Category Archives: beer

the head of motors

I’m at work. The bloke behind me and the girl opposite him are flirting heavily, it’s utterly nauseating, she’s twee and he’s socially inept, it’s turning my fucking stomach.

I need to focus on this. Calm, calm.

Yesterday afternoon I jumped on the black bitch and shot over to my folks. Father’s day and all that, grasping an offensive card (I like to deface cards designed for other purposes, it has the potential for both hilarity and offence, a winning combo) and one of those things that can inform you if the wall you’re about to drill into is criss-crossed with pipework and high voltage cables, I arrived mid way through the grand prix. I’d seen the start and managed to time my journey between pit stops, due to some creative biking.

My bro arrived along with my getting-heavily-pregnant sister with my brother in law and we all watched the end of the race together in between distasteful remarks about pedometers and the size of my sister’s remarkably massive tits. I may have mentioned before that I am lucky to have the family I do, nonetheless I still managed to make it home in time for most of Big Brothers On the Couch and BB itself, which I’ve politely reviewed in Watch With Mothers, link right. I ate, wrote (didn’t drink)
and went to bed, wishing that my dad hadn’t told me how he and my 100 year old grandfather drank more than 2 bottles (plus ‘a few’ G&T’s) every night when my parents went up to visit him last week. Mum had a couple of Sherries.

On Friday night I hopped on the tube and met James and Harry in a much-visited boozer in Coven Garden. The pub itself is very old but the décor is very unremarkable and doesn’t give any indication of its age, unless one is really looking. The most important thing is that the beer is well conditioned and absurdly cheap for London. You get change from a fiver with two pints. We three chatted about our recent comings and goings until joined by a mutual friend who’s just come back from Iraq following a tour of duty. Being a Captain his role was pretty much confined to a desk, but I learnt much more about the day to day realities of the region than I glean from the press. The Captain knows of my views on Iraq, indeed, most peoples views on the matter, but it didn’t (and shouldn’t) result in my condemnation of him a person. He’s a very brave chap; in fact he’s a bloody good bloke and takes time to explain things to me even when he can see my lefty liberal persona floundering in his face. He’s one more tour of duty and then he’s out for good. What he intends to do for his swansong (and I mean that in the proverbial sense, I really do) is remarkably dangerous, extremely courageous and not for here.

It was a splendid eye popping evening, James and I were suitably drunk when we got on the last tube and like twats we agreed to go back to mine for a smoke and a couple of cans. After much grindcore James left to the backing of the fucking birds at 5-ish or so.

At midday I was up, because I’d not been mixing my drinks I didn’t feel too bad, I’m sure this lack of the debilitating hangover has something to do with not boozing as much? Maybe? I don’t know. Either way I made it to the shops, I’d actually decided not to go but needed to pick up some more beer and breakfast things for the following day.
A few months ago my old mate from Leeds, Chaz had decided that we should see Motorhead at the Royal Festival Hall; he was going to come down and stay the weekend and I’d lay on the hospitality. Sadly this wasn’t meant to be a following a load of confusion on my part, stemming from a forgotten birthday on his, I ended up with 3 tickets, one for Myfwt, one for Jim, and one for me.

Myfwt arrived at 5, all teeth and tits looking stunning, we met Jim in the local boozer at 6-ish and began drinking. Myfwt reverted straight back to type, on the lager, matching me and Jim pint for pint and after a few we caught the tube and arrived at The Royal Festival in between the support act, Selfish Cunt, and The MH.

It was very odd crowd, largely the audience were 40 plus, some quite clearly well to do types with nervous looking spouses, even the usual MH fans were of an age and the subsequent atmosphere really was that of The Royal Festival Hall, coupled with a bit of grease. Badly Drawn Boy passed me in the lobby looking somewhat apprehensive. I was going to say something but decided against it after becoming distracted by his tea cosy headwear, it wouldn’t have been good for him. We managed to squeeze a couple more in before taking our seats (yes, seats) that were shown to us by an old fashioned usher with a torch and all that caper.

