It was Piqued’s anniversary yesterday; we had a lovely night together. Piqued is well dirty, hung like a mule so he is.
The downside to such an event is my being harangued by various service providers and wotnot to upgrade my domain and shit. I’ve no idea what they’re harping on about; so far I’ve spent about £15 on ‘stuff’ yet I’m still being warned that unless I renew something or other then Piqued will disappear in the cyber ether. I’d rather this didn’t happen, in addition to my stats improving incrementally these dreadful little pages keep my mind focussed away from the mundane reality of employment and stand as a reminder as to what I should truly be doing. That’s right, not working.
The weekend was vastly improved by the increasing confidence that Cunt is indeed away, most likely abroad seeing the emaciated mother of his hairy ‘quiet’ son/daughter. During his absence I’ve noticed that he’s been receiving prospectuses from some of London’s top art colleges. Without requiring me to expand on this, I know rather a lot about this sort of thing, there is more chance of him getting into Central St. Martins than me starring in Two Girls and One Piqued. What it does perfectly display is his mendacious state of being, a two-legged fib unable to grasp the tousled shreds of reality, a living breathing fucking lie incapable of containing his misery so it spews out of his cunting head in a geyser of attention seeking supplication. Anyway, he’s away, so I’m rather chuffed.
Friday began after work in hospital; Myfwt was seeing a doc about her surgery so I went to meet her. All is well in that department incidentally -I was mildly concerned she was developing an infection. Following that she popped off to babysit her nephew and I went off down the pub for swift half with Frank and his missus before returning home in time for a scheduled appointment with Jamie’s Fowl Dinners which was shocking but following a week with Hugh, tolerable. I noticed at Sainsbury on Saturday that virtually all (if not all) the cheap chickens were lined up on the shelves like a battalion of nude Chelsea Pensioners. All of the Organic birds, bar one whose packaging was damaged, were gone. Actually, it was a wonder I noticed anything at Sainsbury on Saturday on account of the post TV rock out on Friday which took me to 5am. I was merely road testing my new headphones and got lost in the melee.
Saturday night was quiet in so far as Myfwt and I stayed in to watch movies and eat. This wonderfully calm quiet evening was aided and abetted by wines and after a while we had an intense conversation that remained civil and upbeat despite the perpetual risk of one or both of us slipping off the precipice into drunken negative conflagration. Sunday was spent very hungover in bed watching Scrapheap Challenge and Death on the Nile, which was a delight, as was the peace and quiet, which I ironically relished with loud acknowledgment. Later in the afternoon Myfwt and I drove (I insisted on the Tube but the former wasn’t feeling able to cope with it, she’s going through a similar phase to the latter who due to panic attacks was unable to take one for years) to Selfridges to get her some jeans in the sale. The trip was a success and walking back down Oxford Street I noticed some observations made by Russell Brand in his Booky Wook (blokes on BMX bikes, people in doorways, strange looking types in Phone Boxes…). After arriving home I finished the weekend more or less as I had started it, in the pub with Frank supping a pair of fine ales. I arrived home and made some supper, Myfwt and I fancied fish fingers, chips and baked beans, childish back to school Sunday feeling fodder. I don’t know if Captain Birds Eye has added a special ingredient to his fish fingers but last night I had the craziest dreams culminating in me meeting a 6.5 foot nonagenarian Ted Baker who actually began yelling at me because I was wearing Doctor Martens. I wouldn’t have minded but he was completely naked.
Oh, happy birthday Piqued, you lovely old sod.
(wait til he’s finished yakking, if you don’t get goosebumps when the distorted guitar kicks off you need help)