’s fairly obvious what happened next, in fact you might have to remind me because I was told by IC that I went to bed at 8am. The following afternoon I was surprised to learn that my brother had stayed over, and then Mary called IC and suggested we meet in a pub. Now it should be fairly apparent that I’m not one to shun a drink, but even I thought this was ridiculous. Not that much mind, an hour later I was second glass in and drunkenly talking to a local at the bar about motorcycle boots.

We didn’t stay too long, Patti had offered to come over to the flat to cook stuffed squid for my bro, IC, Mary and I. She arrived looking decidedly the worse for wear; in fact she cooked the food and fucked off without eating a mouthful. We four saw the weekend off with Goodfellas, well sort of, I could barely see anything.


multee

For those of you with a keen eye, you may have noticed the long dangling addition to today’s post contains what looks suspiciously like Gerry’s chart, more often than not published on Friday.

No, your eyes don’t deceive, the chart is here today for a very good reason. It’s IC’s birthday tomorrow (legal at last thank fuck) so I’ll not be in a position to post. In addition to the likelihood I’ll contain a hangover on account of the warm-up celebrations taking place this very eve, I don’t think writing yet another entry to this tired old blog on the day of her birth will go down very well. Cavorting about that there London seems a far more sensible way to proceed, so we’ll be doing precisely that.

I’ve been going to the gym during lunchtime lately, not everyday you’ll understand, that’d be obscene. There is a marked difference between those that go in the evenings and those attending during the day. Whilst you could describe the former as eclectic the lunch lot are polarised into two definitive camps. Fat old women and balls-out body builders (check out that alliteration) and obviously me as an impartial observer as I weakly pull/push the hurty levers, but for the purposes of making sweeping, judgemental statements, I don’t count.

The female contingent sit at machines nonchalantly rotating limbs as they watch the bank of TV’s that occupy one side of the room, to be honest it looks like an utter waste of time but at least the intention is there and they’re trying to achieve something.

The body builders are a pole apart. Brick-built men pounding about enormous weights with veins popping out of their flesh like attacking vipers, these fellows don’t just grunt, occasionally they’ll actually scream. One bloke in particular looked fit to explode; red-faced and drenched in sweat he didn’t pause for a second for the entire time I was present, not for a second. He’d lift dumbbells the size of motorcycles before running to the multi-gym, there he worked as if trying to pull Susan Boyle onto a bucking horse, before rushing back to the filthy pain of the weights. I was exhausted just watching him before getting genuinely concerned he was going to fucking die and hand me the baton of posttraumatic stress. What a selfish tit.

I suppose I should apologise for the lack of activity on here this week, if you want more hurry over to Watch With Mothers (link right) and read my article on Coppers, a TV Show Monday nights on Channel 4.

Right, chart, tune and do feel free to wish the better half a happy birthday by hook or by crook. Cheerio.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Interpol Barricades 22 10 2
29 Bullet For My Valentine Fever 19 7 7
28 Good Charlotte Like It’s Her Birthday 26 3 26
27 Tame Impala Sundown Syndrome NE 1 27
26 The Wombats Tokyo (Vampires And Wolves) 18 8 2
25 Bryan Ferry Shameless 28 2 25
24 Kings Of Leon Radioactive 17 9 5
23 Eels Baby Loves Me NE 1 23
22 Enter Shikari Destabilise NE 1 22
21 A-Ha Butterfly Butterfly……. 16 6 12
20 The National Terrible Love NE 1 20
19 Grinderman Worm Tamer NE 1 19
18 Skunk Anansie Over The Love 25 2 18
17 30 Seconds To Mars Search And Destroy 21 4 17
16 Carl Barat Run With The Boys 13 5 13
15 Jimmy Eat World My Best Theory 10 11 1
14 Sleigh Bells Infinity Guitars 24 2 14
13 Young Guns Weight Of The World 15 4 13
12 Plan B The Recluse 11 6 10
11 My Chemical Romance Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na) 7 6 2
10 OK Go White Knuckles 6 6 3
9 Biffy Clyro Booooom Blast And Ruin 12 3 9
8 Alice In Chains Lesson Learned 14 2 8
7 Clare Maguire Ain’t Nobody 5 4 5
6 We Are Scientists I Don’t Bite 8 5 6
5 Killing Joke European Super State 3 8 1
4 Tinie Tempah Written In The Stars 2 5 2
3 Frankie And The Heartstrings Ungrateful 4 6 3
2 Two Door Cinema Club I Can Talk 9 4 2
1 Hurts Stay 1 4 1


shidwether

Arses, it’s Monday, another weekend has been consigned to history and to make matters considerably worse the weather has turned up its toes, it’s blowing a hurricane out there, and as I type this rain is being mercilessly smashed into my window. At least it’s going to be noticeably dark at 4.00 pm, so that’s good isn’t it. Oh well, only another 5 solid months of this shit.

