I’d been watching this cunt for a while sat opposite us on the tube, his strawberry chupa chup pin-head lolled in his collar, a single slash of a mouth cut diagonally across his face which occasionally opened when he flinched, and when to speak. Earlier on in the journey when the carriage had been packed he imposed himself on a Christian looking couple. He seemed harmless, desperately lonely and he wasn’t ashamed top convey this, he enquired how long the couple had been dating with a sad smile, an even sadder smile sliced over his beetroot face when he discovered they were engaged, he moved closer to the girl and nudged her with his thin elbows, ‘he’s a handsome fellow,’ he said to her with more than a hint of lascivious bound in pathos… Still not sure on which side to cast my net in terms of an opinion he passed a comment as they alighted from the tube that wasn’t right, ‘have safe sex,’ he called out weakly behind them. This wasn’t right, I decided.
I’d met Myfwt and Lou in a trendyfied version of my old local in Clapham North, when I’d been a regular some 10 years previously it’d been a contentious watering hole that reluctantly sat old soaks by shifty looking chancers, now in full media flight, it was calmly populated by young white people framed by a glittering mass of multicoloured liqueurs as they sucked back over priced foreign beers and nibbled on chilli dusted calamari and roasted tomato salsas, a long way from the warm ales and greasy packs of crispless chips of the past.
We had a few and headed up to Camden on the tube and arrived at the Worlds End, a vast town-like pub populated by rockers, punks and pretension, we had one more and met up with Andrea before arriving at the Roundhouse. I’d never been to this place before but it’s the stuff of legends, this is where Hawkwind recorded the finest live album of all time, Space Ritual.
It’s a great space, formerly housing a giant turntable for steam locomotives in the 19th century it’d gone from dereliction to concert hall and after a further period of disrepair was once again a magnificent venue. We secured beers and found a great spot to the right of the stage and within a few feet from the front. The Jesus and Mary Chain, laconic as usual (but, sadly, lacking the backcombed piles of hair that occupied half their sullen faces) arrived and began, the sound wasn’t right up there to begin, nor were the heady swathes of feedback of their heyday, but it was instantly engaging, beautiful, even. Starting with some classics off Psycho Candy they moved through Automatic before returning to full balls out form with Just Like a Honey, by now Jim Reid was a bit pissed and enjoying the effects of a not entirely subtle intake of sniff, this had a most delicious effect up the sound. Finally the volume was beginning to punch hard, enclosed in dry ice the band let their amps loose, ecstasy at last, I enjoyed the final 20 minutes as much as just about anything I’ve seen live since.
The tube had emptied by Balham, Lou and Myfwt were engaged in a serious conversation about their work and the strange character opposite was leaning in to study them. He knew I was on to him so he avoided making eye contact with me but by now was leaning so far over and staring at Lou with such intensity I had to subtly convey to Myfwt and Lou that something wasn’t right, she got it, Lou didn’t.
At his stop Myfwt and I said goodbye to Lou and he got off, suddenly the bloke opposite leapt to his feet and followed Lou out of the carriage. Jangling behind him his dumb expression of sorrow and disassociation suddenly shifted to one of psychotic rage and he whacked Lou in the back ‘why are you so fucking serious? WHY ARE YOU SO FU…! ’ He said.
Myfwt and I jumped off the tube before the doors shut, I headed straight for the fuck, he turned on his heels to face me and the expression on the looney’s face switched again, this time he looked as if he’d just lost fifty quid, he gasped in exasperation and hastily beat a retreat to the escalator where he vanished into the night. Just goes to show you that you trusting your instincts is always a good place to start when forming an opinion.
There may not be a piqued until Monday as I may be having the day off to do other work with a mate. If by some happy chance I’m not in tomorrow, have fun for heaven’s sakes.
I have a hangover; I intended to have one, that’s right, it’s deliberate. Last night, just before I was due to go to bed I was stumbling about my premises talking to myself quietly as Myfwt was sparko out in the sack where upon I acknowledged that I was pissed on a ‘school night’. I pondered this ‘on a school night’ phrase that has slipped without introduction into day-to-day parlance, up until that point in time it had never occurred to me to use it, and there is was bathing in my lexical choice as if of my own invention.
I can just about remember school nights, satchel slung over the bed awaiting attention whilst its owner lolled in front of the just-new colour TV, mum cooking in the kitchen, dad in the bath, siblings reading between bouts of kicks and yells… they were days uncluttered by worry, of discovery via sharpened sticks, humiliation, teachers, breathless laughter, girly awakenings… They were happy days on the whole.
These days life doesn’t stretch ahead as it did then, once it was so far into the distance it was impossible to see the next 5 minutes let alone the next day. All that coiled up experience along the way, that was used up years and years ago, dreams, aspirations, been and gone, luck run dry, corner turned, lid locked down…no, it wasn’t a school night by any means, it was yet another fucking working week night approaching 40 and stumbling about my miserable gaff all pissed up with my back twisted up like Somme barbed wire. Which reminds me…
Yesterday I helped a female colleague at work change a car tyre, hypocrisy I know following yesterdays rant, but there you go. Regular readers will know that I slipped my disc a few years back, something I’m keen not to go through again because in addition to the hundreds of pounds it cost to have the cunt fixed, it smarts somewhat. I assumed a certain position when loosening the rather tight wheel nuts to keep the contentious area of my back free from too much stress. Unbeknownst to me at the time, but fucking knownst about 3 hours later when all of a sudden I couldn’t sit without yelping, stand without honking or walk without moaning I’d inadvertently knacked the ball of muscle to the right of my coccyx, torn, no doubt when heaving up the bracket to unlock the wheel fastenings.
