Monthly Archives: April 2011


This crap was written yesterday…

In addition to having spent three years as a couple this very day, IC and I are off to Italy in exactly one fortnight where a couple of days later we’re due to be married. Even typing that fries my brain. If you were to have read the miserable dirge in the earlier days of this crap such a concept would have seemed less conceivable than flying tortoises. In the spirit of marital tradition, this weekend pays witness to my stag-do. I’ve an inkling of what is going to happen as my brother has organised it -I’ve been privy to the odd question regarding the basic nature of the occasion- but essentially I’m clueless; I don’t even know how many mates are coming though apparently it’s ‘quite a few.’

The long weekend past has been marvellous. It’s involved a bit more drinking that anticipated, some of it conducted in Victoria Park with a Frisbee so help me god, but most in a particular boozer in Hackney, which was nice.

On Saturday IC and I took the train to Gatwick to see a couple of pals, we sat in their garden drinking wine and chatting about death and what cunts Tesco are before gingerly making our way back. Sunday was Easter so IC, my bro and I made our way to my folks. The trains were packed solid for the whole journey there and back but it was worth the effort, largely because there was no booze being plied so it gave my poor liver a chance to re-cooperate. We spent the usual family afternoon playing with the nieces and taking turns to offend mum by loudly belching with the occasional fart for good measure. That evening I accidentally stayed up all night listening to death metal with the odd glass of wine while IC slept soundly in bed, for some reason, at the time, I felt I needed it, which I most certainly didn’t. It made the following bank holiday Monday a bit clunky, but I clung on and pulled through like a hero/piss pot.

The intervening days at work have been an utter waste of time. I’ve had to come into the office for miserly meetings when I really should’ve be at home writing or tossing my orb, but at least it makes it easier to get to the West End where I’m due to meet IC for a spot of dinner at a favoured restaurant.

In a similarly positive vein I’m only having a half day tomorrow, I’ve an appointment with a tattooist in the afternoon. I’m not sure I mentioned this but the work I had done a couple of months ago wasn’t to my satisfaction. I’m hoping (to put it fucking mildly) that the bloke whose being doing wonderful things on M’s arm can rectify the design issue on mine. I’ll be done by six, at which point the long weekend part two begins in earnest.

Join me next week why don’t you. Here’s Gerry’s chart and tune from within. Before I go I’d just like to remember Poly Styrene. She was fucking brilliant. Goodnight, Ma’am.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Morrissey Glamorous Glue NE 1 30
29 White Lies Strangers 20 9 4
28 Beth Ditto I Wrote The Book 23 9 15
27 Airborne Toxic Event Numb NE 1 27
26 Cage The Elephant Around My Head NE 1 26
25 Nero Guilt 29 2 25
24 Interpol Lights 16 7 8
23 Friendly Fires Live Those Days Tonight NE 1 23
22 Unkle ft Nick Cave Only The Lonely 19 4 19
21 Beady Eye Millionaire 27 2 21
20 Morning Parade A & E 14 9 1
19 Hurts Illuminated 22 3 19
18 The Vaccines If You Wanna 12 8 5
17 My Passion The Mess We Made Of Our Lives 24 2 17
16 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend 11 9 2
15 The Blackout Higher And Higher 13 5 13
14 The Guillemots The Basket 17 5 14
13 P J Harvey The Glorious Land NE 1 13
12 The Wombats Anti-D 15 7 12
11 Death Cab For Cutie You Are A Tourist 9 4 9
10 Pigeon Detectives Done In Secret 5 6 4
9 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 4 12 1
8 The Young Knives Love My Name 7 4 7
7 The National Conversation 16 18 2 7
6 Arctic Monkeys Don’t Sit Down ‘Cause I’ve Moved The Chair 10 3 6
5 Snoop Dogg v David Guetta Sweat 6 6 5
4 Feeder Side By Side 2 4 2
3 The Joy Formidable Whirring 3 5 3
2 The Kills Satellite 1 5 1
1 Japanese Voyeurs Get Hole 8 3 1


I’d forgotten how much I despised the dentist.

It was only on entering the surgery that horrific memories of teeth extraction (Wisdom and otherwise) bleeding gums and spontaneous mind-bending pain came to the fore. In the five minutes or so before I was summoned to the couch I worked myself up into a mess, so on entering the nasty white room a part of me decided to aggressively inform the small masked man -ready with his needles- that I stained my teeth by smoking roll-ups, drinking red wine, beer, coffee, tea etc., before he had a chance to say ‘good afternoon,’ ‘if he was going to.

