bye beadle

Regular visitors to this picnic will be aware that only this week I mentioned Gary Numan and some TV show in which the 14-year-old incarnation of Piqued was fucking rude to said popstar. Well, also in this show was Jeremy Beadle, undoubtedly the biggest star amidst a plethora of minor-ish celebs. I remember Peter Duncan (who I was also rude to but I consider that one a fucking success, little shit) Mickey Most, Simon Bates and a very camp GMTV weather reporter that Beadle referred to as ‘Rocky’.

Anyway, I did meet Beadle briefly and I thought he was great. He was like a naughty schoolboy, almost feral, yet charismatic, charming and genuinely funny. In later years when he was on the butt end of criticism for dumbing down TV and making tacky television etc., which I always thought was quite absurd when you looked at the plethora of mind bendingly trite ‘gameshows’ that occupied the schedules at the time –not to mention the shit we put up these days with X Factor, Pop Idol, Strictly Come Ice Ballroom etc., shows that perpetuate the cult of the celebrity- I felt he’d been completely wronged. ‘Watch Out Beadles About’ was at times inspired and ‘You’ve Been Framed’, despite the (superb) contemporary spin that Harry Hill has put on the show, still feels like it belongs to Beadle.

It’s sad that he’ll probably be remembered, despite everything, for a disability as a result of Poland Syndrome, ironic to think that those that accused him of ‘dumbing down’ TV are probably still chuckling about the fact he had a small hand.

After work yesterday, one of the busiest I’ve had in months I shot home and jumped on the tube to meet my bro in a boozer in Clapham. We had a few pints and jolly good chuckle over the Engrish on the Thai menu and I got back home in time for Masterchef. Myfwt had had quite a fraught day and wasn’t in the best of moods, still, she rustled up a delicious supper of goats cheese and onion ravioli with a rich tomato sauce which we ate in front of a ludicrous Grand Designs in which a couple had spent over a grand on a fucking tap.

It’s an awful day today; the rain is horizontal and the wind cyclonic. This weather perfectly reflects my mood. It’s busy in here again but I’m happy to present a youtube offing that continues on from yesterday before I get back to fucking work.

Probot was a project devised by Dave Grohl in which he teams up with his ‘heavy metal’ heroes from the 80’s and 90’s. In many ways it’s a case of Grohl realising his dreams and the upshot is a collection of tunes that occasionally hit the spot but more frequently miss their mark. The track ‘Big Sky’ fronted by Tom G Warrior of Celtic Frost is sadly unavailable so the collaboration with Lemmy will adequately suffice. It’s some video I hasten to add. Turn it up.

Cheerio Jeremy.

a new man

It’s a testament to the mildness of the weekend that I should be so surprised how cold it is today, I mean, it’s still fucking January after all but this morning it seemed colder than Captain Scott’s gaping maw. Not that I saw much of the weather this weekend, on Sunday I didn’t leave the flat, I didn’t get up until 6pm and that was only because I figured that unless I was vertical for at least a portion of the day, sleep might not happen later.

The black bitch doesn’t like this sort of weather and she squarked reluctantly into life this morning. As I rode in to work I past by the various landmarks of my weekend yearning for what was. It’s the most awful thing to do, dwell on what has recently past in the futile hope that you’ll be somehow whisked back to a particular moment in time all pissed up with two lie-ins ahead…

In lieu of being able to physically move there, let’s us take a journey back in time to Friday, sat in this very same spot as I type, shutting down my computer, getting on my bike clobber and leaving to get back home and change. Shortly after that Gee and I met in the usual and we were joined by Frank and his missus for a 3-pint debrief before heading off on the tube to Brixton. We decided that we had enough time to have a quick pint before Korn came on stage at a pub called The Goose. I’m only mentioning this because I’ve never ever been to a place that stunk as much as this. It wasn’t so much as revolting as extraordinary; the gents toilets were so dense with ammonia it was virtually impossible to actually breathe. Hyperbole aside this one, so bad was it that when I eventually did get home I put my Converse and my jeans straight in the wash… Gee and I sunk our drinks in under 5 mins and we went to the Academy. We had a couple in the bar with some of Gee’s friends and Gee noticed that Gary Numan was wandering about within metres of us. I’m fairly sure I’ve mentioned in a previous Piqued that he and I have a history, I met him once a long long time ago, I’d taken it on myself to sit behind him and perform a sarcastic rendition of ‘Cars’ and he asked if I’d ‘like a fucking medal’ -I was 14 and acting as a runner for a one off bank holiday telly show special called Names and Games. Twenty-five years on I walked up to Numan and mentioned the incident, in addition to remembering doing the show, he remembered a rude little sod taking the piss out of him, I took it upon myself to apologise for my precocious behaviour, he found the whole thing rather funny, in not a little surreal, and we shook hands. I’d been atoned.

Shortly after Korn appeared. The atmosphere was strangely restrained, I’m fairly sure the gig hadn’t sold-out because I was able to move without too much problem and whilst the band we right up to scratch, they were too quiet. I’m now sure of one of two things (bearing in mind I have had my ears cleaned lately) that some sort of health and safety shit has been slipped by requiring the volume to be substantially compromised or that cigarette smoke acted as some kind of molecular sound accelerant. We took the tube back to Tooting, grabbed a kebab each, returned home and rocked out with a tin or two of beer. I think we put in a 3am or so?

Either way I was awake by 11-ish feeling strangely okay, probably because I’d stuck to beer and eaten late. I ate breakfast / lunch (a splendid kipper with loads of toast) and undertook the usual Friday hell to the fucking shops. I took a long sobering bath and prepared myself for the evening, Myfwt bro-in-law 40th Birthday at a Brasserie in Wandsworth. Myfwt came over at about 6 and we got ready for the evening, we took a cab to the venue and were plied with champagne and canapés on arrival, both delicious. I knew quite a lot of Myfwt family but hadn’t seen some in years. I slipped into proceedings like a seasoned pro and did the rounds, ending on a table with a chap who I’d met a few years ago and another fellow from San Francisco who was big in the film industry (but without all the attitude I hasten to add). The former fellow had been a drummer in a punk band and had supported The Subhumans back in the day, which served to lubricate our already enthusiastic chitchat. Despite my initial trepidation of having to meet lots of family members and strangers the evening was a triumph and Myfwt and I wobbled home after many long goodbyes.

Myfwt and I returned home and drunk a bottle of Moet that I’d had lying around from some work do and we went to bed blowing bubbles. This should go some way to explaining why Sunday was somewhat subdued.

Gee has just called me, we were discussing Ministry in the small hours on Saturday morning and wondering when they may be playing, lo and behold dates have just been published. It’s small world isn’t it, but I wouldn’t like to paint it.