I’m particularly aware of where we are in the year today, the Moto GP season finished yesterday, I can no longer convince myself there is a fleeting hint of the previous season in the air, we’re now staring at autumn’s death mask, itself barely concealing the howling winter ahead. I suppose the fact there is one more F1 left in the season provides a certain degree of succour, but then again, it’s not Moto GP which is vastly superior. So it doesn’t. Blast.

I hope this negative start to today’s bollocks doesn’t indicate my weekend was somehow insubstantial; on the contrary, it was marvellous. It started in a packed Tesco early Friday eve with IC and I undertaking a spot of shopping in the company of a million, million bastards all pushing and shoving. Oddly it was quite fun, I’ve no idea why. The purpose of this ridiculous undertaking -I mean who goes to a supermarket early Friday evening? Surely it’s going to be heaving- was to procure some cheese/crackers/snacks etc for a handful of friends due over 8-ish in the hope of seeing fireworks from atop our block.

IC had sent out a few invites to friends earlier in the week assuming that most people would’ve made other plans, but this wasn’t the case. We were even hoping to invite more but were forced to stop when all our RSVP’s came back with a ‘qui.’ By 9-ish there were at least 15 people in our gaff and I was running about in a manner similar to a winged, feathered creature but, alas, decapitated. All the while I was happily pouring fucking wine down my neck.

I thought we’d gone a bit overboard with the food at Tesco earlier but I was wrong, indeed, quite a lot of our pals brought food and that didn’t last 5 minutes either. There was no such issue with the booze though, it flowed freely without end and everyone had a splendid time I should imagine, and we saw some fireworks.

I got up midday Saturday feeling as I should and IC and I drifted off to Broadway Market to get some lights for my bicycle. Incredulous as it sounds, I intend to cycle to the gym after work (occasionally) and now it’s darker than Peter Tobin I require the necessary accessories. It was lovely walking through London Fields, despite my moaning that the pretty leaves clinging to the trees would be off in a of couple days leaving skeletal branches to scrape woody digits across boiling black skies.

We only intended to drop by the pub to enquire of its availability for Friday evening (it’s IC’s birthday) but wound up staying for a drink, well, I’m only human, born to make mistakes. This led us to our local round 7 where we were joined by Patti and Mary. As we hadn’t eaten IC and I ordered takeaway pizza at the bar (we are fortunate to have a proper spit and sawdust boozer with an Italian chef who makes proper Italian pizza) that we left to cool at our feet as Saturday night wound to a close. The pizza was excellent by the way, so good we saved some for breakfast Sunday.

We spent the morning and afternoon home; I had F1 and bikes to observe and had been set a task by IC which involved tape measures and drills. I thought it’d take 30 mins to put the pictures up, no, about 3 hours. Predictably the evening saw us briefly in the pub; I would’ve been happy to stay all night but Monday was already looming large, the big bloody sod.


haredier

I’m not one for passing stupid laws but I think learners on little fartpeds shouldn’t be allowed to operate as couriers. You’ve a combination of inexperience, the perpetual potential of an increased salary factored in with deadlines, which results in a very simple outcome. Cunts endangering my life.

The city is bristling with these little fuckers. They’re actually worse than those tools on the woefully coined ‘Boris Bikes’ who wobble about the place like they’re 10 pints down. These little pricks weave about the city with no regard whatsoever to other forms of life, they operate their turdy little hairdryers with a scant regard to basic physics and I’m almost positive that, like houseflies, they only live for one day before another equally deranged specimen takes up the saddle.

I accept it’s more than likely I’m noticing these creatures more lately due to being on Johnston. In addition to being low to the ground he looks a lot smaller than he is exposing us to a piss taking from ‘riders’ who, familiar with being overtaken by arseholes on Boris Bikes, think I’m fair game for an overtaking, which I most certainly am not. They seem to get annoyed when I blow them off at the lights (not orally, that’s not my cup of tea) then refuse to accept they’re wankers and spend the next 10 mins having a go. Which is, of course, utterly fucking pointless. But this doesn’t stop them buzzing about me at the next set of lights before it all starts over again. It’s jolly vexing I can tell you.

Weeks been good, lots of going out, Wednesday with IC, last night with my bro, on both occasions we visited the boozer in Angel by the canal. I can’t resist the enormous burger they serve so I had one on Wednesday and Thursday, much to my abject disgust at myself. Mind you, I have been to the gym 3 times this week but that’s a completely different horror story.

Tonight having a few bods over to watch fireworks over that there London from our balcony, then, well, we’ll see. I hope I don’t get arseholed.

Gerry’s chart and tune, and for Christ’s sake have good weekends, and don’t forget to put the lid back on the tin when you’ve taken out a firework or you might get exploded.