He sighed, ‘I know Mr. Piqued, we have your records.’ And down I went couch-ways with things already being forced into my gob. An assistant took care of the saliva, which is obviously the mouth trying to drown the invading alien forces, as the dentist went about my teeth with a barely muttered ‘let me know if this hurts,’ possibly one of the most ridiculous questions ever uttered by one human to another because when it does ‘hurt’ one has a tendency to convulse into the stratosphere with star-shaped limbs under a blood-curdling scream.

I find this part the worst, you know it’s going to hurt at some point again but you’re not sure exactly when. I tensed up to the point I feared I would turn the contents of my lower bowel into diamonds. When it did ‘hurt’ again I almost bit his fucking fingers off.

Bizarrely, after all that pain and worry, I was given the all clear, but only after being told that I’d been cleaning my teeth too ‘pedantically,’ a comment that still puzzles me as I type this. Under normal circumstances I’d have stuck around for an explanation.

The hygienist in the adjacent room had bowled me psychological googly. I was expecting a mundane scrap and polish but the bitch was clumsier than Mr. Bean. Regularly she’d stray away from the tooth and gouge a needle or a whizzing grinder through my gums which almost brought me to tears. By the end I was wishing I could witness her being hung, drawn and quartered as I stood by laughing with a glass of wine and a bonk-on.

The weekend that followed was marvellous though. IC and I had dinner together on Friday and Saturday lunchtime her pals took her off for her Hen-do (Lea-on-Sea with Prosecco on the train there, Prosecco on the beach with seafood and Prosecco on the return journey, if you please) leaving me to F1 qualifying and snooker that I guilty watched aside a vast window full of blazing sunshine. In the evening I met up with Paul and my bro for a few drinks before offing ourselves to the Vietnamese gaff to ram delicious things into my swollen mouth. This led onto to the local where a whole load of friends were only too keen to ply us with weird cocktails shots (‘Dr. Pepper’ third pint of lager with a shot of Amaretto in the middle) and the more traditional ales until we were all giggling berks. At some point I tried to play pool, one point dropping the chalk into a no-neck mans lager which I managed to retrieve before he noticed. Had he done so you wouldn’t be reading this, believe me.

Sunday was typically lazy, boring F1 so it seemed silly to not meet IC and few pals in the pub to see off the week and ready myself for the grinding hell of the sodding working week ahead.

I’ll desist from a protracted moan regarding the state of my business. Everything has fucked off for Easter so coming into the office or attempting work from home as become more futile than picking ticks off doggy do. It’s a horrific state to be in, especially as I don’t get a basic salary anymore. These days’ holidays are merely times in the calendar when you know that you can’t generate an income, which doesn’t make for a relaxing break. In addition to this both the buying and selling of various flats is being greeted with similar complacency, adding to the pressure. On the plus side of things the wedding hurdles are being surmounted but the dawning expense isn’t helping financial concerns.

Still, I’ve been making time for IC and friends in the evening. Priorities and all that, even if said festivities will result in me begging for change outside Angel tube station sipping White Lighting through a straw clenched between perfectly clean teeth.

Here’s Gerry’s Easter chart and a tune within, it aches.

Happy Good Friday all.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 Yuck Gat Away 28 2 28
29 Nero Guilt NE 1 29
28 Wiz Khalifa Black And Yellow 20 5 14
27 Beady Eye Millionaire NE 1 27
26 We Are The Ocean The Waiting Room 25 3 25
25 Foo Fighters Rope 15 7 6
24 My Passion The Mess We Made Of Our Lives NE 1 24
23 Beth Ditto I Wrote The Book 16 8 15
22 Hurts Illuminated 27 2 22
21 Young Guns Stitches 14 5 12
20 White Lies Strangers 11 8 4
19 Unkle ft Nick Cave Only The Lonely 23 3 19
18 The National Conversation 16 NE 1 18
17 The Guillemots The Basket 21 4 17
16 Interpol Lights 10 6 8
15 The Wombats Anti-D 19 6 15
14 Morning Parade A & E 8 8 1
13 The Blackout Higher And Higher 13 4 13
12 The Vaccines If You Wanna 9 7 5
11 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend 5 8 2
10 Arctic Monkeys Don’t Sit Down ‘Cause I’ve Moved The Chair 17 2 10
9 Death Cab For Cutie You Are A Tourist 12 3 9
8 Japanese Voyeurs Get Hole 24 2 8
7 The Young Knives Love My Name 11 3 7
6 Snoop Dogg v David Guetta Sweat 18 5 6
5 Pigeon Detectives Done In Secret 4 5 4
4 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 1 11 1
3 The Joy Formidable Whirring 6 4 3
2 Feeder Side By Side 3 3 2
1 The Kills Satellite 2 4 1


