Monthly Archives: February 2011


‘What Difference a Day Makes,’ to quote the eponymously titled words of this beautiful song by G.G Allin. Yesterday IC and I learnt that the bastards are giving us the mortgage to buy our gaff, which is somewhat of a relief. Though it’s not over until the ink’s dry, of course… At about the same time this news landed in my shell-like ear my estate agent emailed me to let me know someone was making advances with regard to buying my ex-pit in sarf landan, but the less said about that the better… I don’t wish to tempt fate. Not that in believe in such bollocks. Sort of ‘not,’ anyway.

It’s not been a bad week though, we had a quiet Monday (we’ve been watching this Danish cop series called The Killing, it’s addictive and free to see on the i-player) and Tuesday met up with Patti in the local for a quick drink before returning home to more of The Killing. Wednesday I met up with my bro in the usual pub in Angel, the burger we had made more than 3 pints impossible so we popped back to his gaff for a shot of Scotch, watched the ‘bond session’ Alan Partridge and I went off home at 9-ish. I didn’t actually get back until 11 because I stopped off at my local where many friendly faces were happy to insist I stayed for one more, which I only did twice.

After hearing yesterday’s marvellous news I met up with Frank for a beer, it’d been a while so we had one in a pub by The Eye before stopping off at a decent curry house by the station and ramming our respective heads with lamb. You wouldn’t expect such a splendid curry to come from opposite Waterloo station but it’s actually very good. I saw Frank off at 9 and made it home with a bottle of fizzy shit to celebrate our good news.

Short one today, I’ve got to pop into town for a bloody meeting. I’ll leave you with Gerry’s chart and tune. Have good weekends.


NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Frankie & The Heartstrings Hunger 27 5 23
29 Eric Prydz Niton (The Reason) 28 2 28
28 Architects Learn To Live 20 6 14
27 The Strokes Under Cover Of Darkness NE 1 27
26 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 18 15 1
25 Yuck Holing Out NE 1 25
24 Pulled Apart By Horses I Punched A Lion In The Throat NE 1 24
23 Beady Eye The Roller 17 6 13
22 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 14 12 1
21 You Me At Six ft Chiddy Rescue Me 25 4 21
20 Miles Kane Come Closer 29 2 20
19 Neon Trees Animal 19 5 19
18 Elbow Neat Little Rows 23 3 18
17 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex 11 8 4
16 Panic! At The Disco The Ballad Of Mona Lisa NE 1 16
15 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 10 10 2
14 Glasvegas The World Is Yours 21 2 14
13 PJ Harvey The Words That Maketh Murder 8 6 7
12 Brother Darling Buds Of May 15 4 12
11 Manic Street Preachers Postcards From A Young Man 13 3 11
10 British Sea Power Living Is So Easy 12 5 10
9 REM Uberlin 16 2 9
8 Chase And Status Blind Faith 5 9 4
7 White Lies Bigger Than Us 4 12 1
6 Mona Teenager 9 4 6
5 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 6 4 5
4 Hurts Sunday 7 4 4
3 Band Of Horses Dilly 3 5 3
2 Chapel Club Surfacing 2 6 2
1 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 1 7 1


IC and I are in the thick of it, to coin a phrase unrelated to the television programme of the same name. The house buying lark is in its final stages with nothing confirmed 100% one way or the other, the wedding planning has hit a bit of a peak throwing up a whole load of stuff I’d not even thought about and it seems some tool is interested in buying my flat in that miserable corner of South London where everyone’s a loser, baby.

In the midst of this thickness we’re sort of managing to maintain our marbles. Being under such pressure, irrespective of the potential of a positive outcome (which could be argued makes it worse –actually I’d argue that), doesn’t make for a comfortable existence, chuck in the fact that business is nonexistent, the bank balance isn’t balanced and I cut the end off my right nipple when I dropped the razor shaving Friday morning, then you can see that things have been better. Surely you can see that.

With these things bearing down, Friday afternoon turned to evening in an almost sinister manner. I’d spent most of the day at home trying to work and it didn’t feel like the weekend was ‘pon me and even if it was, deserved. I met my bro in a boozer in Hackney at 7, we were later joined by IC, SH, JRME and Siegfried for a few beers and a civilised catch-up. I’d not met the latter pair but it was jolly nice to put faces in places of comments on this there internet

After a few, Bro, IC and I went home, I managed to have a row with the pair of them then we went to bed, not all together you’ll understand, that’d be horrific and possibly illegal.

