Category Archives: black flag


Sorry this is late, my spine is behaving like a rattan, I had to get out of bed and lie on my fucking kitchen floor for half an hour until I was no longer the shape of an organic cucumber. Following a series of clicks and cracks my vertebrae found its way home and was able to come into work following a hair raising ride in on my black bitch (nearly hit a person wandering in the road, it was so close I could taste the breakfast on his breath)

Following my cycle back home last night I resigned myself to a night of writing. I’d barely sat down when I got a call from Jerry, my mate from NYC who I’m supposed to be doing the bike trip with. He asked if I fancied a beer and a curry, how could I possibly refuse? We arranged to meet at Sloane Square and we walked up the Kings Road in the warm evening sunshine. Chelsea was chocca with quality blart, Ferrari’s, Lamborghini’s and Bentley’s rumbled past, shortly the latter contained Jerry and I ostentatiously gliding up the street in the lap of luxury. It’s an entirely differently world to Tooting that’s for sure.

The food at the curry house was sublime, we ordered a large variety of Indian delights and drunk Cobra, then Rose, with our courses. Full to bursting we decided to round the evening off at Gerry’s hotel. The lounge bar is opulent and the long balcony overlooks Chelsea harbour, as calm as a milk bowl with a soft light lazily bouncing of the dark water, the perimeter of the harbour contains a slew of large luxurious yachts overseen by clean, modern buildings, one of them being the hotel I was watching from. Gerry and I drank Jack Daniels and Coke and discussed the bike trip. To cut a conversation short we’ve missed the boat in terms of the weather, perhaps more pertinent, Gerry feels he needs a bit more time on a bike. He’s been riding for years but hasn’t clocked up a quark of the miles I’ve done. Bottom line is the trip will happen next year; in the meantime I’ll probably pop out to see him in Montauk in October to fuck about on his yacht.

My weekend has been screwed into the floor, it’d be alright if, not sitting in the middle of it like tramps sick, was an appointment with the last night of the BBC Proms. I’ve been to this jingoistic jiltler now about 4 times, and each time I’m finding it harder to prevent myself from repeatedly screaming ‘pigcunt’ from the balcony during the nationalistic climax in the second half. The one saviour in all of this is free booze, I fully intend to overindulge (as usual) and play my favourite game of ‘sober or not’. It’s a dead simple affair, I try to act as sober as a pilot when I’m clearly so inebriated I can’t actually see, nor give a shit about, the inevitable faces of disapproval as I weakly clutch on to passing guests to remain upright.

I’ve decided to dedicate the whole week to motorcycle accidents, or not in this case. Fifteen seconds of something so staggering you’ll watch it over and over, would you care for some physics with that, sir?

yakkity cack

My fucking back is going all shit again.

I’ve not cycled in since Monday as I’ve been having to go to Wimbledon during lunch for various things, yesterday it was a phone, today it’s to buy a load of little decoration things for my parents wedding anniversary on Saturday. I’ll be jumping puddles next.

I’m sure the lack of exercise is contributing to the ongoing back issue, but I’m now 99% sure that all the sliding and auto-correction that took place in the swamp at that festival a few weeks ago is directly responsible for the new ‘click’ in the second lumber up from the coccyx. I’m now having to be warying of how I sit, stand, walk… if I’m not careful when buying all those flowery glittery bits and bobs at lunch I’m going to get a reputation. ‘There he is’, they’ll say, ‘they created the Blue Oyster Bar in his honour, he’s so gay that he can’t fart without using a bin liner’.

I managed to get a new phone yesterday without too much fuss and expense, mercifully the sim card didn’t have its information entirely cleansed, though I have lost all of my pictures which is a big pisser. Nevermind, least I kept all of my contacts details. After a harrowing afternoon at work, I got home in time to have a quick shower and began to prepare dinner. Myfwt was coming over, see?

She’s been a bit under the weather, nothing serious; throat infection but I’d not seen her since last week. I’d already decided we were gong to eat roast chicken so there wasn’t really too much to do, peel some spuds and carrots, shell some peas, shove the chicken in the Chicken Brick… Yes, you heard me. I’ve mentioned this thing before, its fucking amazing, buy one from Habitat, the sales on… Not only does the chicken skin go crispy in this thing the meat is so tender you can virtually shake it off the carcass, in addition, all the juices are retained, hey presto instant gravy.