It was the launch of the BBC Prom last night. As in previous years I was plied with free booze at The Royal College of Music while the great and good circled around me before attending post-launch drinks with some colleagues at a nearby boozer. Subsequently I’m typing this crap with an almighty fucking hangover.

Unsurprisingly, to regular frequenters of this page, it’s been a consistently boozy week -what with the clement weather, access to a very accommodating park with friends on Saturday and a pals 30th birthday on the Sunday at Primrose fucking Hill, if you please. Monday I saw some mates in a pub in Soho, Tuesday IC decided to cook for me, Mary and Patti (wine happened) Wednesday IC and I celebrated with fizz the fact that in one month we’re to be married, let me type that again, I’m going to be married in a month. And yesterday I told you about already, it’s right up there. Look.

In between all this I was treated to some terrifying documentaries on the New World Oder courtesy of Swineshead, had an appointment with a new tattoo artist who is fixing the disaster on my arm at the end of the month and shortly I’ve an encounter with the sodding dentist. I also signed the contract to sell my ex-dwelling in that unspeakably awful part of south London and IC and I signed the contracts to buy our beautiful gaff in sunny Hackney. Note the lack of excitement in both cases, I’m a pessimist, until the cash has changed hands it’s not happening. I also passed a behemoth stool over the weekend that required absolutely no wiping after.

In addition to all this I’m skint and suffering a quite sensationally awful month in terms of business which appears to have dried up like an octogenarian fanny. I’m rather concerned if truth be told. It’s not as if I even like my job.

Generally speaking all is well, though. Save one rather significant aspect. My bike. It’s not working to put it bluntly -some electrical issue that I’m not able to rectify- which means I’m not getting my life-affirming boost of thrills and near spills atop a thumping engine as I operate levers and pulleys with a grin broader than the Norfolk equivalent. Cunting horrific it is.

It’s not just the stultifying agony (and expense) of public transport, riding bikes for me is like taking drugs, it makes me feel fucking great, takes my mind off the world and without it I suffer withdrawal symptoms. So instead of screaming through the city laughing and shouting I’m reduced to sitting/standing in conditions not fit for livestock on the way to the kebab shop. And it takes hours.

After a bad day in the office (at least I’m spared having to come in everyday these days) climbing aboard my bike and screeching off will guarantee that within five minutes I’ll not only be 100% stress free and gurgling with happiness I’ll probably have one in me as well.

But hey, enough of my yakking. Here’s Gerry’s popular chart and a tune from within. Please have fine weekends. I’m off to have my teeth smashed off.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos
30 The View Grace 21 6 15
29 We Are The Ocean What It Feels Like 18 7 6
28 Yuck Gat Away NE 1 28
27 Hurts Illuminated NE 1 27
26 The Strokes Under Cover Of Darkness 19 8 8
25 We Are The Ocean The Waiting Room 30 2 25
24 Japanese Voyeurs Get Hole NE 1 24
23 Unkle ft Nick Cave Only The Lonely 27 2 23
22 Grinderman Palaces Of Montezuma 13 5 10
21 The Guillemots The Basket 25 3 21
20 Wiz Khalifa Black And Yellow 14 4 14
19 The Wombats Anti-D 22 5 19
18 Snoop Dogg v David Guetta Sweat 24 4 18
17 Arctic Monkeys Don’t Sit Down ‘Cause I’ve Moved The Chair NE 1 17
16 Beth Ditto I Wrote The Book 16 7 15
15 Foo Fighters Rope 9 6 6
14 Young Guns Stitches 12 4 12
13 The Blackout Higher And Higher 17 3 13
12 Death Cab For Cutie You Are A Tourist 20 2 12
11 White Lies Strangers 7 7 4
10 Interpol Lights 8 5 8
9 The Vaccines If You Wanna 6 6 5
8 Morning Parade A & E 4 7 1
7 The Young Knives Love My Name 11 3 7
6 The Joy Formidable Whirring 15 3 6
5 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend 2 7 2
4 Pigeon Detectives Done In Secret 5 4 4
3 Feeder Side By Side 10 2 3
2 The Kills Satellite 3 3 2
1 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 1 10 1