I got up late Saturday and the afternoon consisted of paperwork relating to the above. At 6-ish IC and I donned some nice togs and went to Angel in search of the French Cafe we’d booked. It was cold and miserable outside but the Bistro warm, inviting, despite the staff who clearly fucking hated us both. We shared a starter and I chose a braised pork shank with sauerkraut for my main, IC had the sea bass. After the initial visual disappointment of my main (it looked like something off Cannibal Holocaust) I have to say it was nothing short of excellent, one of those fellows (and it may have been for all I know, we were in French gaff) that got better as it went on. I could’ve drunk the sauce outta of a tea-cup, in fact I even asked for extra bread with which to mop it up. I was looked at as if I’d just fallen out of a tramps nose.

We were home by 11, so we stayed up and watched a few movies with a glass or two of vino until we could no longer see straight. There was no doubt, we both needed that.

Sunday: Strangely, the hangover I’d been expecting hadn’t materialised. We set off to Brick Lane early afternoon to search for our stolen bicycles, it was cold and wet so many of the cunts selling had either packed up already or didn’t bother showing in the first place.

On the way home we popped into a few shops for dinner stuff then onto a pub on Mare Street to see Mary and Paul for a quick snifter. The weekend concluded with a nut roast, roast spuds with tomato and onion, roasted of course, and The Deerhunter which was really, really hilarious. Ahahahha.



On Sunday my niece was christened. Due to the fact my folks live miles away from my current location they insisted that IC my bro and I pop over Saturday evening so we’d be ready to go early Sunday, they’d even buy dinner, they said.

IC and managed to get the train by the skin of our prosthetics, my bro, who’d been waiting for us at Waterloo, wasn’t best pleased. We trundled down South to Surrey and took the lugubrious walk to my folks before being driven off to a fucking Cafe Rouge, formally a boozer that I used to score drugs from.

We had a nice evening despite the so so grub. Our fellow diners were a funny lot though, a revolting pissed woman tearing a strip off her inebriated husband was the highlight for me, especially when he went outside to tinkle in the car park as he cursed the air when we left.

After a weird’s nights sleep in my old bedroom we woke with the prospect of church pushing us down into our bedclothes, nonetheless, for the sake of family, I found myself in said institution aged about 10 with all these old bods I’d not seen in a fucking generation doing that, ‘oooh, haven’t you grown’ sort of thing. It was all rather disturbing.

The service plodded on for most of the morning, on the plus side my niece’s head didn’t melt when it came to the ecumenical dunking and my older niece told the priest that ‘eating too much makes you sick’ during the hands-on sermon about the feeding of the five thousand (gawd) and we finished off with Jerusalem (which has more to do with English patriotism than ‘God’) a song which I genuinely like because I’m a big William Blake fan. You heard me.

But none of this justified the excruciating boredom I was subject to and the utter drivel that I had to put up with for hours. The reward came in the form of a party at my sister’s gaff half an hour away. The table groaned with the sort of British finger food that causes the rest of Europe to run gagging in the opposite direction, but precisely the sort of tucker I couldn’t wait to stick down my neck. Egg and cress, mustard and onion, cheese and pickle sandwiches, pork pies, meat pastries, cheese twists, pizza bread, crisps, nuts and loads and loads of beer/wine.

My sisters gaff was packed with family, friends and neighbours, all engaging in a most delightful way as toddlers yelled, burped and occasionally, whacked each other with toys that lay scattered about the place like Helmand mines. By the time I left early evening I was stuffed, pissed and little stoned courtesy of a generous neighbour. We took the fucking train back to Hackney and spent the evening gently allowing ourselves to worry about the week ahead.

Speaking of, it’s been a funny old week, not necessarily in the ‘ha ha’ sense, in fact -for the most part- it’s been largely humourless, despite much getting done as it were. I managed to get some work done on Johnston with dad on Monday; it looks right nice with its new short chrome pipes, but we still have clutch issues. Cunts!

On Valentine’s evening Patti popped over to our gaff to cook us fresh rabbit, which was jolly nice of her bearing in mind the day and all that. I’d gone to enormous trouble to make roasted potatoes which we ate with the fucking rabbit. Why on earth we’re not eating more of this creature is beyond me, it’s vermin for crying out loud, the buggers eat crops, and once they’ve established a colony they’ll continue to breed like, er, people from Hull. On top of it all they’re delicious, lean and tasty, and there is no reason for them to be so pricey at all. COME ON ENGLAND!