Sorry about chart format, my work PC is older than Nebuchadnezzar and the Word installed on here has a bus pass.

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


kweasy

You’ll be delighted to hear that we pushed the boat out as far as it would go for my brother’s birthday. Unfortunately it went out so far it floated off and we were left to tread dubious waters in the small hours off our collective fizzogs.

It’s not as if the week had got off to a conservative start. I’d met IC directly after work on the Friday in The City to take advantage of a free cocktail via one of our pals. The idea was to sink this and nip off somewhere else but the weather was atrocious and as the lounge offered seating and shelter we decided to stay on, besides, we’d been joined by a couple of IC’s pals and I found them to be excellent company which encouraged further merriment.

It was around 10pm when I arrived at the Vietnamese place to get some takeaway. As IC was feeling shattered from an awkward day I’d volunteered to stop off and let her get back home, which meant I was effectively let loose on these poor dear people without the guiding hand of my better half. A couple of the waiting staff recognised me which presented the opportunity for small talk; Christ knows what I was gabbling on about but they seemed amused by my jovial condition, as did passing pedestrians who shouted cheery greetings as I wobbled back home with my food. At one point I stopped to make sure my winkle wasn’t hanging out.

On Saturday I was faced with a dilemma, go shopping with IC and Patti or stay home. Naturally my instinct was inclined toward the former but due to my not having been clothes shopping for an age I concluded that going would be of benefit, even if the prospect of Oxford Street on a Saturday afternoon was about as warming as cold hippo sick.

My main concern was the reality of shopping with not one but two women, I’m a bit of an in and out type, I know which shops will see me right, where they are and most importantly what I need to get in advance. Subsequently, 20 minutes into our spree, I was sorted with a couple of black tees and some trousers. I couldn’t say the same for my partners in crime who were bowling in and out of shops like pinballs without so much as a by your leaving to mixing metaphors.

Two hours later this was still going on, my dogs were barking and I was exhausted by having to perpetually dodge millions of rat-faced people who seemed hell bent on quick-stepping me into the traffic. Between them, IC and Patti had purchased one pair of jeans in the time it takes me to ride to and from work twice. Fortunately they sensed my despair and ushered me into a pub off Shaftsbury Avenue where balance was restored.

On account of the shopping and the impromptu visit to the pub, we didn’t have enough time to go home before meeting my brother in Angel to begin the evening festivities. We arrived at the designated venue 30 mins early, by the time my bro arrived at 6 I was hungrier than Dawn French after a colonic. I ate a magnificent burger just as Mary appeared, then it seemed that within a matter of mere minutes there was a throng of us, fifteen strong, maybe more, and the wine in endless supply.

I’m not sure what time we left, IC was exhausted so had made her exit at around 10. A group of five made our way to a pub near Angel tube which was populated by a yet more friends, one or two of whom I’d not seen in a while which inspired yet more swigging. Bearing in mind it was now the early hours of Halloween the pub was remarkably calm. Save a few lamely attired ghouls drifting about and The Shining playing silently on a couple of screens near the bar it could’ve been midweek at lunchtime.

Anna suggested a small handful of us popped back to hers to see the evening off after the gaff shut at 1-ish. So with my bro and his mate in tow, Patti and Paul who’d managed to cling onto the group, we found ourselves in a beautiful apartment a few yards away from the pub laden with vodka and much more besides. The next few hours are vague to say the least, I recall lots of laughing but also dimly aware that the enormous amount of fun I was having would have to be paid for.

This came to pass. I arrived home at 7am after a long, packed bus ride feeling bizarre, the next thing I know IC was trying to wake me reminding me we had an appointment with my family for lunch to celebrate my brother’s birthday. I was in no condition to sit-up let alone travel miles to my folks.

To add insult to injury IC still wasn’t feeling chipper and I was forced to undertake this horrific journey alone. I still have no idea how I made it there, by the time I did the family had already finished lunch and I was ushered onto the couch to stare catatonically at my shrieking nieces. My mum insisted I ate despite my stomach being the size of a rejected walnut, the upshot of this was actually positive and I managed to muster up enough energy to engage with oldest of my nieces who spent the afternoon farting loudly and trying out new words she’d heard from my mother of all people (bollocks, bloody hell and arse) which amused me no end.

My bro and I left for the east at 4-ish, the journey back was a fucking nightmare, I was subject to a tooth-grinding panic attack and had to get off the train en-route to compose myself. It was fortunate my bro was with me or I would’ve made an enormous tit of myself, I mean more so than normal.

In the meantime IC was feeling a hit better and had nipped out to meet some pals, she suggested we met in the local at 6, something I wasn’t that keen to pursue on the one hand but on the other, experience has taught me that the hair of the dog is the only to resolve these sorts of sicknesses and by 7 I was cured.
This stuff is marvellous, brace yourselves.