I’m afraid a weekly post is about all I can muster at the mo, there has been a veritable explosion of deadlines, flat-hassle, work-shit and day to day insanity on an unprecedented scale based on the former with actual insanity involved in the latter. I don’t know what the fuck has happened to my mind but it appears to have fled from my system to act as a barely responsible parent occasionally glancing down on its offspings flailing limbs as it attempts to go about its daily ablutions. It’s like I’ve disconnected with my own sense of reality, put it this way, mental images of a post-music Sid Barrett wandering about Cambridge with a plastic bag and a limp feel like true love at the moment. I’m sure that worked as a good metaphor for my head. I’m positive in fact.

I do recall that I have felt this way in early April in previous years. And it would seem that that I’m not alone in this craziness. You only have to look at the strange comings and goings of fellow citizens in the local press and you’ll spot bizarre behavioural anomalies that aren’t in keeping with day to day ‘normality’. (If you’re expecting a list you can fuck off. You’ve the internet, check it yourselves.)

And please don’t think that all the oddness is down to the sudden appearance of the big burning yellow thing. Of course I can easily comprehend that we’ve suddenly gone from a bitter, windy and rain-soaked winter straight to a balmy summer without so much as a by-your-leave to Spring. I know for a fact some of you reading this will feel as I do, do you hear me? A cast iron solid fact, right there.

Despite myself the past week hasn’t been without its highlights. Gerry’s birthday on Sunday being a fine example. He joined us in the evening after an afternoon of gentle boozing with IC, JM and Patti, so by the time he arrived we were very much in the mood to extend our congratulations. Why I even managed to give him that book I’ve been harping on about (England’s Dreaming. Jon Savage) as some sort of remuneration for getting fucking older, which was nice.

I spent all of Monday writing -instead of doing this I was getting paid, properly for once- and had a sedentary evening to re-charge. Wednesday evening was spent in a quiet boozer with my cousins in Battersea; this almost didn’t happen thanks to some cunt throwing himself under a train at Surbiton which halted the entire South-West rail network for over ten hours. Fortunately I bumped into my brother at Waterloo (packed rigid with thousands of frustrated commuters) on his way to the same venue so we popped off for a couple of beers in the warm evening sunshine in the hope they’d have mopped up the selfish tool splashed all over the front of the 3.20 to London… actually, maybe I’m being a bit harsh on the deceased, maybe he’d been subject to this craziness as well. (Oddly one of IC’s colleagues did the very same thing the very same day at a different station. See? It’s not just me…)

After the pub-break we got back to Waterloo to discover, if anything, the situation had worsened so we spent hours buggering about with tubes/busses in order to make our delayed appointment. I’m pleased to say it was more than worth it.

So here am I gawping into the jaws of the weekend, the parameters of which fizzle and pop about my addled brain. I’m sure it’ll be lovely… I just hope I’m all there when it happens.

Here’s Gerry’s chart and a very special tune from in it. What’s that thing they say about a butterfly beating its wings… Keep it real gentle reader, keep real.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos

30 We Are The Ocean The Waiting Room NE 1 30
29 The Levellers Family 21 3 21
28 Alex Turner Submarine 19 4 18
27 Unkle ft Nick Cave Only The Lonely NE 1 27
26 Chapel Club Surfacing 16 12 1
25 The Guillemots The Basket 28 2 25
24 Snoop Dogg v David Guetta Sweat 22 3 22
23 Panic! At The Disco The Ballad Of Mona Lisa 13 7 3
22 The Wombats Anti-D 24 4 22
21 The View Grace 15 5 15
20 Death Cab For Cutie You Are A Tourist NE 1 20
19 The Strokes Under Cover Of Darkness 11 7 8
18 We Are The Ocean What It Feels Like 9 6 6
17 The Blackout Higher And Higher 30 2 17
16 Beth Ditto I Wrote The Book 20 6 15
15 The Joy Formidable Whirring 25 2 15
14 Wiz Khalifa Black And Yellow 17 3 14
13 Grinderman Palaces Of Montezuma 10 4 10
12 Young Guns Stitches 14 3 12
11 The Young Knives Love My Name 18 2 11
10 Feeder Side By Side NE 1 10
9 Foo Fighters Rope 6 5 6
8 Interpol Lights 8 4 8
7 White Lies Strangers 4 6 4
6 The Vaccines If You Wanna 5 5 5
5 Pigeon Detectives Done In Secret 7 3 5
4 Morning Parade A & E 3 6 1
3 The Kills Satellite 12 2 3
2 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend 2 6 2
1 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 1 9 1