Anyway, apart from nearly getting into a fist fight over the identity of the senator character in Godfather 2 in the boozer on Wednesday, there is nothing more to say… I could moan if you want? No?

Have good weekends. Why it’s Gerry’s chart and a choon. Now get out, I need to take a shit.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Motorhead Get Back In Line 19 8 8
29 Miles Kane Come Closer NE 1 29
28 Eric Prydz Niton (The Reason) NE 1 28
27 Frankie And The Heartstrings Hunger 24 4 23
26 Black Keys Tighten Up 21 4 18
25 You Me At Six ft Chiddy Rescue Me 27 3 25
24 Noah And The Whale L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N 16 3 16
23 Elbow Neat Little Rows 30 2 23
22 Martin Solveig ft dragonette Hello 18 6 12
21 Glasvegas The World Is Yours NE 1 21
20 Architects Learn To Live 14 5 14
19 Neon Trees Animal 26 4 19
18 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 12 14 1
17 Beady Eye The Roller 13 5 13
16 REM Uberlin NE 1 16
15 Brother Darling Buds Of May 20 3 15
14 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 10 11 1
13 Manic Street Preachers Postcards From A Young Man 23 2 13
12 British Sea Power Living Is So Easy 17 4 12
11 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex 8 7 4
10 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 6 9 2
9 Mona Teenager 11 3 9
8 PJ Harvey The Words That Maketh Murder 7 5 7
7 Hurts Sunday 9 3 7
6 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 15 2 6
5 Chase And Status Blind Faith 4 8 4
4 White Lies Bigger Than Us 2 11 1
3 Band Of Horses Dilly 5 4 3
2 Chapel Club Surfacing 3 5 2
1 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 1 6 1


It’s been a busy few days; in short, IC and I are up to our eyes in mortgage-based paperwork and the whole nuptial-organisation lark. It’s all rather stressful so we’ve been allowing ourselves time to relax, at times a little too pedantically.

Take Friday, we’d planned a quiet one after a quick visit to the local. But on the way we bumped into Ted who suggested we might like to nip quickly to his for a pre-pub drink. This turned out to be a rather generous helping of Scotches over the course of an hour as IC sipped wine concernedly, by the time we arrived at the pub I was acutely aware of being too-arseholed-early which wasn’t aided by the lack of food in my stomach. This matter was further exacerbated by the huge quantity of patrons in that evening, the ones I didn’t know were introduced to me by Ted who was doing a better job of remaining coherent, despite his having drunk more than me.

Before IC took me off home it had been noted by a couple of friends that I was foolscap white and I distinctly remember doing a bit of sick in mouth after resting my head on a black fellows shoulder and informing him I was ‘having a whitey.’ Go me.

Oddly I wasn’t too hungover Saturday, this may have had something with 12 hours sleep and a relatively early evening, indeed, by the time IC and I hit Broadway Market to investigate the dubious cycles sold at the end of London Fields I was in fine fettle.

We hooked up with Patti, Mary and her bro, Ben and thought it rude to not meet Ann in the local for a swift half, like. Turns out Ben and I have tastes in music, shortly I’ll post a couple of links to his site, and we nattered over a pair of beers until IC and I were forced back home to prepare for the evening and the gist of the weekend as it were.

More tomorrow, in the meantime…


If you’re going to bother, this contains spoilers of sorts (but in my opinion the whole fucking affair is one big spoiler)

I can’t turn a corner, a page, without seeing in-my-face eulogies to the re-made ‘True Grit.’

Apart from the cinematography which is acceptable in parts, I thought the film was fucking awful and I’m struggling to see what has inspired so many screaming, squealing raptures of delight.

I don’t normally enter into this sort of territory (Watch with Mothers is your man for that sort of business) but I’m in a state of confusion over this. On the one hand I’m more than used to luck-pushing quotes from ‘critics’ (‘It’s the best film ever made in the history of the whole world in his hands’) before learning said critic is Dave Squires from Packaging Digest. But this is different; the new True-Grit posters have renowned critics almost pissed with admiration.

For a kick off every word uttered by Jeff Bridges was as intelligible as Italian politics and the character played by Jason Bourne was more pointless than a Halifax advert. We went from one boring scene to another over a period of what felt like week but it was towards the end that I found myself pointing at the screen with my silently flapping jaw trying to work out if I was watching a Coen Brothers Film or a home-grown effort made as an afterthought by Channel 5.

