Category Archives: drinking

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


boils up

I have a fucking massive boil behind my right ear, in exactly the same place on the other ear another is developing. I’ve no idea what the source of these 2 cunts is/are but I’m not happy. Swinging back to the first ear briefly, I’m fucking deaf in it, 100% silence. Bollocks.

The office is like a morgue, I’m finishing off a fucking project and my ‘team’ for want of a better word are rummaging around in their unwashed beds, flailing in the bathroom or pushing cardboard cereals down their guts. The fuckers should be here; one of them may get a smack. The bloke behind me has this habit at talking me when I’m working (writing this) usually to bitch about someone in the office. If he’s not bitching he’ll prequel an attack of conversation by laughing falsely in the futile hope that I’ll turn round all bright eyed and say, ‘hey, what’s so funny?! Instead I mash my fists into the desk and grinding my teeth into themselves, for his sake.

I had a lovely evening last night; I got home following an exhausting but rewarding cycle and had a shower. I’m then sorry to say I immediately played Tomb Raider as I was stuck, and I wanted to unstick myself before Myfwt arrived. She bounced in at 7 on the dot and I poured us a pair of G & T’s, darling. We sort of resumed the conversation that I’d ballsed up last time, either way it was a perfect combination of hilariousness twinged with life affirming seriousness and lasted for a good while before Big Brother took over, sort of, once she gets going that one there’s no stopping her. I rather like that though.

The side effect of all this yakking was that dinner consisted of smoked salmon on toast and a side of cucumber in mayo, Dijion and dill, delicious but not substantial really, plus I’d opened a bottle of wine (as per self-imposed rules) and it was slipping down a treat. Myfwt was also drinking well, in addition to 3 G & T’s she was also indulging in the wine, in fact, I worked out that over the course of the evening I’d had one G & T and ¾ of a bottle of wine (enough but by my standards fuck all, though these days I feel it more) and she’d stuck half a bottle on her aperitifs… Before she had a bath she was giggly and delightfully flirtatious… I began to count my chickens…

…after the bath all of her drinks and smoked salmon and toast and cucumber in mayo, Dijion and dill, were flying out of her face into the chod bin. The thing about Myfwt’s is that, being an ex-model, beautiful tall and lithe, is that she commands a perpetual state of grace that even when undertaking the passing of vast geysers of puke, she retains this perfect dignity which is at once both charming and amusing. I watched my chickens roll over and die. She came to bed feeling a little lighter, smiled at me and passed out. I fell asleep shortly after with a heavy dick.

My ‘team’ are slowly arriving at their desks muttering excuses, I’m not being particularly co-operative. Five minutes ago I picked up the phone and accidentally smashed it into my deaf ear, before realising that it doesn’t fucking work but in doing so burst the bubo. A river of pus and blood are trickling down my neck as I type this, a rough paper hand towel has stemmed the flow. I don’t think anyone has noticed…

This time next week I’ll be off to Glastonbury, I need to get this bloody project off before then. I’m under pressure; I don’t like pressure, especially when I’m deaf with blood/pus all over the bloody shop.

I saw this live once, my head nearly fell off. Take drugs before you indulge


popless

Have days off the pop is getting easier, last night was the easiest yet. It’s a question of carefully combining the holy trinity of grot, goggle and game; that’s wanking, watching TV and playing Tomb Raider specifically.

There is a very simple psychological trick I discovered cycling home towards my inebriation free environment last night. The desire to burp the worm is a given, it’s as alluring as wanting a bottle of wine in many respects so you’ve already managed to offset the initial pangs of wanting a drink, simply by flipping on the PC and giving oneself a beef shake. To positively look forward to playing the game, even watching fucking Big Brother, are extremely effective in countering the whole no booze=boredom/misery factor. Put the three together and you’ve more of a fighting chance of making it through the night, clean.

But there are aspects of the evening that conspire against you.

Following the humiliating ritual of drowning of the skipper’s tablecloth, we encounter one of three danger zones. The post wank lull is the perfect time to pour oneself a G & T, sit back and enjoy the delicious warm twinge, you know, downstairs (shhhhh).

The next danger point occurs over a period of time after the bath/shower and the preparation of supper. Oddly I’ve noticed that the glass of wine with the meal thing isn’t as big a problem as I thought. Whilst its fucking bloody lovely to have a glass with ones meal the desire to drink whilst making the meal is far, far worse, you know, Radio 4 on, pottering in the kitchen, glass of wine… it’s life, surely?