It’s been a hectic week, and it’s all down to work and this new writing venture thing. The former is going more slowly than Wayne Rooney playing Sudoku, which panics the boss who then shits me up, and the latter is getting increasingly intense, ironically, for all the right reasons.

Yesterday I was almost freaked-out with stress as the editor of the writing thing gave me another job on top of the weekly one. Don’t get me wrong here, this is all good stuff, but when you’ve the better paid job falling over on its arse it doesn’t make for a comfortable day, or, for that matter, the foreseeable days/weeks/months ahead.

So on Wednesday I decided to treat myself, I met up with my bro, Rob, Rick and Harry in a boozer orf of that Wardour Street and got nice and tight, not too much, but enough. I managed to share my woes (i.e., talk intently at them until their eyeballs glazed over) and make them understand that it’s sheer hell, which it isn’t really.

I was home at a reasonable hour, shoved dubious hummus into my face via cream crackers and sat down in front of the PC with a glass of wine. This was a mistake, the hangover I had this morning was utterly awful and, to make matters worse, at midday I had a meeting with the boss and a couple of clients at The Hospital Club, which is fucking horrid by the way.

The meeting seems hazy but it seemed to have gone down well, fortunately both clients had a sense of humour and I seemed to be going down well, whatever it was I was doing to inspire that. On the way back home I managed to embarrass myself on the tube via Charlie Brooker (totally lost it regarding a piece on spiders) and couldn’t gather my dignity, incurring the stony glances of my fellow passengers which merely fuelled my giggling. I must have looked like a farting-mouthed lunatic.

What astonished me even more than the hangover was my enforced visit to the gym at 3.30. Christ. Like last week I darkened the doors three times this week, and I still can’t fathom out how this happened because I HATE going so much. It’s not like I’m taking it easy on myself when I’m there by the way, it really, truly, fucking hurts and worst part is I can’t see any benefit –I can only assume if I wasn’t going regularly (ish) they’d need to take down one of my bedroom walls just to get me outside.

Anyway, one would imagine it countered the meal I had with IC at a rarely visited but favoured eatery in that there Hackney last night, I had pork belly which went into my belly and then became Piqued belly, which was nice.

Its Gerry’s birthday on Sunday, here’s his chart to celebrate. Have good weekends, be good.


NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE Last Week Weeks On High Pos

30 The Blackout Higher And Higher NE 1 30
29 Band Of Horses Dilly 16 10 2
28 The Guillemots The Basket NE 1 28
27 Elbow Neat Little Rows 11 8 9
26 Glasvegas Euphoria Take My Hand 23 3 23
25 The Joy Formidable Whirring NE 1 25
24 The Wombats Anti-D 25 3 24
23 Kings Of Leon The Immortals 20 4 20
22 Snoop Dogg v David Guetta Sweat 29 2 22
21 The Levellers Family 27 2 21
20 Beth Ditto I Wrote The Book 15 5 15
19 Alex Turner Submarine 18 3 18
18 The Young Knives Love My Name NE 1 18
17 Wiz Khalifa Black And Yellow 26 2 17
16 Chapel Club Surfacing 9 11 1
15 The View Grace 17 4 15
14 Young Guns Stitches 21 2 14
13 Panic! At The Disco The Ballad Of Mona Lisa 4 6 3
12 The Kills Satellite NE 1 12
11 The Strokes Under Cover Of Darkness 8 6 8
10 Grinderman Palaces Of Montezuma 13 3 10
9 We Are The Ocean What It Feels Like 6 5 6
8 Interpol Lights 10 3 8
7 Pigeon Detectives Done In Secret 14 2 7
6 Foo Fighters Rope 7 4 6
5 The Vaccines If You Wanna 12 4 5
4 White Lies Strangers 5 5 4
3 Morning Parade A & E 2 5 1
2 Poly Styrene Virtual Boyfriend 3 5 2
1 Cage The Elephant Shake Me Down 1 8 1