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.


My day started, more or less, in the gym yesterday morning. I’ve ditched the fucking cross trainer in favour of the running machine, thing. Of course I don’t actually run on the bastard, my back hasn’t got any better, I simply discovered that if I walk fast at a gradient I achieve a lot more than I did on the former instrument of torture. Anyway, later on an Asian lady fell off the tall pull-up machine and landed on her head a foot away as I was in the middle of doing some arm curls. I reckon it must’ve really, really hurt. She was still there when I left with her eyeballs banging together. Ironic really, you go with the intention of shedding a few calories and leave with your head hanging off.

I made it into work in the pm, which was about as much fun as Ebola, and then things got rather more interesting at 5-ish. After taking a packed train from Wimbledon to Vauxhall I took the tube to Brixton, alighted among the throngs and hit the street. The allocated boozer for meeting my bro and Ned was no more than a pile of rubble, so I was reluctantly forced into the Wetherspoons effort across the road.

Jesus, this place. It was already half full of piss-pots, some yelling, some slumped over tables but more importantly the beer was 2.20 a pint and in excellent condition. I managed to find a seat near the back by a swollen-faced she-wino and an ancient old man with an Arsenal tee and a trilby hat. I read the Standard sipping my pint of Abbott as the place filled-up with dubious Brixton characters of every persuasion. My bro arrived just as the pint was done and we began again together. By the end of these the place was heaving, I nipped outside to tout my bro’s spare ticket (managed to get an impressive 16 quid for it by doing the old ‘nah’ / walk off routine) and worked my way back in, collecting a couple of beers in the process. I have to say this, despite the state of some of the people in there, everyone was polite -people moved out your way, let you through etc- and even p’s and q’s were minded. On top of all this the staff were excellent too (and beer was 2.20 a pint, good beer too).

Ned joined us about half an hour before we were due to set off, en route we dropped by Nando’s for a sharpener and some sort of chicken burger thing, and hit The Academy just as The Band came on stage. First thing I noticed was the audience, they were incredibly young, sixth-form young, and there were a high proportion of girls, idiot ones that did that pointy-up finger dancing (as they sang tunelessly along to the song with their giggling fucking Hampshire mates)to the point I had to move away. As for The Band, they were sublime, in places almost tear-inducing so and they played a more-than decent set, yes, in places it flopped a bit, it didn’t start amazingly for one, but the highlights more than compensated for the lowish ones.

By the time the gig ended I was a tad squiffy, Ned and I got the tube back to Vauxhall, leaving my bro to carry on to Islington (which is what I should’ve done) and then realised we didn’t know where the busstop was, and that it was 11.30. We tried to get into the big gay pub on the corner but they wouldn’t let us in (probably a good thing in hindsight) so we settled for a couple of cans of Holsten from a corner shop and ambled toward Elephant and Castle (stick it up your arsehole). It took a while for the bus to show when we got there, but we were okay just chatting about shit.

On the bus to Liverpool Street we sat at the front. London looked so beautiful and Ned, due back to Oz soon, was eulogising over our fair capital -that was before I fell off my seat when the bus turned a sharp left.

I got the last train back to Hackney Downs with my ears filled with Slayer, and arrived home into the arms of IC who was as pissed as I.

Have good weekends, I’m off to the Motorcycle Show now. Enjoy Gerry’s chart and tune after.


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


My cheery mood remains at bay.

This morning, after hauling my frazzled arse from the bedclothes, I managed to summon enough mettle in order to leave the flat and head fucking south to my place of work.

I’d just missed my train to Liverpool Street and the one after was late, though empty, so at least I could sit down and fume in peace. I kicked my way through the concourse at the station, crashed through the barriers and walked down the escalator to the platform. Notice I walked. I no more understand the cunts that stand on escalators than I do nipper-fiddling. You heard me.

Instead of the usual minute wait I had to stand on the platform for a full 5 minutes, by which time the place became increasingly crowded, and, in short, undid all the reasons why I was travelling post-rush hour in the first fucking instance.