I finished dinner and got stuck right in to Tomb Raider. It’s a fucking good one, not idiotically difficult but by the same token it requires a certain degree of dedication, at this stage my desire to drink was at it’s lowest. I played for an hour making steady progress before watching Big Brother. It’s bloody helpful it’s on at 10 because it’s here we hit danger zone 3, the last and possibly the trickiest of the lot.

The feeling of boozefree success can inspire a nightcap; this inspiration becomes a need in which the whole ‘well you’ve come this far’ can be easily compromised. I punched through the wall by employing a one skinned spliff and the last of the Pomegranate and Blueberry juice, which had accompanied me on my journey for the evening. It certainly helps, as does tea.

By 11 I was beginning to feel tired. Feeling tired is defiantly the final straw; it’s when you know you’ve reached your goal. It’s important to embrace relaxation by nurturing it; the solution is simple, go to bed with a book. This is a guaranteed way to ensure that your mind will be off the pop and that sleep will naturally take over your day.

It’s quite hard work to be proactively not drinking, this can be used to ones advantage. Despite booze being a wonderful way of encouraging sleep, the effort required in not doing so can also be used to ones advantage.

I drifted off just after midnight and slept the whole night without waking once, in addition, when I woke this morning I actually felt refreshed. This is definitely a first, even after 2 days off last week I still woke up feeling as if I’d downed a bottle of Scotch the previous evening.

My cycle into work today was great; it felt good working up a sweat in the warm sunshine, passing through the trees by the river as the little birds whistle out of green hedgerows and squirrels hop up trees. Fellow cyclists pass by with a cursory ‘good morning’, well most of them…

Approaching the turn off the towpath a behemoth in a cycle helmet and one of those fucking fluorescent ‘don’t knock me off’ poof-flags decides to cycle directly at me, it’s my right of way so I don’t yield resulting in Blobs having to undertake a swerve, at which point he shouts something incomprehensible at me…

“What?!” I yell, turning back to see him moving away but maintaining eye contact, he’s peddling quite quickly, despite being under 6 foot and slim, I’m aware I look scary with my shades, bandana over my nose and mouth, Dead Kenndy T-shirt with tattoos poking out… He ignores me.

“WHAT!?” I yell again, geed up by self-awareness and sobriety I add, “YOU FAT CUNT!” He disappears round a bend.

In addition to feeling that my last comment was unnecessary I have to cycle that way to work every day, and I’ve seen him before too. He’s a big lad, he might dwell on what I’ve said, he may want to exact revenge despite my looking like a psycling- psychopath.

Tomorrow I’m taking a knife, just in case…

(quite a number of bods have been asking me who does the music for the dreadful 7 ages of rock on the BBC, despite telling them, I keep getting asked, so, for the second time in as many weeks, these chaps feature. I still prefer neat neat neat…)


ages of cock

This week the 7 ages of rock not only managed to make more of a pigs ear than that of the punk program, it also managed to get facts wrong, actually incorrect. I’m fucking livid…

Whilst Black Sabbath did invent heavy metal we didn’t need to know the rest of Ozzy’s career as it’s not pertinent to the genre. To even discuss Motley Crue is an insult, especially when ‘glam’ was invented by the Finnish ban Hanoi Rocks in the early 80’s, despite being told by Julian Rhind-Tutt (what sort of a fucking name is that) the Crue influenced Hanoi! Fucking unbelievable! I’ll tell you this, a little bit of info they didn’t mention, Vince Neil, the fat Crue frontman, killed Hanoi’s drummer Razzle in a drink driving incident… That’s the only way Crue influenced anyone.

The Judas Priest stuff was barely relevant outside of the duel lead guitar stuff and maybe the idiocies that surrounded the prosecution for subliminal lyrics that resulted in the death of what Bill Hicks called the last garage attendants in the world. Metallica were featured but they didn’t kick the genre off by any means, Venom, even Motorhead, were way before Metallica ever got a record deal. To not mention at least one is ignorant, to not mention fucking either has prompted me to write a letter to the BBC.

I’m not going to write a list of who should’ve been mentioned but it’s worth noting that no attention was paid at all to nu-metal. Kick started when rap and thrash collided it prompted a seismic shift in how ‘metal’ was perceived and encouraged an entirely fresh fan base. Nor did it mention any of the crucial sub-genres, death metal, grindcore, battlemetal… the programme was a fucking disgrace, an insult to fan and musician alike.

