I have a very important meeting in an hour, I’m dreading it. It’s a job where my personal interests in it far outweigh my professional ones and can’t help feeling the former is being potentially compromised by the latter. Sorry if that seems cryptic, it’s okay though, I know what I mean.
Cunt was living up to his name last night, he regularly managed to wake up his own hairy baby daughter by playing his dreadful music too loudly, when I left for work this morning I could hear him in there with his emaciated missus with the kid making a background wail, the stink of fags was a fucking disgrace. What sort of a retarded fuckwit to you have to be to fucking well smoke in the same room as a baby? Really, he needs seriously working on…That reminds me, on Saturday, Ted arrived at mine an hour before I did. For some reason, despite ringing my doorbell, Cunt answered.
“Hi, is Piqued in?”
“Who?
“Piqued, lives upstairs”
“Oh, Piqued… He’s at work”
“Work?”
“Yeah…”
“It’s Saturday”
“Er, oh yeah, uh huk uh huk” (feel free to picture half closed eyes and knuckles on the ground)
“I’ll come back later”
Having a day ‘working from home’ yesterday was lovely, I did actually get some work done but spent a lot of it on youtube and drinking tea, feels weird being in the office to be honest. I left the flat at 5.15 in order to meet my bro at the usual hostelry in Clapham. Seems like we hadn’t seen in other in ages and we dutifully went over our recent movements before discussing the more fundamental aspects of life.
I was home before 8 and left to my own devices, I took a bath checked my emails and settled in front of the TV for a marathon session of family guy, 6 of the fuckers virtually back to back, there aren’t many things in life that are as beautiful as ‘more Family Guy, next’ appearing at the end of an episode on the screen.
It’s bloody cold today; I took the black bitch into work today over the bicycle, as I don’t feel that sweaty stinking males look good in meetings. I’m going to have to put my summer gloves into hibernation and get my neck warmer out of storage; soon it’ll be time for the horrific annual ritual of the black visor removal, the single defining moment that winter is about to land on my fucking face and wriggle until spring, which is a million million light years away, eventually returns.
Friday afternoon, I cycled back home and after a cough and a splutter, went off to meet Frank in the local which was stuffed full of no-necked rugby types (again) baying at a selection of massive flat screens featuring more no-necked rugby types deliberately hurting themselves in an orgy of masochistic machismo. We couldn’t be fucked to deal with it so opted instead for the rather limp bar over the road and sunk a few lagers instead.
I returned home and had a few more cans in front of the TV and hit the sack a little later than I intended. I woke on the Saturday morning in good time and prepared myself for the trip ahead by having no less that two kippers and about 4 cups of tea. And toast. As is the custom Myfwt was late but at least when she arrived she was actually ready to go. I’ve found that women require at least an hour more time than men to prepare themselves for an excursion, even if its to take the fucking rubbish out. We were already an hour behind when we set off, of course, it was a Saturday so the roads were solid with metal and it took us almost 2 hours to hit the M1. At the first set of services, Newport fucking Pagnell we stopped and gathered together food and fags and carried on our way. This time I took over driving responsibilities in Myfwt car, I was rather keen we got to our destination before Sunday so I gave it my plate of meat. We arrived at the Huddersfield junction some 3 hours later in, remarkably, very clement weather. By Yorkshire standards it was blistering.
I’d arranged to meet Charlie at the car park of Yorkshire Sculpture Park. We didn’t have enough time to have a meander; I followed Charlie in his car through the glorious Yorkshire countryside at some pace. The road surfaces aren’t really up to the standard one expects from London, the up t’North people haven’t had roads for very long, or cars, because they’re poor, bless, so well done to them for at least making an effort. Bravo.
Actually, driving the up t‘North lanes was more like rallying and ironically I thought of Colin McRae, probably just at the very moment he was screaming towards his death in his chopper.
Unlike most Yorkshires, Charlie and his family have a rather large swanky flat; it has running water and central heating and even a loo, inside! We greeted Charlie’s wife, Lisa and 3-year-old son called Winkie, who’d just woken up, and all had a nice cup of Yorkshire tea. Charlie’s mum and dad popped by to pick up Winkie because us adults had some adult things to do. Feverishly we all got changed into our clobber for the evening’s delights. It was Charlie’s fortieth and the theme for the do (see, I’m even getting the lingo) was ‘vaudeville and burlesque from music hall to dress as you dare’ I was looking rather rakeish in my top hat, Byron-esque lace white shirt, waistcoat, pin-striped slacks and pointy leather boots. Myfwt wore a fetching black dress with fucking stockings, right dick-fattening stuff. She looked delicious. Lisa looked stunning in a green corset and an ostrich feature in her bouffant hair and Charlie, also with top hat, looked like the consummate dandy by employing lots of red silk with a tailored black-suited.