Motorhead seemed as weirded out by the situation as the majority of the crowd, they played a sterling set, despite a few tunes I’d not heard, but the whole scenario was so peculiar it was hard to get into the stride of the gig. I refused to sit down, as did some of the other patrons but even seeing seated a handful of the MH audience, nodding their bald heads against the green velvet upholstery, was alienating. Nonetheless, all was cured by a paint stripping rendition of Iron Fist which blew my teeth out. After the gig came to a close, finding its cowboy boot clad feet in the process, we popped to the upper balcony for some more beers. It was lovely up there, a perfect balmy evening over the Thames, people milled below, twinkling boats drifted past, the entire view loaded with landmarks and pretty lights… I went so far to verbally cherishing the moments, which was met with stifled drunken giggles from my two charming companions.

We got back in time to indulge in a couple more beers on the way to the Lebanese Café for some Shwarma. Myfwt tits to my utter amazement had a chicken one which to her genuine surprise she loved. On the way back to the flat someone bought a load of chocolate, no idea why, and we all arrived back pissed up and full of good cheer.

Sunday morning I made breakfast and Jim departed leaving Myfwt and I in the company of Badly Drawn Boy sardonically discussing Motorheads gig on some sofa based TV show and Hot Fuzz. The latter was fucking brilliant, as with Sean of the Dead I was genuinely jealous to have not been involved. The former was just embarrassing. Myfwt left after lunch and I joined Lara for some more gymnastics and puzzles.

Christ, the flirting couple at work are virtually engaging in oral, it’s stomach churning stuff and is preventing me from focussing on the task in hand, I need to have a cigarette immediately before I say something so inappropriate one of us will cry. I fucking hate Monday.

I’ve lost my dark glasses too.

This is the band we missed, shit, I fucked up here


program

As part of my ongoing campaign to cut back on my intake of alcohol, I acted on a brainwave yesterday lunchtime, the idea derives from a time a couple of years back when my bro was living at my flat.

He and I used to play on the PS2, evenings and entire weekends would pass with both of us sat there mesmerised by whatever horrorshow game I’d picked up. Being brothers and similar in thought and deed the fact that I was never actually involved in the physical control of the game has baffled many. We had an agreement, he operated the controls, I offered ‘advice’. Essentially, he pointed the controls in the exact same direction I would have if they were in my hands, and when he didn’t, I’d let him know. This allowed me more time to roll joints and pour wines, and when he got too pissed to physically play, I have to say his stamina was remarkable, we’d watch a film.

The only game I used to play alone was Tomb Raider, which is precisely why I found myself in a shop yesterday buying the latest Lara Croft instalment. Despite being a grown man approaching his fucking 40’s, I’m aware that Miss Croft could really help me out here. Unlike my bro, I find it impossible to play games pissed, even a small amount of booze will ignite my temper like a match to a rizla, the non-standard PS2 controls I use are a testament to this.

I’ve made two major decisions. Apart from the odd Sunday afternoon session, should I feel inclined, I’m only allowed to play Tomb Raider on evenings when I’m not drinking. This gives me something to look forward to and something to absorb my mind in a world separated from wine. Which brings me to my second major decision. I’m aware that wine is the single biggest contributor to my condition, I fucking love the stuff over and above any other tipple by a bloody miles. So, unless I’m in appropriate company, the bottles will remain unopened.

Last night was a test. I met my bro in Clapham at the usual at 6. He was on an early shift so I got out the office at 5 on the dot, biked home, changed, tube, wham, wallop etc., we discussed the governments drive to curb drinking, I’m only pleased that I’d made the decision to cut back on my drinking before the cunts at Whitehall made their absurd claims about the UK’s drinking populace, Princess Diana’s mangled face, Glastonbury and Big Brother wankers, over a few jars if Grolsch and a parting whisky and ginger.

I got home feeling quite pissed, despite not drinking as much as usual, and made some supper. After a disappointing Apprentice and Big Brother I decided to have a session of music, I’d just bought the Biffy Clyro and new Marilyn Manson albums and wanted to give them a shot.

