Category Archives: beaujolais

bob a job

I have a hangover; I intended to have one, that’s right, it’s deliberate. Last night, just before I was due to go to bed I was stumbling about my premises talking to myself quietly as Myfwt was sparko out in the sack where upon I acknowledged that I was pissed on a ‘school night’. I pondered this ‘on a school night’ phrase that has slipped without introduction into day-to-day parlance, up until that point in time it had never occurred to me to use it, and there is was bathing in my lexical choice as if of my own invention.

I can just about remember school nights, satchel slung over the bed awaiting attention whilst its owner lolled in front of the just-new colour TV, mum cooking in the kitchen, dad in the bath, siblings reading between bouts of kicks and yells… they were days uncluttered by worry, of discovery via sharpened sticks, humiliation, teachers, breathless laughter, girly awakenings… They were happy days on the whole.

These days life doesn’t stretch ahead as it did then, once it was so far into the distance it was impossible to see the next 5 minutes let alone the next day. All that coiled up experience along the way, that was used up years and years ago, dreams, aspirations, been and gone, luck run dry, corner turned, lid locked down…no, it wasn’t a school night by any means, it was yet another fucking working week night approaching 40 and stumbling about my miserable gaff all pissed up with my back twisted up like Somme barbed wire. Which reminds me…

Yesterday I helped a female colleague at work change a car tyre, hypocrisy I know following yesterdays rant, but there you go. Regular readers will know that I slipped my disc a few years back, something I’m keen not to go through again because in addition to the hundreds of pounds it cost to have the cunt fixed, it smarts somewhat. I assumed a certain position when loosening the rather tight wheel nuts to keep the contentious area of my back free from too much stress. Unbeknownst to me at the time, but fucking knownst about 3 hours later when all of a sudden I couldn’t sit without yelping, stand without honking or walk without moaning I’d inadvertently knacked the ball of muscle to the right of my coccyx, torn, no doubt when heaving up the bracket to unlock the wheel fastenings.

The result of all this is bloody pain. I can barely ride my black bitch and sitting down takes a good 2 minutes to get into the right position to allow the area of stress to sufficiently relax and allow some sort of flexibility. It hurts to shit, cough, laugh and even fart. So last night I aided myself with a few G&T’s, 4 glasses of Beaujolais and a few mucky cigarettes and remained stood up for most of the evening chatting to Myfwt in the kitchen before she tottered off to the land of nod.

It’s no better today either, I may be forced to dig out my stick and commence unabridged hobbling again. The lesson in all this is to never help anyone, ever.

Yesterday I was chatting online to a client. He and I share a passion for a much ignored and talented musician by the name of Robert Calvert; he spent some time in Hawkwind but also produced a lot of solo work. Blighted by drink, drugs and depression (if not mental health issues) Calvert ejected in his early 40’s a few weeks after I met him when I was in my 20’s. A lot of his stuff is being re-realised which must be some sort of indication that he’s being rediscovered? I’m going to see if I can’t get him some of the recognition he deserves right here right now. Snag is there isn’t much on youtube so you’ll have to make do with this.


Fuzzy logic has caused my having a hangover. I met Frank in the pub last night; I had two pints of Old Speckled Hen (lovely stuff) and went home in time for a hilarious documentary about some misguided prick who was attempting to reinstate, quite literally, an old school, school. Basing it on strict Catholicism, parents pay a small fortune to send their kids to France to be educated as kids were educated over 300 years ago, chapel, Latin, buggery etc., Part of this fucking farce included him showing pupils how to dispatch and prepare a rabbit for eating. Such cackhandedness should be reserved the Corporal Clegg’s of this world, not an some upper class porker with delusions of grandeur. The fat cunt attempted to break the nape of the creature’s neck with the blunt end of an axe in order to slit its throat and drain it of its fluids. This is correct, I knew this. What I didn’t know was that if you’re a big fat arsehole with the dexterity of a Stephen Hawking’s on the bathroom floor, you can make the fucking animal actually scream, really loud, to the point that the hairs (hares) on the back of my neck nearly flew out of my skin and impaled me to my sofa.

Anyway, Myfwt is coming over tonight so I’m making spag bol, naturally this requires a good shot of red wine, so to balance things up, I drank the rest last night leaving a slug to languish in the bottle until this evening. Hey presto, hangover.

Oddly mid way through the bottle I found myself not really enjoying being drunk, I felt annoyed at myself and even considered throwing the rest of the bottle away, save the shot for cooking… I didn’t of course, it was a gorgeous Beaujolais and I’m not in the business of chucking things away that are fucking beautiful. I gurgled in front of Big Brother before giving myself a quick blast on that new Machine Head album, highly recommended by the way, before crashing at midnight.

Yesterday at lunch I had to make a dash to the opticians to see if I could get another pair of prescription dark bins before setting off to Glastonbury on Thursday. Dark glasses are essential; my eyes don’t like bright light and have a habit of pissing everywhere (the rides to and from work this week have been a nightmare) and the whole ‘seeing in daylight’ thing is rather important, especially when squinting at bands 4 miles off. It transpired, on arrival to the opticians, that I was practically due for an eye test anyway, it’s been nearly 2 years and to my astonishment they saw me there and then. My optician by the way was utterly lovely, massive cock. I was informed that my eyesight, for the first time since I was 4, has stabilised. Apparently despite being short sighted my eyes are in excellent nick, needless to say this cheered me up somewhat, despite having to give the bloke in the opticians £250 for two pairs of Armani bins, one dark pair and one regular, after sussing out a deal. Actually I did really well, despite having to spend yet more money on shit I didn’t have to had I been more careful…

So, one more Piqued tomorrow and for the first time since January you’ll hear nothing from me for nearly a week. I did try and enrol to post on the BBC Glastonbury blog; they were offering this machine to festival going bloggers allowing them to post their daily thoughts on the BBC website, so I applied, I even sent them a link to Piqued, I should imagine they were put off by all the fucking swearing, despite my assuring them that I wouldn’t use bad language on their site, that I swear not because of a lack of fucking vocabulary but because I think it’s fucking funny and makes me look dead hard…

The fucking cunts never got back to me.