The scene at the end where the snotty-nosed lead falls unconvincingly down the massive, yet unseen, fucking chasm (right by her) following a poorly-timed / executed recoil from a shotgun, only to land by a dead body, a dead body with snakes (!!) looked like the mental exposition of a daydreaming 10-year-old. And then it just sort of ended, very unsatisfactorily I hasten to add.

What the fucking nora is going on here?

I’ll post normally tomorrow, I just needed to get this off my chest and hope that someone agrees.


I’ve been pike-ill most of the week, nothing approaching fatal, just a cold. This state of affairs has had two main effects, one, I’ve been working more sporadically than usual and two, it served to remind me that I’ve no recollection where the fucking idiot phrase ‘man-flu’ came from.

A few years ago this phrase was never in use was it? I certainly don’t remember it when I was in my 20’s (though I don’t recall much from that decade if I’m honest, less so, my 30’s. And if I’m to be perfectly frank about it I’m not beginning my 40’s in the spirit of abstinence… I digress). These days you could be suffering from final-stage convulsions of Spanish Flu and some bloody female will simply chuckle it off as ‘man-flu’ whilst giving off that ‘oh you men!’ look (the one that features fucking periods and the prospect/reality of childbirth) as you lie there trying not to hack up your toenails. I wonder how many men have actually died because of this ridiculous coupling of words. Think about it.

‘Darling, I don’t feel so good.’
‘You lazy wanker!’
‘Honestly, love, I feel really unwell, Christ I think I’m having a heat att…’
‘Get off the floor you CUNT! It’s just M… F…’

There see.

So in addition to this cold, my work is bloody awful at the moment and to stick the knife in, twist it around and jiggle it about, some cunt has nicked my new bicycle.

This may seem incredulous to some readers as only this week I was bemoaning the theft of IC’s and eulogising the one I’d bought for a song. To use a word that doesn’t spring readily from my lexical choice, I’m ‘gutted,’ but perhaps more than this, I feel shocked and violated. Quite honestly, I stood stock still for a good 15 seconds staring at the space where my bike once stood in sheer disbelief. If it wasn’t for the fact they’d left the front wheel (and pinched the front wheel off my old mountain bike that sat untouched) I could’ve convinced myself it never existed. When I did accept what had happened it felt like some had groped my front bottom then laughed in my face. Then I became very cross indeed, I was even inspired to shout out a very rude word into the fucking air.

I’ll stop talking about this before I smash the flat to pieces. Yes, have good weekends. Gerry’s chart and tune follow.



NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Elbow Neat Little Rows NE 1 30
29 The Naked And Famous Young Blood 27 2 27
28 Nero Me And You 17 7 12
27 You Me At Six ft Chiddy Rescue Me 30 2 27
26 Neon Trees Animal RE 3 26
25 30 Seconds To Mars Hurricane 14 7 11
24 Frankie And The Heartstrings Hunger 23 3 23
23 Manic Street Preachers Postcards From A Young Man NE 1 23
22 Funeral Party Finale 13 6 8
21 Black Keys Tighten Up 18 3 18
20 Brother Darling Buds Of May 25 2 20
19 Motorhead Get Back In Line 10 7 8
18 Martin Solveig ft Dragonette Hello 12 5 12
17 British Sea Power Living Is So Easy 26 3 17
16 Noah And The Whale L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N 22 2 16
15 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down NE 1 15
14 Architects Learn To Live 15 4 14
13 Beady Eye The Roller 16 4 13
12 Crystal Castles ft R Smith Not In Love 8 13 1
11 Mona Teenager 21 2 11
10 The Pretty Reckless Just Tonight 6 10 1
9 Hurts Sunday 19 2 9
8 The Vaccines Post Break-Up Sex 5 6 4
7 PJ Harvey The Words That Maketh Murder 7 4 7
6 The Wombats Jump Into The Fog 3 8 2
5 Band Of Horses Dilly 9 3 5
4 Chase And Status Blind Faith 4 7 4
3 Chapel Club Surfacing 11 4 3
2 White Lies Bigger Than Us 1 10 1
1 Two Door Cinema Club What You Know 2 5 1


I met Neil mid fry-up in the cafe by Hackney Central, I had a quick tea and off we went. After suffering the single decker bus and DLR ride all the miserable way to the ExCel centre we arrived just in time for the show Neil had bought tickets for. I have to say, I was filled with trepidation, justifiably so in the case of the low-rent presenters and the ‘Fuel Girls’ -tarty fire-eaters ineffectively gyrating to rock music (for fucks sake, why are people that ride motorcycles assumed to be cock-tugging retards) but all this forgivable for some of the bike displays and the chance to see genuine hero’s of mine dicking about on trail bikes (I’ll spare you the details).