Without doubt this is when I’m at my most vulnerable, one of life’s greatest pleasures outside of fucking and killing is to listen to angry rock music at high volume pissed, particularly as a result of wine as it makes one more introspective and engages one emotionally with the music in a way nothing else can. The music went on and instinctively I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle off the shelf. I was just about to open it…

…I didn’t. Instead I had a small can of Carlsberg. It sufficed, I’m getting used to this, slowly. It’s fucking hard though.

Before I hit the hay I played this, you’ll thank me. Turn it up

[Youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ku23nZkukE]


qwiz

I got roped into going to a charity pub quiz last night in aid of breast cancer.

It didn’t start until 8 but by 5.30 I was still at work talking to one of my favourite, and indeed, oldest clients. Her beloved daughter was a very well known and respected actress, she died a few years ago, her husband needs 24 hour care yet she still runs a successful business and even has time to natter to yours truly. She natters a lot actually. I don’t mind at all but at 5.30 and with a missed call from Myfwt I could feel my skin prickle with wanderlust.

By 6.00 I was on the phone to Myfwt walking with my bike down the hill towards the towpath that leads to home, she and I chatted for a while and after I mounted my steed and arrived back at the flat hot and sweaty enough to warrant a shower.

By 7.15 I was on the tube to town, I alighted at Leicester Square and walked past Chinatown to the foot of Wardour Street. The cloying smell of miso and MSG cut through the early evening traffic fumes, it was a lovely evening, people drifted past me, I must say that I did notice a few rather charming oriental types as I hurried up the street, past the remnants of The Intrepid Fox, the gay bars with Stretch Armstrong bouncers checking for bigots, past numerous eateries of all possible genre before opening the doors to the awful Slug and Lettuce that sits squat on the side of the street like an elephant turd.

‘It’s for a good cause’ I reminded myself as I pushed past the endless cunts with polo shirts, collars turned, and little blonde twatlets stinking of Dune and Darling. I went downstairs to the function room and got a beer, my colleagues from work arrived in a group Harri, Kit and Lee, and we settled down. After deciding what to call ourselves (‘Double Mastectomy’ and ‘S’only Rape’ didn’t go down well) we settled on ‘Cack Farmers’ and the show got underway. The quiz was presided over by 3 jolly hockey sticks types who’d taken it on themselves to boom out the questions without the aid of a microphone, not that they needed it. One of them was so fucking loud she made my teeth shake in my skull; it was like being yelled at in infant school when ones ears weren’t fully developed.

We weren’t doing badly; it may have been helpful if one of our team hadn’t ordered a sandwich the size of a brickies forearm which required virtually all of her attention for the first half round. I was answering the majority of questions but fell down on film quotes (all from things like ‘Pretty Women’ and the hilarious ‘Three men and a little winkie’ or something) world flags and the shittiest round of all where we had to guess what one of the yar-okay compares had done, i.e., ‘wheech whon of arse hes skydived frorm a pleen?’ Oddly I did quite well on sport, usually the weakest of my quiz categories.

Out of the 17 teams we came 14, not too bad, but not enough to win the fucking wine, which irked me somewhat, it was a fucking tenner to get in…AND more men die of bollock cancer than women of charley cancer.

Still it was for charity. And tits. I like tits.

This has nothing to do with tits, in the literal sense anyway. Take it away chaps…


think drink

The BBC news reported this morning that the government are tackling drinking again. They really can’t just leave us alone, not content with slapping health warnings all over fag packets (remember most doctors DO smoke, it’s just moaning GP’s that don’t, when they’re not losing their children) and then preventing us from fucking smoking them in public, they’re now having yet another pop at the poor innocent drinker, not just the ones that go into town centres at 2 am after a day on WKD and Magners to smash each others faces off and rape arses, the ones that drink quietly at home are also being targeted. I quote from the real Big Brother, “[the campaign] includes [targeting] slightly older, stay-at-home drinkers who may not know what damage they are doing to themselves.”

