Category Archives: 1

skwiff

Office talk regarding the snooker. Apparently Steve Davies is doing very well and I just had a flashback to my granny some 20 years ago referring to him as ‘Steve’ in front of my dad as if he was supposed to know which ‘Steve’ she was going on about… he was fucking livid.

You can have that for free.

I’ve a hangover. The work-related bash at The Royal Academy of Music was free running wine courtesy of very generous waiters. The place was packed full of classical music hoi polloi, I was there with my boss and a couple of colleagues feeling like I’d just been plopped onto the surface of the moon. As the wine intensified I became more relaxed, I found myself introducing my pissed-up face to people one sees on the telly, all of them receiving me with a mixture of bemusement and slight annoyance, I didn’t give a bloody shit.

Foolishly we retired to the nearest pub, I didn’t make the decision, I just found myself there with a glass being thrust into my hand and it automatically receiving red. More people from the bash arrived, clients. I should’ve left but I was freely talking to them, unrestricted, unhinged. By the time last orders was called I was sat down having a potentially vomit-inducing whitey, I’m pleased to report it passed leaving beads of sweat on my forehead that I shoved off with my cuff.

I made it to the tube station in a zig zag, I just couldn’t maintain a straight-line which I found hugely irritating. Fuck knows how I navigated my way to the circle line from Baker Street but I do remember arriving on the platform with two trains either side of me and having no clue which was the one I’d require to take me to Liverpool Street. Yell, I decided, so I did. I shouted the question right down the middle of both trains and voice beckoned me to the one on the left. I yelled my gratitude, climbed about and set off.

I woke just as the train was entering my station, bit of luck that, and took the central line to Bethnal Green. The crowds were familiar now, I was among my people and I began to relax, partially comforted in the assurance there would be passengers in much worse states of mind than I. The bus was waiting for me when I swayed into the night after exiting the tube, it was empty and by the grace of the starts and planets, I made it home in one piece, and dropped into bed.

I’m feeling much better now, I need to be. My weekend ahead is vast. It contains an old mate, dinner, a barbeque, gym, park and cycling. And it all starts in the fucking pub, of course.

Gerry’s chart, tune. Enjoy the gifts of the days.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 Kate Nash Do Wah Doo 21 3
29 Alkaline Trio This Addiction 17 10
28 Boys Like Girls Love Drunk NE 1
27 Goldfrapp Rocket 13 7
26 Enter Shikari Thumper 24 3
25 All Time Low Lost In Stereo 30 2
24 Pendulum Watercolour NE 1
23 Two Door Cinema Club Something Good Can Work NE 1
22 Gorillaz Stylo 15 10
21 Hadouken! Mic Check 19 4
20 The King Blues Headbutt NE 1
19 Foals This Orient NE 1
18 Hot Chip I Feel Better 22 2
17 AFI Beautiful Thieves 9 8
16 You Me At Six Liquid Confidence 18 3
15 Amy MacDonald Don’t Tell Me That It’s Over 7 8
14 Vampire Weekend Giving Up The Gun 14 4
13 We Are Scientists Rules Don’t Stop 10 5
12 30 Seconds To Mars This Is War 6 6
11 Biffy Clyro Bubbles 27 2
10 Paramore The Only Exception 11 5
9 Arctic Monkeys My Propellor 5 6
8 Chemists This City 8 4
7 Vitalic Second Lives 12 3
6 Half Man Half Biscuit Joy Division Oven Gloves 16 2
5 Plan B She Said 26 3
4 Lostprophets For He’s A Jolly Good Felon 4 4
3 Dommin My Heart, Your Hands 2 7
2 Bullet For My Valentine The Last Fight 3 3
1 Liars Scissor 1 5

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kleen

I was forced onto public transport this morning, in a suit. Well sort of, I refuse to go the whole hog with regard to suit-type trousers unless at a funeral or wedding. But I’m clamped in a black tie to match my skinny jeans and smart, clean shoes, my shirt is crisp-white and I’m sporting the necessary jacket, black of course. I’ve retained the skull rings and my cuffs are similarly formatted.

