Category Archives: big brother

saucy

One of the worst things about living over a creature that should’ve been aborted with hammers is that even when he is being quiet one is subconsciously waiting for him to make a fucking noise. It’s very stressful and perfectly indicates the intolerable conditions to which I have been accustomed. Last night for example, I think he went out, so I’m waiting for him to return with the dregs of humanity (as previously cited, he’s no friends so in order for some sort of human companionship he settles for the lonely looking jobless blokes you see hanging around bus stops looking at schoolgirls bottoms) and be all loud and cunty. But he didn’t return, I sincerely hope he’s been hospitalised on account of a natural response by a semi professional boxer with learning difficulties to his quite awful manner, and won’t pull through.

Despite the Sword of Cunts hanging over my head, I had a lovely evening. I cooked some top whack dinger, pasta filled with porcini mushrooms and Ricotta procured by Myfwt from some deli or other, and a home made sauce, indeed, a new Piqued sauce that I am going to tell you how to make. Now. Cut a large red pepper in half, deseed and shove on a baking tray with some peeled and halved shallots, roast them in the oven while you add some tomato puree, garlic, half a red chilli pepper, glug of wine, a couple of tablespoons of Crème fraîche and seasoning (plus your selection of herbs, I used rosemary, thyme and parsley) which you then blend with the diced roasted veg. It’ll knock you socks off. I can’t wait to try it with fucking lamb but I’m pretty sure it’ll go with anything.

We ate in front of the TV like they probably do in Eastenders or something to see the last of Hugh FW Chicken Run (review up on WWM tomoz, link right) before switching over to watch the beloved Russell Brand on E4+1 doing Big Brother.

The only downside to last night was that the surgery Myfwt undertook recently has developed a slight infection due to a sliver of nylon internal stitching having migrated to the outside world. It’s by no means serious and she’s not in agony, but it’s of mild concern which means that as I type this she’s had to go to the Hospital drop-in centre to have it checked out. Hopefully the sight of seeing a smashed-up Cunt with a priest over him will take her mind off the situation.

Strange offing from me today, this chap has a lovely voice (especially in the chorus) maybe due to lots of larynx soothing jitler, and I know a certain mate in Huddersfield will be rather chuffed.


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]


trace

I have a hangover from a bottle of wine and one g & t. This indicates to me that the combination of abstinence and not glugging back a bottle after the pub has already reduced my tolerance, which is a good thing I guess.

Actually, I have a headache more than a hangover. And my thumb hurts. This has a lot to do with cutting off a segment of lime and the end of my fucking thumb simultaneously. I bled like I’d been flayed, there was claret all over the fucking place, I utilised 6 plasters, 6!The end of my thumb looks like Ron Jeremy’s helmet after a hard days work.

I did sod all last night, I was exhausted from a combination of a lack of sleep and cycling. I couldn’t even be arsed to cook so I slammed a pair of posh haddock fishcakes in the oven and knocked together some tomato and cucumber in mayo, Dijon and pepper.

I made some notes during House for some scribbling I’m planning, I kept my eye on proceedings though it wasn’t a particularly good one. I’m not sure why I am such a fan of it; it’s a very formulaic American drama, sentimental, pretty and at times beggar’s belief. But it has something, Hugh Laurie is superb and the best of the writing is saved for his character, which I also like. It offers a place for my head to escape. But not last night.

Big Brother 8. Fucking hell, the most annoying person in there so far is Tracy, the incarnation of a nightmare, I can actually imagine waking up and seeing it at the foot of my bed, it standing up slowly, bellowing ‘ows in going’ in that Baritone voice prior to raping me with a strap-on, if it needs one. She moans at the other girls for wearing make up but seems to think her fucking 80’s haircut, labret and tongue piercing are exempt from vanity. She’s got a hair trigger temper and I can see her kicking off at the drop of a roll-up.

There is another reason I think she’s a wanker. Much more personal. When I was in my early 20’s there was somewhat of a mini psychedelic revival, there was this great little club in Deptford called The Crypt which was frequented by me and my little pals. We’d all take lots of speed and ride up there, see some bands have a drink drop some acid take some more speed, and ride back. The Ozric Tentacles were like a house band and just before the place was shut down I was fortunate enough to see The Stone Roses prior to being signed.

The reason the place was shut down was because of cunts like Tracy. All of a sudden there were builders in there hugging you, wide-eyed pilled out turds with whistles and fluorescent clothing, the soaring crunching guitars and rock beats were exchanged by a single booming pulse, Neanderthal noise for Neanderthal’s. So unsubtle and moronic were these twats that they drew the attention of the police and government and all of a sudden bars were being raided, clubs and venues were being shut down, The Crypt being one of them, and the reinforced zero tolerance to drugs, gatherings and parties had a massive negative impact on all of us.

All thanks to Tracy, the fuck.

(Hey have a nice weekend y’all BYEs)


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