Category Archives: ‘flu


At about 11.30 last night I was convinced my cold had gone, that my back had got better and I was on the brink of beginning a novel that would identify a generation.

I sat resplendent on my leather armchair, legs crossed, glass of wine in my hand pontificating to myself. I took some more notes and sighed with relief. Great.

This morning I have a wine-based hangover, one of the first I can remember in a while. It’s not too bad, just present but my fucking cold has most certainly not gone, if anything the bastard is worse than yesterday. Indeed my back is being a fucking idiot as well and as for the novel, well, maybe it won’t identify a generation but it’s got legs.

I wrote a book couple of years ago. It’s a funny process, or rather, it was as far as I was concerned. I’d been chewing on an idea for a few months and an opportunity arose which enabled me to sit down and make proper notes with a view to starting the bloody thing.

Here is where it gets weird, once a basic plot has evolved one becomes a permanently distracted twat, there is only one direction the mind wanders, the book becomes a permanent default setting in the brain, it creeps into conversations, meetings and encounters. Once the writing process has begun it’s like a succession of delight, pain, agony, delight over and over…. Now the distraction begins to morph into obsession, when the book isn’t being written it’s a single permanent thought, when it’s actually being done the desire to push on is almost too much to bear, the process seems endless, fruitless, even, until finally, at some point an ending is declared.

The aftermath is extraordinary, it’s a combination of exultation and despair, and that’s before one has had a chance to actually check ones final work which is suprisingly hard to do. In the end what I’d really acheived was a half chewed novel that I bunged out to a few agents, I got some standard ‘fucks off’, a few non standard, ‘nice one but no’s’ and one ‘really interested in your work but this isn’t it’. After that I couldn’t be pissed so the book sits crinkling in my drawer.

But this new book, well, it’s going to be fucking great.

The sooner this cold fucks off the better, my right nostril is now utterly rammed with cemented snot, my head is merely a fragile shell containing a pounding mass of slippery raw liver, the stuff I’m coughing up could be used to grout bathrooms and I’m shitting exhaust pipes.

Look, sorry to bang on about this but I really shouldn’t be here at work, the only advantage to being at work is that you get to read a new Piqued. That’s right, you. I get nothing.

I’m quite literally laying down my fucking life, for you. And what do I get? Mmm? Iller, that’s what.

Today’s offing is long, unpleasent and important. Bye


The fucking cold/infection thing -I refuse point blank to refer to it as ‘flu, one thing that fucking annoys me is ‘Oooh, I’ve got ‘flu…’ which is ridiculous if you know anything about ‘flu- has ascended into my head, which now fills like a bag of Jordan’s old tits. My nose has polarised between two states, one where I can’t actually breathe through it making me sound like Pootle from The Flumps and the other where it suddenly gives way releasing warm piss-like streams of effulgent over my upper lip. On account of this I have a glowing red streak that runs from the bottom of my septum to the tip of my nose, I look like Pete Doherty after he’s been having a growl on Kate Moss who hasn’t washed her front bottom since returning from Glastonbury.

Oh, forgot to mention, I feel thoroughly fucking ill, I feel otherworldliness, uncanny, sensitive, when people talk to me I jump, the epitome of vulnerability, I swing round like a terrified mammal and view them through misty focus free eyes as my mouth opens and shuts in wordless horror. I also made it in to work today for the same reasons as outlined in yesterdays blog, and to cap it all, I have a heap of thin, acid hot cack sat impatiently at the top of my colon.

Needless to say yesterday, or last night, or anything, wasn’t a barrel of giggles. After a ridiculous day in the office where I flounced about the place like Marat prior to jumping in the bath, ensuring everyone was made fully away of my condition, I sped home on my black bitch and arrived home feeling precisely as dreadful as I did when I was sat at my desk. To make matters considerably worse, I had already made it clear in my addled barnet that I was not to drink. Lately my alcohol intake has decreased, probably due to the amount of time I’ve been spending with Myfwt, so it’s not as if I HAD to have a booze free. Being ill too, a wine doesn’t half help with a malaise, I’d made a rod for my ailing back. My back, incidentally, is now sounding like the concertina on a bendy straw being stretched rigid from its compressed position everytime I fucking move.

I had a bath, made a boring but healthy meal of fish and vegetables, it was partially saved by a mustard and garlic sauce, and spent the vast majority of the evening gawping listlessly at the TV and blowing my nose, when it allowed the foul liquids to run free from my head. Once every 5 mins I had to battle with the thought of ‘just one glass, you deserve it i love you there there bless’ but despite my condition of being easily led by my self, I managed to resist.

Once I hit the sack at a ludicrously early 10.45 in order to read I knew I was safe. I don’t like smoking in bed so the bedroom becomes a haven of purity, in one respect of course, eh lads, whaaheyyy *cough cough*

…Christ. Anyway. I’ve fulfilled my duties once again by making into the office. I think after this though that’s it, if I start feeling a fucking ounce worse than this I’m off and not coming back until after the weekend where I will have hopefully made a full recovery.

I’ve also noticed that my prediction of staff members jumping on the ‘there is something going round’ bandwagon has begun. I predict more absences tomorrow.

I’m off to dribble brown phlegm out of my nipsy.