This evening I have a work-related incident at The Royal Academy of Music, it’s an annual event saved by the trays of wine and canapés. It’s usually over by 8 but in previous years I’ve been known to retire to a local hostelry with colleagues to round things off, sometimes excessively.

The public journey into work was the easiest I’ve encounter to date. It’s a beautiful day, warm, sunny and the bus, tube, train, tube, all arrived and departed the instant I set foot on the respective pavement or platform. Better still, all were relatively un-crowded so my journey took place in comfort. The views of London that passed by as I made my way South offered golden images of a city only recently drenched in grey steel rain cloaked in freezing cold. The transformation is palpable; you can actually feel a change in the spirit of the city as the sunshine pours forth and something approaching heat tastes the skin. Long may it last.

Yesterday, following a sensationally irresponsible ride home, I parked up Brutta with a 50 mile-wide grin and headed off to the gym in order to knead my muscles. It’s the first time I’ve done three days in a row and I noticed that it was not only easier to work the machines, I was even prepared to push myself a bit further, and I felt much better for it after too. I walked back home via the supermarket to pick up some ingredients for the roasted tomato and goats cheese tart, namely goats cheese and tomato, which I began to prepare the instant I stepped through my front door. It may or may not be worth mentioning that I’d picked up some puff pastry and lunchtime, in hindsight I don’t think I will.

Once the tart was in the oven I showered, shaved and greeted my bro and IC to sample the fruits of my labour and watch a film. The tart was fantastic, I served it with pan-fried spinach, garlic and spring onion and we ate with a glass or two of Cabernet Sauvignon. The film was very watchable too (The Box) and all in all our evening ‘in’ was a success.

Short one today, I’m busy over here… and I’ve just noticed, this could be the first post I’ve ever written in over three years in which I’ve not used bad language. So it’s safe for kids too, right parents?

Enjoy this…


rah-star

It would seem that the reason for the relative quietness in The City was due to the lack of airplanes. Now that the farting beats are back in the sky, my ride into work was blighted by horrific quantities of traffic blocking my path requiring me to take onto the odd pavement in order to make progress; my journey was 20 minutes longer than normal. Still it wasn’t all bad, for the first time since I climbed on her back, Brutta and I are enjoying warm sunny weather with sticky new tyres. The heroic moves of derring-do are coming thick and fast. In short, I’m riding like a total cunt.

I had a busy day at work and in spite of a short period of otherworldliness in the afternoon (caused by I’ve no idea what) I left the office in excellent cheer. I pegged it home in the sunshine and arrived back breathless. I was just about to ride Brutta up the narrow alleyway to my front gate when I spotted two Rastafarians coming the other way, so I waited for them to pass. The first one gave me a cursory glance of gratitude but the second, in rich Jamaican tone said, ‘Nice bike, man. I like your style,’ which was extremely flattering, to the point I was rather taken aback. To my fucking horror what came out of my gob almost made me jump, in Bertie Wooster parlance I half yelled back, ‘Thank you very much!’ I may as well have gone ‘haw haw haw,’ at the end as well. Christ.

I dumped the bike in my yard and nipped off to the gym, after 35 long minutes I returned to the Twatcave, showered, and went directly upstairs to grab IC and get the bus to Clerkenwell. We arrived on the nick of 8, just in time to take our seats in the rather posh eatery Paul had booked for his birthday.

Mercifully Paul had facilitated a straight 50% off the menu because it wasn’t the cheapest place I’ve eaten, this didn’t include the wine but I was delighted to see that it was quite reasonably priced. The food and company was splendid (there were 9 of us) and I had the terrine to start with the saddle of lamb for main, IC lucked-out with her halibut and the wine flowed gently -not excessively I hasten to add- giving us space for a quick drink after the restaurant and IC, Paul and I room for a shot of Makers Mark when we got back home.

I’m in rather good cheer today, the clement weather continues and despite it being dead in the office the prospect of that which exists outside of this place bubbles merrily away.