We took a cab to the station and hopped on the train to Leeds. My initial concern of Myfwt attracting a bit too much attention from ‘gentlemen’ was stymied when I realised the young ladies from Leeds are happy to walk about wearing dental floss to cover their modesty. My own rather unusual dress code was aided and abetted by the company I was keeping, I actually felt extraordinarily comfortable prancing about town, like a tit.
We arrived at the first venue; a fine looking pub with a good selection of proper ales, in fact, Tim Taylors Landlord was on the menu, a personal favourite. I was introduced to a host of similarly attired guests, there were quite a few top hats and ostrich feathers, fur wraps, stockings, tail coats, plus-fours, canes, spats… everyone looked superb. A few faces I knew, a few I didn’t but it mattered not, Myfwt and I fell into the bosom of the guests and we drifted from face to face making our acquaintance.
After a few pints dinner was announced. To my utter joy, and really this was being like a 5 year old at a your best friends party, I was confronted by a 20 foot long table groaning with nothing but yellow food. Pies, both chicken and pork, pasties of all known type, scotch eggs, a dream food when you’re pissed, ham and cheese rolls, crisps, more pies and not a flash of green in sight. Wonderful.
After stuffing our faces to the point of blindness we took a cab to Leeds University to visit a club called The Wendy House and it was here I had my true taste of the north south divide.
I’ll keep this simple because this isn’t a fucking social commentary; it’s one rather bored berk ranting. As we approached the university students were milling about and we were forced to ask them directions. Instead of reticent grunts and/or shrugs we were warmly received by total strangers who took it on themselves to not just walk us to the venue but to converse with us without any agenda. Maybe its because of the way Myfwt and I were dressed (the rest of the party were 30 minutes behind us so we were on our own) but I think it’s just because the up t’North people are simply friendlier. Indeed, the club itself played host to a wide mix of alternative codes, goth, skins, punks, indie kids all cohabiting as one, with all groups dancing at one point to (ironically) Respect by Erasure.
We stayed until it closed, I’ve no idea what time it was and took another cab to a house in Huddersfield where things took a class A turn for the better, the booze flowed mercilessly and things began to get gorgeously vague and strange. There seemed to be a seamless passing from being inebriated to waking up feeling like I’d been reconstructed from sand and poo.
I didn’t mix my drinks but my three companions did, all threw up at some point in the morning though Charlie copped the worse. Fortunately for me the TV had been left on as Charlie who was full of the stuff a few hours earlier, hadn’t been able to sleep so I was able to watch the Grand Prix and then the Moto GP as I made breakfast for Lisa and Myfwt. Charlie joined us shortly after and the girls chatted while Charlie, Winkie and I went off to his bedroom to play with his toys. Turns out Winkie is a Marine Biologist in the making, on his wall are pictures of fishes, hundreds of them. Winkie can name every bloody one, and no, he’s not autistic, weird or precious, just a smashing kid. I asked Charlie how much he’d sell him for but the idiot wasn’t interested.
At about 5-ish I felt I was good to drive, after a fond cheerio Charlie escorted me back to the M1 with Winkie in for the ride and we were off. The journey back was fucking awful, sudden queues nearly saw us buried in the back of two lorries and one of them new mini’s, I left a service station without my lights on and wondered why everyone was flashing me, I got caught by a speed camera as we approached the M25 which didn’t do much for my temper and by the time we arrived home at 10pm both of us were giggling insane but alright enough to watch The Bourne Supremacy which is ace of spades.
Yesterday was spent in bed until midday, we had breakfast, watched Clerks 2 (superb stuff) after a bit of cleaning and washing spent the rest of the day and evening on the couch taking it very slowly indeed, eating at will and having a few stiff drinks to prepare us for today.
Next weekend I’ve a bunch of friends coming to my gaff, I may have to take another Monday off for that too.
Family guy week, a little clip to get you warmed up.
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.
futile screamings from a git 