The Moto GP yesterday was the reverse, some of the best racing I’ve ever, ever seen. You didn’t see it, you missed out. Stunning.

The weekend was very busy, a few beers with a mate form work in a walled beer garden in Tooting on Friday followed by a few cans and food in front of the box, namely Big Brother, a review in Watch With Mothers (link right of the page awaits you). Saturday I food shopped and started playing Tomb Raider in the afternoon, and here marks the beginning of the end of my summer. It’s fantastic, addictive and will serve me well this week when I have an alcohol free. I decided to spend Saturday in with Lara, made a pile of food, spoke to Myfwt, smoked skunk, more beer cans (I’m still saying off the wine and generally drinking less) and watched a ridiculous film, The Butterfly Effect, which I enjoyed way more than I should.

Yesterday morning I got up, burped the worm, ate a kipper before getting into my van to drive in to Soho. It was a blisteringly hot day, humid to boot and the last place I wanted to be was in the cabin of a vehicle stick firstly in Tooting, then Vauxhall, then the West End prior to getting fucking pissed about by roadwork’s and one-way street signs as I attempted to crack Greek Street. I was driving around, or rather, being sucked through London in a giant grid-lock, every option in my repertoire of navigation was halted by circumstance until I took the decision to illegally drive up Oxford Street and dive down Dean to finally meet my brother. I’d been screaming at him down the phone as I’d become increasingly incensed by having to spend my Sunday driving around tiny streets in a fucking van (I wanted to be on Box Hill with my black bitch) nonetheless he was pleased I’d finally arrived.

Me, him and his missus loaded a bunch of furniture into the guts of my van and I drove them back to Clapham, we unloaded the bloody van and I fucked off to my folks. The MOT on the white sod is due Friday, my dad is going to sort it for me which is fucking ace of him. It’d better pass; I need the bloody thing for Glastonbury in 10 days.

I took the train and bus back to Clapham where I finally met my bro in our usual Sunday boozer. He was a little flat initially but perked up eventually, we had 3 pints and a chaser and went our merry way. It was a glorious evening, the proper summer stuff and I was feeling quite pissed. The cutting back on drinking is making getting pissed more overt. This can only be a good thing?


fan shit

Myfwt came over last night. We had a fucking lovely evening, ate, drunk a bottle of red wine, chatted about life changing possibilities and hit the sack, happy. Then following a relevant conversation I called her by another girls name. Needless to say this didn’t go down well despite the error being without any possible connotation. It’s not like I was aiming to play a round of ‘fucking bronco’ the hilarious sport when you take your partner from behind, call her by the wrong name mid way through coitus and see how long you can stay in. I simply made a mistake.

I’ve never been terribly good with names, ironically Harri, the name I called Myfwt, had to put up with an entire evening of me referring to her as Myfwt, I’ve been known to call my brother, friends and random strangers Myfwt. It’s terribly unfortunate and unfair that this situation has occurred, I wouldn’t mind if there was any foundation or basis for this slip-up as it would at least afford me the chance to re-evaluate aspects of my life, but this isn’t the case, far from it. I could have just as easily mistakenly called her George Galloway as Big Brothers Big Mouth was on.

Speaking of Big Brother and words ‘slipping out’ (but for entirely different reasons…) Yesterday most of the office was alight with the news that Emily, the posh blonde contestant, had called Charley, the very un-posh black wannabe, a ‘nigger’. As the day went on transcripts of the incident appeared and, knowing the contestant in question, it looked as if she’d been trying to ‘bond’ with her housemate in a ‘wassup nigga’ type way. When I actually saw the show last night I saw a different angle on it.

Essentially, Emily and Charley have, despite being from different worlds, become friends. But it seems to me that as far as Emily is concerned the friendship serves her a purpose. Both Emily and Charley have had a bust up with Chanelle, who it turns out has a very nasty streak in her, and their subsequent bonding was inevitable. But it seems that Emily wants to be top dog and the use of the word ‘nigger’ whilst stupid and ignorant also had an element of control about it. She undermined her so-called friend, and clearly upset her. As I said to Myfwt, in the space of 5 seconds, Charley grew up a year as she was genuinely at a loss as to how to handle it, yet did so with surprising dignity. I felt sorry for her actually.

Rightly, Emily was given the boot; despite acknowledging the fuck up she seemed more concerned she’d be leaving the house without any underwear. Still, I can’t help thinking the abuse was as much class related as racially motivated mixed in with a large quantity of utter ignorance.