Ladies and Gentlemen…


volkayno

Apart from one mate being unable to go home to Italy last weekend, myself and mine -to the best of my knowledge- have been unaffected by this volcanic ash business. But there are thousands of poor buggers stranded overseas unable to make it back to loved-ones, places of work, proper beer etc., with no immediate change to their predicament in sight.

Many are adopting the ‘by any means necessary’ mantra and are flocking to the North French coast by hire car, train, taxi, bicycle, piggy back, only to find that they’re unable to secure a place on the overcrowded ferries travelling across the channel. It must be a fucking nightmare.

To aid the plight of these unfortunate souls, the government has deployed a flotilla of warships to help bring some of the stranded back home; it sort of invokes the Dunkirk Spirit, which is rather nice, but all of this is completely unnecessary.

Noel Edmonds has a fucking helicopter. Edmonds, once the apple in the eye of BBC light entertainment turned reclusive oddball following his hand in the slaughter of one of his contestants, has a massive fuck-off chopper. Why can’t he go and get them? In addition to giving something back following the cold-blooded killing of some weak-brained boobhorn, he’s a golden chance to raise his profile to the levels enjoyed by the departing Jonathan Ross and Adrian Chiles… Hello? Vacancies! It’s not bloody rocket science, Edmonds, get off your arse and get saving. And get back to the BBC where you belong. With Smitty.

I had a pleasant though low-key day yesterday, a day off if you will. I done worked, biked home, revived myself in the gym and went home (again) and made a fucking huge pile of spaghetti sauce which took 30 mins to prepare and 2 hours to cook slowly through. I froze ¾ of it and pushed the rest into my head in front of some TV programme about The Blitz presented by that little fart Tony Robinson. I bet he hasn’t got a helicopter like Edmonds, having said that, I don’t think he’s dropped a man on his head from 120 feet either.

From here on in it’s all pretty much business as usual (i.e., drinking too much). IC and I are going out with some pals to celebrate Paul’s birthday and the rest of the week is booked solid, actually, the weekend is almost full too. But I’m also going to try and do the gym FOUR times before Saturday, it’s a big ask from someone who likes a tab with his pint but as I’m rather keen to continue smoking and drinking way into my 80’s the gym is the only option. That’s logic right there.


knowzblead

Sunday lunchtime. Pondering on the small matter of this bloody cold-thing, it was over 3 weeks ago that the fat kid sneezed in my face, I thought, reaching for another handful of fucking bum fodder in order to clear my nostrils of another portion of nose Dim Sum. I honked a load of gloop into the tissue and, almost expectantly, watched a pissing stream of blood wallop all over the sink.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned the whole nose-bleed shit in these hallowed pages before, I’ll spare you a re-visit but in short, I used to suffer from nose-bleeds a lot when I was a kid, low blood pressure, ironically. It’s something I could well do without in my bloody 40’s. I’ve had the odd one over the past 25 years but not in sufficient quantity to be blasé about them. As wine improves with age, nose-bleeds get increasingly terrifying.

Despite this, I had a killer weekend. It began, following a weary bash in the gym, preparing dinner for four. Patti was supposed to be in Italy but on account of this bloody volcano business was grounded in London, joining her were my bro and IC, of course. I threw together a fisherman’s pie, not one of my best but more than sufficient and the evening passed gently in a fug of tobacco and the odd glass of Prosecco which was on special offer at the local Co-Op.

I woke on Saturday in a pool of light, sunshine? My god, sunshine! Loads of it! This had an adverse effect on both IC and I, we had a shot of coffee and offed ourselves to the gym, only 20 minutes mind you, but exercise on a Saturday is illegal surely? After breakfast/lunch we cycled to Clissold Park in Stoke Newington, more bloody exercise but in the sunshine behind IC, well, I rather liked it. It was a mere 15 minutes and the reward, sitting in the park in warm sunshine with a bottle of freezing Cava as London lolled and frolicked about us, was overtly worth it. We spent a bloody delightful few hours soaking up rays and bubbles; it was one of those defining ‘weekend’ moments, the sorts that cannot be adequately conveyed in words yet sit in the brain like a jewel in the proverbial crown.