How patronising is that? I’m fully aware what I’m doing to myself necking a bottle of Medoc every night thank you very much, I’m making myself drunk. Yes, liver and  kidney failure, heart attacks, ulcers, falling down the stairs, slipping over in the bathroom and cracking your head open on the corner of a radiator passing out then choking on your own vomit blah blah…are all peripheral concerns but come on, I’m only damaging me and anyway, being pissed is great!

I’m not an ‘older drinker’ yet. I’m 38, so I’m heading in that direction. I offset drinking ‘too much’ at home but not boozing during the day (unless at festivals or parties etc.,) never at lunchtimes during the working week (and seldom, if at all, at the weekends) maintaining a healthy diet, fresh vegetables organic foods, taking in plenty of fluids and indulging in moderate exercise, cycling, chin up’s, masturbation, that sort of thing.

So, how are the government going to inaugurate public awareness?

There going to do this by, guess what, slapping health warning all over the bloody shop and then restricting overt advertising and promotion of alcohol, just as they did with tabs a decade ago. In pubs posters will display alcohol levels on drinks (everyone fucking knows how much booze there is in beer, wine, whisky…etc., if you don’t you’re simply a very thick twat and shouldn’t be allowed to eat let alone drink). Dr Vivienne Nathanson, the BMA’s head of science and ethics, said: “The trouble is that whenever you are in a pub you do not ask to look at the label on a bottle of wine”. That’s because most decent boozers will have shown you already, asking again is a bit, well, weird.

Presumably the gov are getting something out of this, happy to glean the vast revenue in taxes from both drinkers and smokers whilst maintaining a ‘come to mummy for a snuggle’ image. I should imagine it has something to do with the NHS and crime, they figure that by dissuading the hardcore boozers to have one less it will take some sort of pressure off the social services. Or maybe they are just looking forward to the huge revenue accrued by forcing the drinks industry spend millions on ‘drink aware’ campaigns in order to covertly promote said tipple…

Either way I did another booze free last night, I’m capable of realising that if I’m drinking too much it’s down to me to take appropriate action, or at least, offset my booze intake with a healthy existence in other respects.

I’m off down the pub tonight though, I was going to put in another booze free night but just to spite the powers that be, I’m going to go out, drink 18 pints of Stella, return home, 2 bottles of Claret, numerous nightcaps and see if I can die in my sleep, just to spite New Labour’s silliness. Then they’ll have to have organise a campaign of ‘don’t get out your face to spite New Labour’. My bloated red face on a pillow of puke will be all over posters as a warning of fighting the government through sheer bloody mindedness in the face of patronising booze campaigns that have a hidden agenda.

Cunts


grundy monday

Ray left at some point yesterday morning to go to work, the poor sod, he and I got back home so late it was the next day, sun up birds fucking tweeting… Jesus. I think we tried to drink some more beer but I was now muttering utter drivel. I can recall Ray asking me if I was all right. I was, just wankered

The previous evening I’d met up with my bro in the usual boozer that we frequent on a Sunday, it was 6-ish and we had a pint before being joined by Ray. We had a hilarious chat about onanism made more poignant as the subject is somewhat taboo, off topic as it were, and realising that men operate in very similar ways, in ways most women wouldn’t quite understand, resulted in childish giggles from the back of the pub. The place was rammed as usual with a good ratio of fine women to twattish rugger types. Our conversation required gestures and we were ignored, not unsurprisingly.

At about 8 we three hopped on the tube, one stop south to attend an old mates birthday party. On arrival we were greeted by a pair of bemused European girls and led to the garden where a few guests we sat around a table and a mountain of food and drink. The evening began sedately, my bro and I chatted, we were introduced to the guests and gradually I hit form, largely due to this dreadful moonshine that tasted like poison and had an instant effect on my balance. I was also drinking wine and later beer, I think. I assume I behaved myself because the host of the party, Rick who is teetotal, emailed me to invite me on the motorcycle ride we’d discussed that evening. The spirit was willing but the flesh was still soaked, I was forced to decline on grounds of common sense. The evening passed swiftly, I had no desire to leave, besides I was nattring to a Polish girl with broken English and enchanting eyes. I think I invited her back to my flat being a bit pissed out of my head. Rick was very encouraging in suggesting that would be bad, ‘She’ll never leave!’ he kept saying, I took heed of his advice for a while, until she spat on the ground. For some reason a revolting part of psyche opened up, I found this single action very appealing. I need to try and work out the source of this… or perhaps see a doctor.