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


black night

It’s rather spiffing when one is looking forward to an evening and it ends up as a classic. After a rather pithy day in the office I cycled home full of good spirits, I’d had a jolly chat with Myfwt, Jim had e-mailed me to tell me he was already waiting at the flat and after a quick change at home we were just about to get into the tube when I got a call from Ray. I’d not from him in a while but as soon as his number appeared it was obvious that we were both heading in the same direction, he too had succumbed to the whole goth thing in the 80’s and had figured out that I was going. We arranged to meet at The (new) Intrepid Fox in a couple of hours

I’d already made plans to meet pals at The Two Brewers on Monmouth street so at precisely 6.10 I met Gee and Rick, who’d just arrived, and bumped into Swinsehead as I went to the bar. It was a glorious warm evening, if a little muggy, but stood on the street with a pint watching the passing throngs going about their business I could actually feel my self unwinding. A friend of a friend passed by and I grabbed him to say thanks for the book he’d kindly signed and given to me, he’s currently enjoying an acting role in a nearby theatre but to say anymore would be indiscreet. Nice bloke.

We had a couple of pints at The Brewers and made our way to The Fox, needless to say it was rammed with just the crowd I’d expected, largely middle aged men, a few gothy chicks and all still maintaining something of the you-wouldn’t-understand-if-you-don’t-know about them; wall to wall black, piercings tattoos, it felt like coming home. Essentially, it felt 20 years ago. Beautiful.

We were joined by one of Gee’s mates, Justin, he runs a nightclub in Surrey (I can assure you it’s not as shit as it sounds) and is good pals with members of Hawkwind, I liked him instantly. By this time the pints were going down nicely and the crowd had begun to thin to catch the support act, slowly the black faded and the usual ‘metal’ punters began to diffuse the absence of colour.

Ray arrived with his boss who immediately bumped into some of his friends, who, coincidentally, Justin knew. Even more coincidental, I popped on a Cardiacs youtube link last week and one of them was the guitarist from the band. Everyone was introduced to everyone else; there were now 9 of us.

We arrived at the Astoria just as The Fields of The Nephilim took the stage, Ray got me a beer and I began yelling at the exact same moment Myfwt texted to wish me a good evening and to not get shouty, as is my want. The band began sedately, a little to quiet for my ravaged ears before kicking off into their main set. It was fucking hot in there, sweat was pouring off the crowd, it was a sold out gig and the place was rammed solid much to the detriment of getting a good view. Our group disbanded into individuals and couples vying for a good spot, I found a super platform on the stairs to the bogs until Jim found me and ushered me upstairs to a prime location on the balcony. We bumped into a gild who’d flown alone from Dan Diego just to see the band, it was her first trip to London, she was flying back the following day. I only mention this to give some idea of the impact the band has had on some of its fans. Largely the crowd were congenial and polite most probably due to age, despite that the atmosphere was intense. The closing number was the best, a swirling, gliding drone that had a hypnotic quality; it was one of the best numbers I’ve seen performed by any band anywhere. By this time the volume was immense, my trousers were vibrating to the bass and I could feel the chorus in my chest.

After the gig we convened on the street and wandered over to The George for a closing pint. It was still very muggy but a relief to be out of the venue which by the end was like the Persian Gulf. The 9 of us stood about chatting, I was texted by a friend who wanted to know the band personification of ‘shoegazing’. This resulted in a ludicrous and hilarious 5-minute conversation of grown men shouting over each other. We settled on Ride.

When it was time to go Jim and I were half cut, as were my friends. I left Gee grinning at me from the entrance to the pub clutching yet another full pint. Both Gee and Jim are married with kids so when they do get a chance to get out, neither wastes it. We got off the tube at Tooting, Jim and I were ravenous but it being Thursday and after midnight the decent fast food outlets were shut so we had to opt for snacks from fucking Tesco. We didn’t drink anymore when we got back, a cup of tea and a spliff, which wiped Jim out completely, and he crashed out fully clothed in my bed.

Jim and I have always slept together since we were 17, neither of us is remotely known to doff the brown hat I hasten to add, it’s just the way it is. I woke up to the dulcet tones of Jim having a good old spit up in the bathroom, when he came back to bed he smelt exactly like aromatic pipe tobacco. His heart was racing and he was feeling shitter than dung, he put this down to over indulgence, I put it squarely at the feet of eating 3 cheap Cornish Pasties, two bags of Revels and most of a large bag of cheese balls prior to sleeping. He was just about okay when he set off and I ran a fucking massive bath before sitting down to write this crap.