We cycled home via the boozer on the corner of our street. The ride back was actually very pleasant and the destined pub half empty; it’s not really geared for sunshine but the light streaming into the gloom, slicing the dingy yet cheery air, was still more than enough to retain that sense of spring vitality. We were joined by my bro and attempted a game of pool, I don’t want the word ‘attempted’ to give the impression we were tipsy, it was more of a case of incompetence. Perhaps more of a signifier that I was a tad tight was after the short cycle home when I scraped my arm up the alleyway wall when attempting a moving dismount outside my gaff…

By the time IC and I left Hackney at 8-ish to head up to Whitechapel for curry I was back to normal -save the graze on my arm which, as I type this, looks a lot more interesting than it feels. We took the 48 to the city and alighted near Commercial Road, after a fair walk and some directional advice we finally entered the destined eatery at 9. I’ve been to the Lahore Kebab House before but in earlier visits I’ve been with a group of mates who are well versed in Pakistani cuisine. IC and I ordered off the cuff, what we ate was very good but, with a bit more knowledge, could’ve been a lot better. This wasn’t a problem though, we had a very nice evening and the long walk back to Liverpool Street in the dark city was enjoyably gritty.

Another glorious day Sunday. IC and I got up mid morning and went for a walk towards Dalston. We were headed for a little café on the main street; on the way we stopped and checked some of the local estate agents. We had a lazy brunch and wandered back home and it was about this time I had the fucking nosebleed.

After sorting myself out I did some work on Brutta and cleaned the flat. Paul had invited a few pals over to his roof for a barbeque. I have to say I’m always very impressed by my Hackney friends generosity, organisation and attention to detail, especially when you consider the whole barbeque idea was pretty much spur of the moment. Someone had already dropped off the bbq device, Mary and Oscar arrived bearing beef, chicken, haloumi, satay and vegetables and set about assembling the food on the skewers provided by the host. IC and I were assigned to the wine, my bro and couple of other guests dealt with the beer. By 3pm there was 10 of us, all eating and drinking in the fucking sunshine having a right good time. In your face winter, yeah. In your bloody face!

We didn’t stay too long; by teatime I was getting my stuff ready for the evening. IC came down to the Twatcave and we watched a film with a couple of fishcakes for good measure. IC left at a sensible 11pm and I watched the Grand Prix before having another cunting nosebleed just before bed.

Today’s offing is dedicated to Pete Steele of Type O Negative who died on Wednesday. He was a big bloke was Pete.*

*(apparently he had a fucking enormous cock.)


rubbr

After a fly-blown day at work I took the tube to Piccadilly for my cousins show. He’s a photographer of some note and a gallery is organising a retrospective of his work. I was early to arrive but soon the gallery was packed, I began to pick my way round the guests in order to view all the works on display. To my surprise my Auntie and Uncle showed up along with my bro and more members of my wider family, before I had time to mind my P’s and Q’s an impromptu family gathering was happening.

In between all the family niceties my cousin introduced me to a few of guests, in particular a chap who featured prominently on the Pixies album cover ‘Come on Pilgrim.’

The photo in question was on display. As the image depicts a man with a very hairy back I took the chance to discover if the image was real or doctored. My question was answered decisively when HBM (hairy back man) showed me a portion of his shoulder. My bro joined in our conversation and we spent the rest of view nattering away, before finally moving along to a boozer in Covent Garden with HBM, my doctor-cousin and his doctor-mates.

We had a jolly few hours, the docs, HBM and I got around to discussing sexuality with regard to society, then I was briefed on cannaboids and the mind by doc-cousin. My artist-cousin arrived just as HBM and my bro decided it was time to leave. At Bethnal Green we said Farwell to HBM and returned home to an impromptu but highly successful portion of falafel and spinach that I rustled up in 10mins. Spiffing!

I was up at the whisper of Blackbirds this morning, I had to get Brutta off to the tyre shop and get her re-shod. In only 2000 miles the rear has squared-off which is making handling problematic, the front is okay but in my experience with sports-tyres it’s always preferable to change them both.