The weekend got off to a fine start. After work I hooked up with Frank and we had a few pints in the local. Mercifully the place wasn’t jammed full of no necked skins for the football as, apparently, it was a ‘friendly’ whatever the fuck that means. At around 8 he and I walked to a mates house. We didn’t stay long but got incredibly stoned on this hybrid weed. My mate was regaling us with tales of his youth, drinking heavily and having punch ups outside the local, Frank sarcastically referred to them as ‘salad days’ and I had to bite my lip as I don’t think the comment went down well and one of us chuckling was enough. I was so stoned that on leaving my mouth took on an inane grin, my vision tunnelled and I began to feel the dawning of a trip. Frank was in a similar state. I’ve no idea what the fuck he was saying, or I for that matter, but we were laughing so hard to neither of us could walk in a straight line and on occasion we were forced to physically stop.

I said goodbye to Frank at the junction and we wobbled off to our respective homes. The world smelt of baked beans and vinegar and my legs weighed 10 stone each, by the time I got to the top of my street I could barely walk. I was still grinning like a mental patient when out of the blue, quite literally, I was hit on the side of the face by some behemoth insect, I screamed and flayed my arms about before collecting myself, much to the amusement to a passing couple on the other side of the road. I say amusement, it may have been concern.

Saturday morning I was up early and remarkably clear headed. I made some tea and then Myfwt turned up. She was looking fabulous as usual and no sooner had she parked herself on the sofa, Swineshead turned up too. It was very peculiar, us 3 occupying a part of the day that is normally swallowed up by sleep sat around chatting about Reggae Sauce among other things. It’s been one of those weekends where everything seems to have been funny. Essentially for one hour we just laughed, nearly all the quips were off colour in some form or another but it made for a lively start to day. After Swineshead breezed off I walked Myfwt to her car, got a paper and returned home for a much needed poo. Even that was funny.

I got up on Sunday after 2; I was enormously hungover and missed the Moto GP much to my annoyance. I spent the day in a malaise of writing, lolling about, reading and burping the worm. I ate a kipper with some toast and it did something to take the edge of my illness, as did a bath later. I’d made the decision to not drink that evening so I wrote some more and watched Big Brother, which I’ve reviewed on WWM (link to the right kids, go there after this).

The highlight of the evening was to the 7 Ages of Rock as they were doing punk. What a disappointment, more than that, they ignored some fundamental acts. Firstly, Iggy and The Stooges got a mention whereas they should’ve been given a segment, same with CBGB, the birthplace of punk, we were treated to one shot of a closed venue. It was here that Malcolm Mclaren saw The Ramones and Television prior to returning to London and forming the Pistols. This wasn’t clear; punk was an American invention, however that sticks in my throat. Also some credit to should’ve made to Blondie who managed to take punk into the mainstream, Debbie Harry herself was a key player in the development of the movement, yet all this was ignored. Even the actual shows theme tune musicians The Damned were given the bird save one tiny fragment of footage.

Still it wasn’t all bad, The Ramones got a fair chunk but even this was cut dead by too much irrelevant Pistols footage, the Bill Grundy incident for example, if I remember it was Grundy that got the blame for what happened, it wasn’t a big deal, it was a cheap early evening programme on ITV that clashed with the news on BBC.

All in all the programme was a mess, worst so far. They’d better not balls up Heavy Metal or I’ll start writing offensive letters to the beeb.

I’m a work, I’ve no hangover but I’m tired… actually if the BBC can’t be pissed I’ll do it.

Nice boys too, Captain Sensible is running for parliament at the mo, I shit you not yeah


hairy aunt flo

I met up with Frank in the pub last night, a little later than usual but enough time to stuff a pair of pints down. The weather had improved considerably, whilst not warm it was bright and comfortable, I walked briskly home, I was a man on a mission.

