Category Archives: Gothic

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.


grand tv

Due to my over excitement watching Grand Designs last night, I accidentally drunk too much wine and have a hangover. I’d been preparing myself for my encounter with Kevin McCloud all evening, it was originally shown on Wednesday when I was out on the lash but repeated last night. I knew this. I had everything planned.

The evening begun exceptionally well, the Radio 4 comedy at 6.30, ‘The Ape that got Lucky’ was so funny I couldn’t concentrate on my bath wank. I urge you to listen to it; they’re even funny without using the F word or ‘cunt’. I programmed the rest of the evening around ‘architecture’ following the union of my fat arse and armchair –actually my arse isn’t fat, I’ve a tight pair of buns, girls- after a fucking heap of bloody hot chilli, which was delicious.

It started with a programme on Augustus Welby Northmore Pugin. I’ve always been a fan of medieval architecture and, indeed, it’s revival undertaken by this genius 150 years ago. I love Gothic, indeed, I have tickets for Fields of the Nephilim in May. Beat that so called Goth fans. What was appalling was the way this country has treated one of it’s finest sons, his house in Ramsgate designed and built by the great man himself had until recently been a ruined shithole. This single building was the yardstick for all housing to following; it is the epitome of the English Style yet the very fact his house was allowed to end up in this dreadful state is a prime example of the consume/destroy nature of my fellow cuntrymen. Mercifully the programme followed it’s restoration. Pugin was only 25 when he designed the interior of the House of Lords and by the time he died at 40 he’d built over 100 building of architectural note, but, until fairly recently was consigned to the slagheap of history due to the ego of his collaborator Sir Charles Barry. Boo.

Keeping the whole gothic theme intact Grand Designs featured a softly spoken architect who was converting a virtual ruin into a magnificent castle in Yorkshire. The programme is presented by the sublime Kevin McCloud, who, in my opinion deserves to be blown off my Mary Magdalene prior to ascending to hea’en to be seated on the right hand side of GOD. The project undertaken was immense, and what followed in the next hour and a half was a display of triumph in the face of near impossible adversity, all the while being spurred on by Kev who was fucking gobsmacked at the result. As I was (we have so much in common me and Kev)

Why on earth I love Grand Designs as much as I do is an anathema. Like 99.9% of the people watching it I live in very modest dwellings so why on earth I enjoy watching some bloke settling into a handmade castle with all the fucking trimmings and subsequent fortune is beyond me. I put it down to Kev, if I liked men’s bottoms I’d crawl naked through barbed wire just to lick the vomit off his doorstep.

Throughout the evening I laughed and cried with the victories and mishaps that unfolded before mine eyes, not noticing that my intake of vino was considerably more than what is expected of me on a school night. By the time I hit the hay sometime after midnight I was medically pissed, though cheery. I attempted to read more of Peggy Guggenheim’s biography but the words wouldn’t keep still.

Tonight one of my colleagues is leaving so I’ve been press ganged into after work drinks. Fucking hell.

It’s lovely day though, thank god for dark glasses.