Myfwt is popping over in a minute, it’s another warm bright day and I’m feeling just fine.

Today’s youtube clip is in memory of Rod Poole of Swervedriver who was murdered in LA last week. Bye dude


gravy

The cycle into work was vaguely pleasant, bright warm sunshine, twittering birds, deep green trees and shrubs, clear blue skies…little pedal effort was required and despite the inevitable cough-up mid way I was surprised how well I’d faired.

Sat here in work now the molecule of cheer has dissolved into the usual humdrum stress. The only pressure in here is the pressure one puts on oneself, or rather the pressure of not having the work coming in at all and the subsequent fiscal negativity.

Last night I met up with Frank for a few Bombardiers. We were both quite knackered; Frank was suffering from fizzy gutmud and was forced to empty his back mid pint, he returned to our table with a tangible air of relief. After discussing the Blair Witch Project with regard to Saturday night I wandered home under the grey sky and on arrival bathed prior to preparing roast chicken breast, potatoes, sausage and steamed broccoli. Using old-fashioned Bisto I made a fucking wonderful gravy that was so delicious I ate the entire meal with a heavy dick.

Oddly the meal injected some energy into my aching limbs and my old pal OCD arrived on my shoulder and suggested I cleaned the bathroom, indeed, I should tackle the bath itself with its inherent ring of greasy slurry at the water line, this was going to be tough. No problem, due to the fucking roast and mania the job was declared a success after nearly 10 frantic minutes. It’s now the cleanest object in the world; you could perform open-heart surgery in it without so much a passing thought to all that sterilisation bollocks.

Just had a quick chat with the boss abut a potential new job and an interesting conversation cropped up. He arrived today in his TVR and to make pleasantries I recalled the largely boring story of Sundays Subaru episode. He seemed initially amused and then his features began to look a little anxious, a bit cross, even.

All of a sudden I was informed that some of my biker ‘colleagues’ could be utter arseholes. I took the criticism with a certain degree of offence but allowed him to continue. It transpires that on the same Sunday I was blasting over the Surrey downs, he was too, in his TVR (though) and a biker pulled in front of him, slowed down and started weaving as he gave my boss the finger. My boss was moaning about his behaviour and asking me what he thought he was playing at.

For the sake of my job I diplomatically expressed my disbelief at the attitude of my brethren, though I knew precisely what had happened. It’s common practice when a motorist has at some point tried to kill you, whether it be unwittingly or with malice, the classic ‘weave and gesture’ response is undertaken as a matter of course, prior to suddenly riding off in an explosion of testosterone fuelled machismo. Should you ever be on the receiving end ‘weave and gesture’ just simply accept that you’ve nearly been responsible for an unnecessary death and take it on the chin. Graciously bow at the biker, for he merely expressing his displeasure at your appalling driving. Indeed, learn from him for he is wiser and betterer than ye.

Christ I’m bored.

(This is one of the first songs I can remember, I even recall my dad telling me to listen to the backing without having any clue of what he was banging on about)


reassembly

On Friday evening, following a pint and a half at the nearest pub to my office (a vile stinking boozer with the character of a stroke victim) in order to wish a colleague farewell, I made my way slowly to Angel to meet up with Swineshead. We made our way to a venue/pub to see 3 bands as part of Lark in the Park. We were joined shortly by his brother and uncle and finally by my old sparring partner, Jim. He and I go way back and like my other old friend, James, have no ability to know when it’s time to stop. Many a time he and I have been a liability to our friends, he in particular… happy days of shoving Jim into shopping trollies and running him over cobbles as he vomits heavily on his Dio t-shirt calling us all ‘cunts’ in between gasps. I swear the exact same scenario happened on a least 3 separate occasion, witnessed by the same t-shirt.

The second band on weren’t much to write home about despite being competent but apart from the excellent drumming from the support band, the headline act were the most impressive. Obviously I’ve no idea what they were called, I was with Jim and Swineshead, himself known to be quite good at blowing the froth of a few (7 at the last count) so my memory is a little pressed. Jim and I managed to get to the tube just as the last train was due to set from the platform. The carriage was surprisingly empty apart from three lads, one was lying on the carriage floor retching into a Sainsbury’s shopping back. Jim, smiled, looked at the lad on the floor and said to me, ‘I used to be like that…’ I remembered our trip to Hyde Park last summer where he’d got so pissed I had to stay with him and witness his fair features transform to one of Notre Dames gargoyles for an hour as sick came out. ‘Used’ to be like that?