The train rolled up like the 10.30 to Treblinka, windows blackened with an amorphous amalgam of bodies. When the doors beeped open a few limbs and trunks untangled themselves from the black mass within and slipped into the increasing throb about me.

When certain no more creatures would emerge from this oily human mass I boarded the train, and squeezed myself into an area the size of small calf, and there I remained, deformed, until the next stop where I was due to alight.

The train slowed and stopped, the doors opened to the tune of ‘please allow passengers off the train before boarding’ as usual. The few of us due to exit uncoiled ourselves and made for the doors, as I was about to get off this small rat-faced man stepped on the train, right in front of me.

Without thinking a single thought I leant forward and gently placed an open hand onto his chest and pushed him firmly enough to cause him to move away from me, off the train, onto the platform and back into the waiting throngs. As I did this I repeated the mantra, ‘please allow passengers off the train before boarding’ whilst maintaining a firm, fixed gaze. The whole incident was over in a matter of seconds, I didn’t wait around to continue the conversation, smaller (older, and a little shocked) he may have been but this doesn’t necessarily guarantee you won’t get a decent hiding after a person has had a chance to gather thoughts… but the titters behind suggested I was in the clear.

Incidentally, I’ve noticed lately that when a train is due to arrive it’s announced, ‘your train will arrive in x minutes to so and so.’

Your train? My train?! What the screaming fuck is that all about?


So much has changed since Fridays last post you wouldn’t bel… What?! Sorry…

Fucking nothing has changed apart from a shooting pain up my arm when I get an email or when the phone rings. Despite assurances we’d have a surveyor over today to value the flat, we’ve not heard shit from the mortgage broker since he mentioned it last week. If we had given the broker any money I shouldn’t wonder he’d be living it up off the coast of Norfolk at our expense all drugged up on posh glue. Christ it makes me fucking sick.

All this moving business has been talking its toll on IC and I if I’m perfectly honest -and do remember we’re supposed to be planning some sort of nuptial ritual in addition to all this head-under-a-roof crap. By the time we met one another at a local boozer on Friday each was cheerfully prepared to brain the other on sight, we’d done a good job of winding each other up all day and I’d not helped matters by being late from work on account of some dildo liberating themselves all over the front of the 6.50 to Cheltenham.

But being the good sports that we are we easily resolved the issues before they’d a chance to get a grip and 30 minutes later we were the best of friends again. Dreadful thing stress, it manages to take a relatively straight forward issue and twist it into the prospect of prison- hospital rape.

Despite this we had a good weekend, after the pub on Friday we bravely carried on at home, on Saturday we went into central London to see if my preferred silversmith would be able to fix me and IC up with rings, like. I am delighted to say that we’d sorted this matter out in under 15 minutes giving us more time in the pub on the way home –but only after IC had spent 12 quid on a fucking lovely piece of veal on the way there.

We were joined by Mary for dinner at 8-ish, she was a little late on account of having broken the little key off in the bicycle lock she’d attached round her waist after cycling home. The lock was the same length as a belt and she’d been unable to get it off, so she arrived with the lock still trapped round her waist which tickled us no end. IC managed to convince Mary to wriggle it off over her shoulders, I must admit, it looked impossible, but after a ten frantic (and hilarious minutes) it finally lifted off.

IC doesn’t eat meat yet the veal and sauce she made was fucking amazing, I roasted some potatoes, onions and tomato to go with it and we had Mary’s banofee pie afterwards which I’m still digesting as I speak to you in word form.

Apart from a brief visit to the pub and a spot of food we spent the day watching films on Sunday. The tension of the week ahead began to creep back in by the evening but we managed to keep it at bay sorta.

Not so now, though.

On top of everything I’ve just heard that my ex-council (the one I’ve not even set foot in in over a year and a half) reckon I owe them council tax and my company think I owe them money for a pension scheme I thought I was paying.


And this video is fucking annoying too, great song mind.