Category Archives: CBGB


Last night, following a few glasses, I decided to watch the football (highlights), well, I didn’t actually decide, it begun and I didn’t switch over. I’ve never been a fan of futbalz, I didn’t like playing it as a kid and it never tweaked my nipples as a spectator. My dad is a lazy Liverpool fan and my mum a Gooner, apparently she’s even been to the Gooner place, I remain entirely unfussed. Having embraced a new love for Snooker, and approaching an age where I’ll be spending progressively more hours on a sofa scratching my botty and doing wind, I thought I’d check to see if I found it as boring as I thought… Stultifying dull it was. I made it to the first half part then gave up and read.

I’d met up with Frank previously for a pair of ales and returned home to prepare supper for Myfwt and I. All was well until I began to voice my dislike for my neighbour (who was starting to cunt-up down stairs) this in turn displeased Myfwt, not Cunt cunting about I hasten, my vocal displeasure. I wasn’t surprised, frankly. I knew sooner or later that he’d cause some form of unrest between us, either by Myfwt being driven out by living within the proximity of one who perennially sniffs under the tail of the doltish, or by my losing all perspective on the situation and doing a dirty protest in the bedroom with a giggle and a bonk-on. Obviously my protestations that upset Myfwt were not that extreme, I just went on about it for a bit in a nonchalantly aggressive tone.

My partially subdued rant had resulted in Myfwt going a little bit quiet and offing herself to bed earlier than usual. Naturally I’ve shirked all responsibility for my moan, instead I’ve transferred my all of my negativity into the hate case I keep under the psychic bed.

I read with interest yesterday about that young lady in Liverpool who ripped off her ex-boyfriends testicle. Typical of those that dwell in the region, she’s now moaning her head off about how bad she feels about what she’s done and how sorry she is blah blah etc., ending her statement with ‘I’m not a violent person’. Of course you’re not, having ripped a nut out of a man’s sack, which requires some effort I should imagine, then put it into your fucking mouth as an act of bravado, you’re quid’s on for fucking canonization.

Speaking of the news, which I wasn’t, but was citing from, which justifies ‘speaking of the news’ sort of, I got a little chill down my spine on hearing the news about Heath Ledger, not having given him a second thought in my life (I’ve not even seen Brokeback Mountain) as I randomly mentioned him yesterday in the ‘gay pizza’ post.

I first saw him in ’10 Things I Hate About You’ and it was clear he was going to go far, sadly, his future has been curtailed and I can’t help feeling that his best was to come. Shit.

Back to the footie briefly, it seems that last nights playing was rather an important one and all the Spurs and Arsenal fans are ‘ill’ for one reason or another.

Frenetic anyone?

sweet feet

Christ, I really do have a hangover. Actually, I think I’m still drunk. I went out with my bro last night; we hadn’t hooked up in a while so the ‘couple of pints’ turned into 3 pints and a large scotch. The evening ended with a killer idea as what to do for dad’s 70th birthday next March, if it comes good you’ll be informed. Probably.

This wasn’t the entire reason for the hangover. I got home at a reasonable 8.30 had a hot bath and made sardines on toast following a sort of pre-menstrual craving for them as I was coming back on the tube. For some absurd reason, following the bath, I was feeling, well, great. Sort of thirty-something death restlessness. Looking back on it I put this squarely at the ironic feet of yesterdays new shoe purchase. To someone who is blessed with OCD new shoes are akin to Hugh Hefner and rabbits.

I bought them yesterday afternoon. Being a chap who lives in Converse, the baseball high tops, classic black fellows with white rubber trim -I even wear the full white ones to functions when required to don a fucking whistle- new footwear is a strange animal in my zoo. I bought them specifically for next weeks fucking weekend shafting work function but they are sleazy enough to cope with the following weekends shenanigans in Leeds, all will become clear in due course dear reader. They’re light tan coloured Chelsea boot with a zip up the side, not my usual fare, I wear black, largely, but these Phalange and Metatarsal houses are simply beautiful, all singing and dancing fucking leather.

So lovely are they and so delighted was I with my purchase that I decided to celebrate with a whisky and ginger, then another, then, oddly, with some Sake. Then a bit more. I’d forgotten how much I liked the stuff, so I reminded myself again before hitting the hay at 3am, following miniscule re-arrangements of my furniture and fucking coasters (bizarrely), quite pissed but as happy as freed sex slave.

It’s the weekend so shortly you’ll be subject to the filth and oddities people type into google before they arrive on this site prior to rapidly leaving. Firstly, a very important mention to Hilly Crystal, founder of CBGB, who died yesterday. I went to CBGB last year the day before it shut, in addition to briefly meeting Hilly I found out from a journalist why he closed the club in NYC, it had fuck all to do with rent.

Have good weekends, Jonty to win. You heard me.

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…God it gets worse.

RIP Hilly

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