I had enough time to shower, prepare the Dijon and parsley sauce for the broccoli and whack some sausages in the oven before sitting down to the launch of Big Brother. I’m not going to fuck about here, I’m a massive fan, have been from its inauguration, it’s voyeuristic, cruel, funny, moving and there is always a good chance of the unexpected. I will go as far to say that I’m sick to the back teeth of those that moan about how much they hate it for a few weeks then suddenly they’re reborn into BB experts who will aggressively refute your opinions on the matter, despite your additional time and effort in getting to understand vital character nuances.

I would now like to draw you attention to the Watch With Mothers link (on the right) where you can review the opener to the 2007 show, it’s going to be a beauty.

After yesterdays abstinence on the booze I behaved myself by consuming only 2 small can of piss weak lager, I intend to attempt to keep the booze in some sort of order, until Glastonbury at least. Subsequently I was in the right frame of mind to write the WWM review and after some neck clawing moments of pc frustration following the show and managed to post the fucking thing last night before going to bed.

Cycled in today, the pathway at the end of the trip is now almost totally overgrown which causes mammals to leap out at you and birds to suddenly flap about in your face. I don’t like nature so close to me; especially the clouds of midges that seem determined to hatch eggs in my earholes. Despite this I intend to keep up the good work, punishing as it is.

It’s the last day of the month and I have some proper work to do, apologies for the short blog but I’m spent on doing the BB rant. It’s really nasty by the way…

To counter it, and to show that hey, I’m a nice guy yeah, I’ve posted a special you tube link. I expect complaints but I fucking love this


jizzerz

In the pub last night Frank, James and I were discussing the less tasteful aspects of pornography, that is an oxymoron of course, all pornography is distasteful but there is a vast chasm of filth between naked ladies showing their bottoms and the hilarious copraphilia, say. Anyway, we were giggling like naughty little schoolboys at the absurdity of it all when the subject of Bukkake came up. Unanimously none of us got it, or rather, we failed to see who gets what out of it.

When a gentleman has finished polishing the brasswear following a visit to the grumble pages contained within the information superhighway, there is always that degree of mild, well, shame. Like you can see yourself from afar, flaccid nob resting on your leg, as one clings onto a soiled bit of paper with ones genetic name all spunked over it. It’s humbling experience we all agreed as we supped our Welton’s, indeed, most (normal) gentlemen reading this will understand this…

In the case of Bukkake we can assume that the recipient of what amounts to be at least a bucket of wallpaper paste right in the face is either, I should imagine, a. deranged b. desperate c. egomaniacal. Not being a woman I will spare you further conjecture, my drinking companions were equally as baffled. But what of the men? I mean who decides to stand about with a load of other chaps tossing the salad for the sole purpose of relieving oneself in unison in the face of a stranger? How does one get a job like that? Is it advertised in the small ads or are the spunkists yanked off the street by men missing little fingers and ordered to perform on pain of death, you know, use it or lose it type thing.

Crucially to our conversation, what happens after the act has taken place? Does one try and make polite conversation, perhaps suggest hair products to the glazed recipient of a wall of jitler ‘Oooh, have you tried Studio Line by L’Oreal, that’s right good for getting wadge out of the roots’, offer her a tissue? Some tissue, I mean? What do you tell your mates down the pub what you’ve up to? Can you look you mum in the eye? Is there life on Mars?

Baffled, we pondered this matter for while prior to discussing the 7 Ages of Rock (and fucking Poxy Music), which was a lot less complicated, though perhaps not as funny.

Last night was as dull as dishwater after the pub, I couldn’t be arsed to cook so I ate a vast quantity of smoked salmon and cream cheese. I made it through ‘Paul Merton in China’ which seems to have turned into ‘Paul Merton tries his hand at observational comedy in China’. It’s not working but its still engaging enough I suppose. I cheered myself up with ‘The Pledge’, Jack Nicolson has never been better but the cost of watching this thoroughly miserable slice of excellence doesn’t inspire one to get down and boogie. I went to bed feeling flat, especially as I was aware that I’d be in fucking work the following day.

And here I am, ta da! I love my job, really, I really reelly relli do