I’d called the shop up the previous day and they’d ordered my rubber in especially without any deposit or fuss. They then called to confirm the tyres had arrived and mentioned that they’d do them on the spot on a ‘first come first serve’ basis and were open from 8… So I was there early for obvious reasons. But by the time I arrived there were already 3 guys in the queue with one having his machine seen-to. I was in for a drawn out wait so I passed the time nattering with one of the mechs and the sort of hip-hop lady in reception.

After a while another mech arrived and set to work on my bike. He too joined in the conversation (which was now about family funerals and strangely hilarious) and even after the bike was done we were still nattering. I’ve been going to garages since I was 3 and these was one of the nicest businesses I’ve ever stepped foot, in addition it wasn’t that pricey. I gingerly rode into the office on my new, fresh rubber. It’ll take them a week or two to scrub in, but at least it’s dry and warm enough for them to reach temperature quickly.

Right, weekend beckons, Gerry’s chart, tune… have good ones.

NO. ARTIST SONG TITLE LAST WEEK WEEKS ON
30 All Time Low Lost In Stereo NE 1
29 The Futureheads My Heartbeat Song 17 6
28 The Courteeners You Overdid It Doll 19 12
27 Biffy Clyro Bubbles NE 1
26 Plan B She Said 29 2
25 Archie Bronson Outfit Shark’s Tooth 20 5
24 Enter Shikari Thumper 26 2
23 Rammstein Ich Tu Dir Weh 16 13
22 Hot Chip I Feel Better NE 1
21 Kate Nash Do Wah Doo 25 2
20 Miike Snow Sylvia 13 11
19 Hadouken! Mic Check 23 3
18 You Me At Six Liquid Confidence 28 2
17 Alkaline Trio This Addiction 10 9
16 Half Man Half Biscuit Joy Division Oven Gloves NE 1
15 Gorillaz Stylo 8 9
14 Vampire Weekend Giving Up The Gun 18 3
13 Goldfrapp Rocket 9 6
12 Vitalic Second Lives 21 2
11 Paramore The Only Exception 15 4
10 We Are Scientists Rules Don’t Stop 12 4
9 AFI Beautiful Thieves 6 7
8 Chemists This City 11 3
7 Amy MacDonald Don’t Tell Me That It’s Over 3 7
6 30 Seconds To Mars This Is War 7 5
5 Arctic Monkeys My Propellor 4 5
4 Lostprophets For He’s A Jolly Good Felon 5 3
3 Bullet For My Valentine The Last Fight 14 2
2 Dommin My Heart, Your Hands 2 6
1 Liars Scissor 1 4


lection

This fucking cold still lingers. I could happily wring the neck of that fat little kid that sneezed in my face almost a fortnight ago. In a desperate attempt to rid myself of the bastard I drank a litre of bitty orange juice yesterday morning, and then spent the afternoon farting out streams of burning poo.

The run-up to the election is in full swing and I’m sick to the back teeth of it already. Every time I flick on the news there is a politician poking the air about their head bearing the whimsical once-every-four-years expression one expects of an evangelist, to wit, smug enlightenment combined with utter bewilderment. These awful half smiles play over their lips; the nostrils flare to soak up their own self worth as all bollocks flies from their chubby gobs. These are the sorts of people that get off on their own farts.

I’ve no idea which way to vote because I’m caught between policy and pragmatism, that’s to say, Lib Dem and no-Cameron-by-any-means. I’ve looked at the situation in my borough and Labour seems the safest bet to achieve that latter, but the pain of actually voting them back in…

This evening on British Television we’ve the first ever Election TV debate and despite this being an historical event, I really don’t think I can face it. Watching a politician force out a smile is enough to make a pig vomit, watching them maintain the previously cited expressions under increasing pressure is a bridge too far. For me the upshot would be akin to watching those fucking Glade commercials in the Imax after having dropped 3 elderly microdots. Actually, even the thought of them debating on television is making me so angry I’ll come back after I’ve had a cigarette.

Right, best leave that. Have this.