The afternoon unfurled perfectly, Neil and I rushed from stand to bike to bar like children skiving from school pausing only for a long chat to a very nice Triumph dealer from Romford about the headlamps on the new Speed Triple. In our travels, disturbingly, Neil and I found ourselves lusting over a Harley (we both agreed it must be our age) but I’d have given it all up for a matt black Ducati 848. Between us I reckon we sat on every single post 500cc bike there, by the time we left my bum was raw.

Neil and I made the awful journey back to Hackney; we collected his two dogs from his flat, walked them over London Fields and went to the pub. Earlier in the day some cunt had nicked IC’s brand new bicycle, she joined us with her anger and upset contained, Neil’s better half arrived shortly after and we had a splendid evening together.

Saturday started late, after a cup of tea I popped out to pick up a bicycle I’d bought off one of IC’s ex-housemates who’d gone to Oz a few months earlier. The bike was originally going for £500 but after a few months of no-takers he’d put it down to £100. Ironically I’d agree to buy it a few minutes before hearing IC had her nicked.

Both tyres were flat but I wasn’t fussed, the bike is stunning, black aluminium frame, low profile tyres, drop bars… and it’s lighter than a quaver. After bringing it back I de-bolted-on goodies it and gave a it a quick clean, then IC and I headed off to Stoke Newington to visit a possible venue for our London Nup bash.

The boozer was tucked away off the High Street but worth the 30 minute walk there, in addition to it being just about right in most aspects I found myself sat between a Sex Pistols poster and two photos of Barry Sheene which I took to be a sign of fate. IC and I had some wine and I ordered a cheeseburger which further encouraged my expectations, it was one of the best I’ve ever had.

We were reluctant to leave but due to evening plans we sensibly took ourselves off home where we prepared for the evening ahead. We set off before 7 to get the bus and train to Lewisham; it took an age, so much so we were 30 mins late. This wasn’t too much of an issue as Mark was still making the curry we’d been promised so we had a quick tour of the house and settled down with Roz and Andy and a few drinks. Quite a few actually, punctuated by Bison Grass vodka which is both delicious and lethal.

We sat down to eat at around 10. It was worth the wait; apparently Mark had been making the curry for most of the day and it was perfectly obvious that this was his field of expertise. Put it this way, you’d generously tip for stuff like this in an upmarket Balti house, it was excellent. All in all Saturday had been a good day for food when I think about it.

By the time we’d finished I was a bit pissed, l so much so that when we left to catch the last train at 11.15 I actually fell arse over tit in Marks’s garden. In the end we didn’t get the train, a passing bus boasting a direct service to Shorditch took precedence but it was probably a mistake, took fucking ages, I’ve no idea what time we got home but I do remember waking up on the sofa at 4am feeling a little out of sorts.

Sunday began at lunchtime; we met some friends at a cafe off Broadway market after I’d dropped of my bike to get the tyres sorted. It was the same shop that had built IC’s bike and they’d already heard what had happened. They offered to help by putting details of the bike in an email to other shops in the area, then suggested we go to Brick Lane to see if it was amongst the dodgy bike dealers in some of the backstreets.

IC had already reported the theft to the cops so we were advised to call them if we saw it, apparently there are loads of undercover plod in the area so they’d virtually be on site if we called. However, I was also prepared to retrieve it myself. Scenarios of what might happen played on my mind to the point I found myself strutting about the East End like I just done 6 months for GBH.

Of course we didn’t see it, despite a good possibility that it had/would/might be there. We grabbed a bagel each from the 24 hour bakery and headed home in a biblical gale. We were joined shortly after by my bro and watched a few Come Dine’s With me in between conversation, then at 7.30 I headed out to meet Gerry for a few late weekend drinks.

Jolly nice it was too, we had more time than usual and managed to adequately catch up with all of our recent comings and goings. It was during our conversation I learnt about Gary Moore, I stifled a mild sob and we toasted him. So, playing us out today is the late Mr. Moore with the sorely missed Phil Lynott. What a bummer.