Category Archives: hangover

another bloody week ahead

Maybe its the time of year, or perhaps the close weather, either way, it seems that fate, not content with giving me one neighbour who is just above plankton on the food chain, has decided that the bloke opposite must behave in a manner more suited to that of a pile.

Getting off my black bitch on Friday afternoon he appeared. It’s the second time that, with less than a days notice, he’s asked that I drive my Transit to his ‘girlfriends’ house in South London to pick up some behemoth electrical goods, in this instance a fucking fridge. It’s not so much being asked to do such a thing, it’s the way it’s done, right in my face, this bloke has no concept of what constitutes personal space, in barely discernable Sarf Landon accent, complete with gold capped teeth, earrings and a ‘cheeky’ grin. And a fucking mullet.

When I made my excuses (this ‘picking up a fridge’ thing in a strangers house stinks, frankly. Besides my back is like an accordion) to avoid the slightest chance of my involvement he moaned as if I taken away his sweets. The bloke doesn’t know me from Adam, unless you consider talking endless bollocks to a person constitutes a knowledge of them. What I did glean apart from how he’d met Alice Cooper in the 70’s, that he’s an out of work brickie and his shorts are so close to his sack I was prepared to scream should his walnuts see daylight, is that he, his mates and his girlfriend are all severely alcoholic. This is why I was being asked to drive.

I’m not fucking up my weekend in order to bestow on charity on a person because he (and his mates) can’t put the bottle down for long enough to learn to drive, he’s almost 60 for fucks sake. After nearly 30 minutes of baffling anecdotes and useless information on how to build a conservatory he confessed, out of the blue, that he didn’t want to get too pissed tonight with his girlfriend. Boringly I said something about getting it up after a skinful, I thought I’d a least make an effort to be a bit of a jack the lad, but he looked at me with sad watery eyes, ‘not that’, he said ‘we row’.

Maybe he should do the next MFI advert… Confused? Go to Watch With Mothers, link right of this page.

I had a jolly nice Friday in a pub by Clapham Common, Harry was already there when I showed up, and we were joined by Frank and his missus. We gassed for a while before Frank and co went off to grab some food leaving Harry and I to carry on a deep and meaningful before being joined by my bro, hot from work. After some more chatting I got the last tube back and once ensconced, had a glass or two of wine listening to Space Ritual by Hawkwind. The best live album ever recorded.

The Saturday hangover was quite nasty, when I finally did get out of my pit it was lunchtime and I’d decided that it was best I left it later before making the predictable trudge to fucking Sainsbury, I had a bath, caused sperms and set off at 4-ish. I was back at 5, enough time to unpack and open the door to Myfwt suitably prepared. We ate smoked salmon on toast with smoked cheese, accompanied by a sparkling Rose that had been supplied by Mywt brother in law for helping out with her little nephews afternoon birthday party. The evening passed pleasantly, albeit too quickly but the thought of a proper lie-in made it all acceptable.

Sunday morning we watched Scrapheap Challenge in bed with tea, Myfwt nipped off for the afternoon and I watched a very disappointing Moto GP. Valentino Rossi, arguably the greatest GP road racer since the late, great Barry Sheene, fell off as he was making a comback to lead. I wasn’t really fussed after that so (nice 2nd for Capirossi though) so I made some more notes on the book and following a torrential but brief storm, got on my black bitch and shot over to my folks.

Sunday was their anniversary proper; I was joined by my very-soon-to-be-a-mum sister, brother in law, my bro and his missus for the usual round of tasteless jokes and guffawing. It was, of course, quite lovely, despite mums cake which I can still feel in my intestines.

I flew back on the bike, by now the roads were bone dry and the air temperature perfect, and returned home to prepare Sunday ‘lunch’ in time for Myfwt arrival at 7.
We had a few G & T’s and ate in front of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, we’ve seen it one time too many so we talked through most of it and shortly after hit the sack.

So, it’s Monday and here I am back in the bloody office, I’m feeling quite tired due the fucking muggy July climate which effected my sleep, it’s pretty grim in the office too and for the hundredth fucking time, I’m on deadline.

It’s a Melvin’s Monday morning.


Fuzzy logic has caused my having a hangover. I met Frank in the pub last night; I had two pints of Old Speckled Hen (lovely stuff) and went home in time for a hilarious documentary about some misguided prick who was attempting to reinstate, quite literally, an old school, school. Basing it on strict Catholicism, parents pay a small fortune to send their kids to France to be educated as kids were educated over 300 years ago, chapel, Latin, buggery etc., Part of this fucking farce included him showing pupils how to dispatch and prepare a rabbit for eating. Such cackhandedness should be reserved the Corporal Clegg’s of this world, not an some upper class porker with delusions of grandeur. The fat cunt attempted to break the nape of the creature’s neck with the blunt end of an axe in order to slit its throat and drain it of its fluids. This is correct, I knew this. What I didn’t know was that if you’re a big fat arsehole with the dexterity of a Stephen Hawking’s on the bathroom floor, you can make the fucking animal actually scream, really loud, to the point that the hairs (hares) on the back of my neck nearly flew out of my skin and impaled me to my sofa.

Anyway, Myfwt is coming over tonight so I’m making spag bol, naturally this requires a good shot of red wine, so to balance things up, I drank the rest last night leaving a slug to languish in the bottle until this evening. Hey presto, hangover.

Oddly mid way through the bottle I found myself not really enjoying being drunk, I felt annoyed at myself and even considered throwing the rest of the bottle away, save the shot for cooking… I didn’t of course, it was a gorgeous Beaujolais and I’m not in the business of chucking things away that are fucking beautiful. I gurgled in front of Big Brother before giving myself a quick blast on that new Machine Head album, highly recommended by the way, before crashing at midnight.

Yesterday at lunch I had to make a dash to the opticians to see if I could get another pair of prescription dark bins before setting off to Glastonbury on Thursday. Dark glasses are essential; my eyes don’t like bright light and have a habit of pissing everywhere (the rides to and from work this week have been a nightmare) and the whole ‘seeing in daylight’ thing is rather important, especially when squinting at bands 4 miles off. It transpired, on arrival to the opticians, that I was practically due for an eye test anyway, it’s been nearly 2 years and to my astonishment they saw me there and then. My optician by the way was utterly lovely, massive cock. I was informed that my eyesight, for the first time since I was 4, has stabilised. Apparently despite being short sighted my eyes are in excellent nick, needless to say this cheered me up somewhat, despite having to give the bloke in the opticians £250 for two pairs of Armani bins, one dark pair and one regular, after sussing out a deal. Actually I did really well, despite having to spend yet more money on shit I didn’t have to had I been more careful…

So, one more Piqued tomorrow and for the first time since January you’ll hear nothing from me for nearly a week. I did try and enrol to post on the BBC Glastonbury blog; they were offering this machine to festival going bloggers allowing them to post their daily thoughts on the BBC website, so I applied, I even sent them a link to Piqued, I should imagine they were put off by all the fucking swearing, despite my assuring them that I wouldn’t use bad language on their site, that I swear not because of a lack of fucking vocabulary but because I think it’s fucking funny and makes me look dead hard…

The fucking cunts never got back to me.