We quizzed the sick lads mates, nice chaps, clearly taking responsibility for their pal whose eyes were rolling in his sockets like cue balls. We offered some advice, Jim in particular. ‘You know’, he mused, ‘he can hear everything we’re saying yet he’s unable to communicate with us’. Jim smiled, like he was fondly recalling a moment of agonising inebriation as if it were his first go on a pair of tits. The lads got off at Waterloo, Jim and I helped get the vomiter up on his feet and offered advice to his amused mates. Just as the train pulled off the sick lad opened his mouth a puked a substantial stream of raw beer all over himself.

When we got back to Tooting we opted for a Shawarma, essentially a slightly posher kebab, after being harangued by some racist Irish prick we rushed back to flat to eat. The flat was boozeless save some vodka in the freezer so Jim and I had sensibly purchased a couple of bottles of Coconut and Pineapple juice. To our joy and following day’s regret, it made a superb mixer and we cheerfully pushed on until 4-ish.

After a spot of breakfast Jim left. I had a shit lot to do after I’d strangled some veins, wash up, hoover, dust, prior to timing my trip to Sainsbury’s with the insufferable FA Cup Final as I figured there would be less people shopping. It paid off and after spending a fucking fortune I’d re-stocked on all the supplies that’d been dwindling due to the previous weekends’ engagements.

Later in the evening I met Frank in the local. The pub was full of weird people that had hung around following the football, more oddballs arrived. There was a strange atmosphere Frank and I concluded. It didn’t stop us putting four pints of Bombardier away though, and I walked back home feeling dozy as the sinking sun ignited a warm orange over half of the crisp blue sky. I took a bath, ate my favourite dish and watched a ‘rockumentary’ on BBC2 that focussed on the late 60’s and Jimi Hendrix, it was an above average effort at deconstructing the birth of ‘rock’ but as it featured lots of footage of Hendrix screwing his guitar I couldn’t have given a tinkers cuss about the editorial. Later I watched The Blair Witch Project, I’ve seen it a few times so being familiar with it, felt it would be safe to watch. Alone. ‘Of course’, I said out loud, ‘I mean it’s only a bloody film’, I don’t even believe in god let alone ghosts… By the end I was having a panic attack, possibly due to some sublime Skunk I’d allowed myself to become utterly absorbed in it to the point that I considered helping to look for fucking Josh. Despite it being late I was required to watch Southern Comfort just to help my brain settle. No idea what time I went to bed to bear witness to a nightmare of such horrific proportions it’s a miracle my heart didn’t explode, but at least I woke up with a hangover.

I stayed in bed ‘til noon, the motorcycle GP was on and I had a date with a cup of tea, toast, kippers and Valentino Rossi who’s more fun to watch ride than Silvia Saint (lads). Smashing race indeed, I was inspired to have a word with my black bitch and we hit the road, perfect riding conditions, warm without the stuffiness and bright but without glare. After checking my tyre pressures, essential to a slick ride, I shot down some A roads in Surrey, the bitch was responding as if made from my own flesh and we laughed at wankers in cars and speed limits. I nipped by to see my folks to give the bike a quick wash. She was all dirty from the rain earlier in week. I touched her clean. On the way back to the flat I had a race with a very souped up Subaru, it gave me a run for my money (to my surprise) but I was just about to make the podium.

By 7 I was home, shaking with adrenalin and feeling wholly purged. I wrote, bathed and ate a burger in fresh cheese and onion bread before settling down for the evening. I say settled down, I spent the vast majority of Sunday having an episode of OCD that required me to readjust aspects of the flat, nothing major, just minor adjustments but to the trained OCDer, essential minutiae. I did manage to watch High Anxiety in relative peace though; I’d forgotten how superb that film is.

In order to inject some sort of good into my battered body I cycled in today. Apart from a mid trip cough-up which I felt a positive thing it wasn’t too bad. I’m going to try and keep it up so I don’t look like a melted candle at Glastonbury. Busy week this week, I’ve decided I’m taking Friday off for reasons that will become apparent.

