Category Archives: evel knieval


Good bye Evel Knieval, good bye, Sir. With your all in one all American flared suit, your hundreds of broken bones, your gorgeous, heavy, Harley, your Sky Rocket, Canyons, busses, wind up toys, your idiotic drawl… may you live on in Piqued?

Well maybe yes, for on Saturday afternoon, driving Frank and his ragged old sofa to the dump, in true Evel fashion I threw caution to the wind and drove my white van under a ‘don’t come under here if your vehicle is taller than blah blah blah’, and ripped off half my fucking roof rack with a shattering crunch. A fan wandered over, I rolled down the window. He gave me one of those looks, you know, a ‘you’re a cunt’ looks and suggested I should’ve have entered in the entrance without the low slung metal cross beam. I turned the van round and exited the same way as I’d entered removing the rest of the roof rack with a horrendous clanging crash.

Frank and I re-entered the dump, dumped the sofa, which we’d collected from his flat some 2 hours earlier and left. After rounding the corner from my fan, I sheepishly removed the remnants of the roof rack and left them in a lay-by about 20 yards from the entrance to the dump. Fuck it; I didn’t fancy getting mobbed again.

The weekend had started quite well, a few pints with Frank in the pub, fish and chips for dinner, which may well have been made out of hot carpet, I couldn’t taste a fucking thing still, but later an awful serious of anxiety attacks corrupted my Friday feeling into that of fear and loathing. I tried going to bed before 1am but I couldn’t sleep, in retrospect I’m quite sure this was the cold making itself known to me in sobriety, I’d barely had 3 pints, but it was an experience I am happy to forget.

On Saturday evening after visiting my pfolks to collect a sofa from theirs and dropping it at Franks, I arrived home exhausted, my cold still raging with concerns that I’d fucked my back up again. Myfwt came over and we caught the tube to Clapham Common to meet with some friends. By now I feeling like a compromised colostomy bag and was in no mood for social too-ing a fro-ing, in under 2 hours we had to go, Myfwt was starting to feel the first pangs of my cold and I knew that unless I rested up the working week was going to be as dreadful as the one past. Even now the bastard is glued to the inside of my tubing like a kebab shop plughole.

Sunday began mid morning after Myfwt went off to visit her bro. Due to the most ridiculous rainstorm I am ashamed to say I drove to the local shops in order to procure bread and newspapers which I devoured in front of Scrapheap Challenges with a kipper thrown in for good measure. I did some writing then jumped back into the bloody van (I didn’t fancy riding in horizontal cross winds) mid afternoon to visit my sister, bro-in-law and niece, who I’d not seen in weeks. She’s grown so much, her face has altered from the little blank canvas of puzzlement and worry into one of perpetual surprise and she’s a lot more able to interact with the world about her, this was evident by lots of fat chuckles and other sorts of shit, essentially, my beard which she found strangely intriguing.

I left late pm and got back home within the hour, the wind howling all the while. Shortly after James arrived to pop round for a cup of tea and chat. He’s recently become a dad so popping over for tea and a chat is as good as it’s going to get for a while… though we did manage a few spliffs. Bad daddy.

Myfwt arrived later and we had supper and watched the last appalling instalment of the Long Way Down, in which my WWM prophecies came true regarding Ewan’s bloody wife, prior to retiring to the sack.

I’m in the most fucking awful mood this morning, look down there instead.


I’m not getting into this short hair crap one little bit. I made a dreadful mistake deciding to go ahead with this ridiculous campaign. Looking back on my decision I’m still trying to fathom out what pushed me to go from being a bit pissed in my armchair at 10.30 on a Tuesday night to being sat under the nose of a big boned prol with hoop earrings of such an enormous circumference you could’ve dowsed them in petrol, set them alight and have Evel Knieval jump through them.

The freezing bastard weather that has just descended from the black heavens has made my new fucking haircut even more apparently awful. Lets be honest, cutting hair is literally unnatural, there is a reason it grows, and one reason is to keep ones ears and neck from becoming frozen food.

Riding home last night I couldn’t believe how cold a human neck could get, it made me feel physically sick. Later on, walking to the pub to meet up with Frank in the evening, the second I walked out the door my brain shouted ‘scarf?’ A fucking SCARF! I wore one once in the last 5 years and that was only because it was minus 7 and I had ‘flu, now I need one in the latter part of September. I’m never ever cutting it again; I intend to look like Ben Gunn in a decade, actually, it’s my goal over and above everything, and that includes friends, family, career, the cunting lot.

I’m in charge of the office today, my boss and the other director are out, the latter has a meeting, the former is playing golf which is just cliché. Of course, when the boss is taking a day off everyone takes the fucking piss. People saunter in when they feel like it, fag breaks quadruple and the Internet ceases to become a resourceful tool in favour of a giggling tit generator. It’s not my job to be some sort of corporate disciplinarian but I am in a position to ‘bear things in mind’ should it come to it.

Annoyingly one of those that didn’t overtly flout the lack of wage paying authority was the viscous fat cunt who thinks I’m the Horned One. Since my last expletive laden moan with regard to her fucking presence, she’s moved to the other side of the office. This is obviously preferable to having her grunting a few feet away but, incredibly, she seems just as loud in the distance as she did when she was occupying my zone. I’m not entirely sure how that works.

I am sure, however, that I could get a clean shot from here.

(Haircut: Guy Chadwick = Piqued. Fuck)