We had champagne as a fucking aperitif, I had a bottle knocking about from a few weeks ago. Personally I prefer a Bordeaux but I wasn’t objecting of course. Myfwt got them out in order to have a bath whilst I finished off supper. It was a triumph, every single component was delicious and the gravy so good I can only describe it by the erection I have typing this.

I ate it all like a fucking pig, flailing limbs, grunting, morsels of food falling, flying… All of the decorum, balance and care in its making went right of the window in its consumption. A fucking triumph.

I must be honest, I’m now actually quite worried that my sodding back may require some attention. When it went all bent a couple of years back surgery was mentioned, after much expense and some diligence at the hands of my chiropractor such action was avoided, but it’s never been entirely ruled out. I mean I can continue having treatments when it gets bad but the fundamental problem with it is only going to be solved by a fucking operation.

Still, at least I’m at work; in this office listening to my colleagues slag each other off, so that’s good.

RIP George Melly, I only slagged you off last month too. You were a good sort though

(My back wouldn’t allow me to do what these chap do on stage. Blast)


‘Aaah, great’, I thought as I sat down in my leather armchair, feet up on the stool, remote in hand all set up to watch the ‘Grunge’ episode of ‘The Seven Ages of Rock’.

I was about 10pm and I’d just eaten some of Prince Charles disappointing though more-than-okay Cumberland sausages with some broccoli and peas, a glass of wine sat by my side, the last squeezed drops out of the bottomless wine box. I was genuinely thrilled to throw the fucking thing away.

Yesterday, for the first time in almost a month, I biked in to work on my black bitch, I had some shit to do in Wimbledon at lunchtime (whose wanker quota is worse than usual due to the fucking tennis) and I didn’t fancy public transport, due to the said tennis/wanker equation. On leaving work I noticed that half the sky had turned as black as sabbath and that I was in danger of getting a right proper fucking soaking unless I fucked off out of it, quick sharp. I mistimed my journey by 5 minutes and got soaked to the bone. The fact that my waterproof jacket which has survived all manner of wet conditions failed to keep me dry should act as some pathetic yardstick as to my drenching… If it doesn’t, to announce that the most concealed part of my undercarriage (by that I mean my scrotum) was wringing wet should clear the matter up.

Last night on my return from the pub with Frank I once again got caught in a shower of such intensity that the 5 minute walk resulted in head to toe wetness, during the walk I was pondering on some smut I’d caught earlier, I was literally soaked to the boner. Indeed, last night on the way to the pub, following a change out of the wet clothes from the earlier ride, I got yet another fucking drenching on the way to meeting Frank and his dad in the now smokefree boozer.

The pub has got worse, the number of female senior citizens sat round huge plates of food has doubled, really, sooner or later someone has to say something before they start buying and selling homemade plum jam and shortbread, the old bastards. Had a splendid evening, Franks dad was high up in the British Army and whilst he and I could be seen as chalk and cheese (ironically I was informed of the origins of that term by Franks dad only last night) we get on splendidly, we even undertook a discussion about religion which is a territory I tend to avoid with those of a religious persuasion as I’m liable to cause offence.

Anyway, I was still very damp when I got home after 9, and for the third time in 24 hours, I peeled off my soaking garments and hung them up/threw them in the washing machine. I faffed about with the food, got a few things together for the day ahead, and there I was, just about to settle in front of the fucking TV when this happened…

(Thinking) ‘Mmm, I think I’ll call Myfwt’s first’
‘Yes, do it, call her’
‘Great, I will…’
‘Yes, where’s my phone?’
‘Oh it’s right… hang on it’s…’
*goes hot*
‘No, I can’t have left in my trouser pocket?’
‘You fucking cunt’
‘No, I didn’t, I wouldn’t have…’
‘You stupid fucking cunt, it’s in the fucking washing machine’

The cycle had just come to an end, I opened the washing machine door, still in denial, until the phone fell out onto the kitchen floor like a dead fish.

I biked in to work again today because at lunch I have to go to fucking Wimbledon to buy a new fucking phone.

I’m not happy.

(only happens?)