Aren’t I a little tease.


lost in music

I managed to get to Fopp records at just the right time. The hairy arsehole on the door had told me The Idler event was full to capacity, I curtly informed him I was on the guest list (I’ve no idea if I was) and in I went, instantly bumping in to a newly married Den. Perfect.

The first band on were The Rubbish Men of Soho, who were deliberately shit, the joke wore off after 15 seconds and Den and I went out for a fag. In the small courtyard behind Fopp half the guests were huddled in groups drinking and smoking, the atmosphere was far more congenial and within seconds Den and I were besieged by old familiar faces and I was introduced to the ones that weren’t.

We retuned to the bar where Den was in the superb position of not having to pay for his drinks, the gratuity was passed on to yours truly. Air Hammer, who I was informed was a classically trained opera singer, was a one man band, a cross between Lee Evans and Dennis Pennis with a guitar, it started well at least. The headline act were Zodiac Mindwarp and The Love Reaction. Way back in the late 80’s this outfit made a bit of a stir in my little group, Zody himself was the crush choice for most of my girlfriends and I was a fan too, of the music I hasten to add, I’m not a good listener… They put on a sterling show, they must be in their 50’s now but he’s still got it, even stripped to the waste on Prime Mover he didn’t look like he was a man facing a bus pass application in a few years. After the show I introduced myself to Cobalt Stargazer, the guitarist, who was drinking 2 beers by the stage, he didn’t seem too keen on making chitchat, but I persevered and impressed him with my tale of the trip to Durham high security prison to meet a mate who’d beaten his wife’s lover to death with a lamp stand, purely because he was a Glaswegian and my incarcerated mate was from Fife.

Den and I hooked up with chaps from The Chap and an illustrator in fantastic heels and we all fucked off to Soho. Somehow Den and I engaged in deep discussion lost our companions, Den invited me to The Groucho for a bit of peace and quiet and a chance to continue our chat undisturbed. I bumped into a former member of the Jesus and Mary Chain following a much needed shit in the toilets and being subsequently lost in the labyrinthine mess of stairs and corridors, who joined us with a couple of charming Cambridge university students who were already up to their necks in daring do.

Den left at about 11.30 and I followed shortly after as I didn’t want the expense of a cab. I rushed down Dean Street and got to Oxford Circus in the nick of time. The fucking tube was packed solid and after being made to wait at Stockwell for what seemed like a lifetime, my teeth now floating from all the beer and wine. On the platform a thin tattooed girl with haunted eyes was playing the violin with enormous skill, clearly classically trained and with an addiction to narcotics I was transfixed by her, I even gave her money muttering, ‘I’m patronising you giving change, but so be it’. She smiled weakly, I moved clear.

I arrived home at 12.30 hungry and, probably, stinking to high heaven. I resolved both and hit the hay at sometime after 1am.

I arrived to work on public transport this morning as there are after work drinks for a departing member of staff and a myriad of options follow, all of which require me to not be aboard my black bitch.

Todays offing is appropriate, in fact Den has asked me to take his wife when they play at the RFH, I’m sure Myfwt would like to come too…

It’s not raining today by the way, in fact it’s fucking sunny


dogs

Virtually every morning, as I’m unwrapping my black bitch for the journey to work, this short middle aged woman purposefully strides past me, she has short grey hair and big glasses that make her look like an officious prat. There is nothing remarkable about this woman in any shape or form save the fact she’s always accompanied by the biggest dog I’ve ever seen.

It’s a blonde coloured Alsatian and it quite literally comes up to her rib cage, its the size of a small pit pony and has something of a docile, supernatural air about it. For every step the dog takes, she takes 2 so as they pass, one gets the impression that she’s perpetually trying to run past it. This in itself isn’t peculiar, yes, it’s a fucking massive dog being operated by a small peevish woman but what irks, the rub of this situation as it were, is the women is always carrying a bright orange plastic bag full of the dogs turds.

The dog doesn’t seem too fussed about this, fair enough, it’s not him waving them about (though I don’t think I’d be overly delighted if I was being followed by a person clutching a substantial quantity of my cack) but she doesn’t seem to bothered either. She’s walking down the street with a bag full of fucking dog shit, what’s the matter with her…

This morning she didn’t have her bag. I was in the process of stuffing my m/c cover into the van and the odd couple appeared in my peripheral vision, I instantly knew something was amiss; the balloon of orange with the heavy, heavy base was noticeably absent. The pair approached and just as they became level with me and the bike she and the fucking dog suddenly halted approximately half a foot from my feet and without any warning (can’t they fit these things with claxons?) it dropped it’s rear half down on to the pavement, lifted it’s fucking tale and uncoiled a good stone of dog eggs right at my feet.

In a flash the women had produced the orange bag like Debbie Magee, bent down and picked up the whole collection in one foul-swoop. Standing, watching in eye popping horror, she gave me the once over and looked at me as if I’d fucking done it. Without so much as a ‘pardon’ or ‘sorry’ the bastard was led off by her considerably lighter dog leaving me on the brink of being sick into my crash helmet. What a cunt.

Speaking of Cunt. Nirvana last night, sorry what I am I saying, Cunt trying to play Smells Like Teen Spirit. This isn’t the first time he’s tried to tackle this song, even the thought of him thinking about Mr. Cobain is offensive enough let alone the deliberate action of slowly raping, torturing and disembowelling a classic with toneless Neanderthalism, his arm with angular irregularity punching his knuckles into the strings as his fat tongue hangs out of his mouth sucking up air to subsequently return it in the form of a gormless guttural protracted fucking honk, this wasn’t part of Darwin’s agenda, surely…

As I was walking to the pub yesterday I passed his cadaverous girlfriend in the street. Her face is no more than a collection of long teeth and weary, listless eyes; she was pushing the emotionless automaton that passed for a baby in a buggy. The baby looked at me without a flicker of anything resembling life and she asked me if the child was disturbing me. I kept my mouth closed, it’s not the child that disturbs me (it does but not in the way she meant) I wanted to say, but I suppose I didn’t have to, she already knows. She lives with it.

You need to turn this up and the sound isn’t great, thought they are, and he was


porter

I am fucking furious with Tesco. After being alerted to the fact that the engine problems on my bike were due to iffey fuel, I subsequently discover that only fucking Tesco and Morrison’s are responsible for contaminating the southeast with Ethanol rich fuel. And I usually get my fuel from Tesco’s, there is one of those little Metro places near my house so it’s not a choice based on anything apart from convenience.

What is particularly annoying is that until recently I vetoed Tesco because of that cunt Dame Shirley Porter; the heiress to the Tesco fortunes. She was involved in the homes for vote’s scandal that made an utter mockery of ‘democracy’. The vicious slattern didn’t even lose her title and got away with her crimes virtually scott fucking free when really she should’ve been disembowelled under Marble Arch. And now, because of my weakening of standards/tolerance in my old age, the fucking cacky fingered crone has been granted access to my bike and poisoned it. I hold her solely responsible. And I bet she started AIDS off as well.

I’m with gentle hangover this morning. Last night I took the Northern Line up to Leicester Square where I met Swineshead in a congenial hostelry for the purpose of imbibing fine ales my good man etc (I would like to point out that if anyone undertook such verbal bollocks to my face I’d fork them in the tongue). His mate, nice chap despite being a bit tall, joined us and together we drunk, actually when I think about it, we were all drinking rather quickly… A lot of pints later and in spite of Swineshead looking up at me with big bloodshot eyes begging me to stay for another, I jumped the joint and got the bastard tube back which was, to my utter fucking horror, rammed with humans.

The tube freaks me out for a number of reasons. Ignoring that I get actually freaked out on them on a regular basis due to my little peccadillo for screaming claustrophobia, there is something strange about walking down the street, entering a designated zone to then walk down under the street to find there is a little railway inside the earth. Standing inside an empty moving tube when you can see in both directions is an awesome experience (when I say ‘awesome’ I’m mean it in it’s correct, pre skate incarnation) to think that one is thundering through sold rock underneath the bustling city that boils above, passing under millions of lives, is well fucking gnarly. The location of your spot on the tube remains constant, the view predictable, but when one alights at ones destination and exits the station, one is in an entirely different environment. Of course this is all blindingly obvious but, really, it’s a wonder we take for granted. Essentially what you’ve just read is the mental conversation that carried me back to my stop, and stopped me from crying and flailing due to the vast columns of passengers.

When I got out of the tube it was raining, I lit a cigarette and walked back to the flat relishing the contrast to being far underground and dimly aware of the activity therein. I was too pissed to bother eating and, oddly, not in the mood to drink anymore so unusually I went straight to bed.

Just before I went to sleep I concluded that it had been a good evening, I prayed for Dame Shirley Porters death to be long, painful and filmed for my future delectation and fell into a deep sleep where I dreamt of motorcycles breaking down and orange badgers knitting cheese.