The result of all this is bloody pain. I can barely ride my black bitch and sitting down takes a good 2 minutes to get into the right position to allow the area of stress to sufficiently relax and allow some sort of flexibility. It hurts to shit, cough, laugh and even fart. So last night I aided myself with a few G&T’s, 4 glasses of Beaujolais and a few mucky cigarettes and remained stood up for most of the evening chatting to Myfwt in the kitchen before she tottered off to the land of nod.
It’s no better today either, I may be forced to dig out my stick and commence unabridged hobbling again. The lesson in all this is to never help anyone, ever.
Yesterday I was chatting online to a client. He and I share a passion for a much ignored and talented musician by the name of Robert Calvert; he spent some time in Hawkwind but also produced a lot of solo work. Blighted by drink, drugs and depression (if not mental health issues) Calvert ejected in his early 40’s a few weeks after I met him when I was in my 20’s. A lot of his stuff is being re-realised which must be some sort of indication that he’s being rediscovered? I’m going to see if I can’t get him some of the recognition he deserves right here right now. Snag is there isn’t much on youtube so you’ll have to make do with this.
The Tuesday shits at work got much worse as the day progressed. By 2.30pm my bladder had given up the ghost choosing instead to pass it’s workload onto my arsehole that gaily pissed budget Cola from it every half hour. I was beginning to feel slightly feverish, weakened by my condition I discharged myself from work and rode home with my bones shaking in my person like tinned Twiglets.
After cancelling the evening’s appointments I lay down to rest in my bed feeling decidedly nauseous allowing the waves of cold sweat to ripple icy fingers over my skin in between the dark warm waves of sickness. An hour later my mouth yawned over the edge of the bath as I jettisoned 3 terrific blasts of gut broth into the North sea. I felt instantly cured for about 15 seconds until my stomach re-established its foul congregation of vapours. Five minutes later I was back in bed pondering he consequences of my newfound fever.
The biggest threat posed by my condition was to Myfwt who was due to have surgery on Friday. If she contracted this bastard, her appointment, which had taken years to arrange, would be cancelled before she’d even set foot on the ward. Having said that I wasn’t sure if this malaise was due to a bug that I know had been going around, though not in my office, or food poisoning. I’d been feeling queasy since the previous evenings meal, which I apportioned to the asparagus due to my forgetting to wash it.
Aside from the Myfwt equation there was also the matter of my being able to see Hawkwind the following evening. ‘Fuck’ I thought. Then I said it out loud. Then I went to sleep.
The next day I was feeling a little better but the arse gravy was still featuring. I decided an egg with toast would be a good binding agent and I tentatively consumed my first meal in 36 hours. Happily it stayed down and I subsequently felt better. I’d arranged a shopping trip with Myfwt in the afternoon and was deliberating whether or not to risk contact with her should my ‘asparagus food poisoning’ theory, which I’d reasoned was the cause of my woes, be incorrect. I discussed the matter with her and we decided to risk it. The trip took its toll to some degree, I was feeling weary and delicate but this was the only way, psychologically, I was going to be able to make it to the evenings gig. I figured that if I can do the Christmas shopping I can do Hawkwind.
At 6pm Jamie arrived and we headed off to the local to meet James. I’d not had a drink since Sunday and the thought of a pint, worryingly, wasn’t doing it for me. I managed a foul tasting Fosters, really nasty, like drinking paracetamol, and seriously questioned if I was going to be able to see the evening through. Instead of setting off we had another ‘tester’ pint after which I was pretty much on the side of giving the gig a shot. By the time we arrived at Tottenham Court Road I was feeling a bit better and after a couple more at The Royal George I was better still. Astonishingly Jamie and I bumped into an old mate from way back, he’d not changed in the least and evening begun to get hilariously rambunctious. The Astoria was packed solid; a bit too packed to the point we contemplated some counterfeit tickets in circulation, but nonetheless, Hawkwind did a splendid set (which included the quirky Calvert-penned Flying Doctor) and finishing with Silver Machine. Despite this being their seminal number and their best known tune, in the 20 years I’ve being seeing them (this was about my 17th time) I’d never seen them play in. When it began I nearly burst into tears and James had to, well, look after me. I felt like a right berk.
Following the gig we bumped into yet another mate and headed off to the nearest available hostelry with a rather peculiar crew that comprised of mates, friends of friends and few hangers on. Bonded by our penchant for liking a band with an outsider, non conformist oeuvre we merrily bought drinks and chatted, but with an eye on the time in order to secure the last tube home. By the time we arrived back, following a farewell to James at Balham, Jamie and I grabbed a kebab (which I couldn’t eat, my stomach still wasn’t 100%) and arrived home to a sleepy Myfwt.
Next morning after Jamie left Myfwt and I went to finish off our Christmas shopping. On the way to the Kings Road I had to pick up a pair of motorcycle goggles for my dad, the old-fashioned Second World War fellows desired by fighter pilots, specifically, Halcyon Mark 4 Silver Cross. Having failed to find a pair outside of the internet (they never would’ve arrived in time) I was forced to purchase them from a Chelsea Scooters. For a hairy arsed seasoned biker such as I this was tantamount to entering a gay bar and asking to be fellated. Having no choice in the matter I entered the establishment and found myself looking up at a giant skinheaded mod. Oh the difference between the gentlemen motorcycle retailers I’m used to dealing with and these fellows. Whilst perfectly cheery to me the loud and aggressive manner – peppered with very blue language- that was used to communicate with colleagues was startling, frankly. The Skin was unable to locate the item despite his bug-eyed mate insisting they were ‘on the top fucking shelf over the fucking counter’, this made the Skin cross until eventually his mate had to down tools being used to reconnect some elastic to a leaf blower and find the item himself amid much ‘you blind cunt’ and suchlike. When the item was finally presented to me I was told that they’d been hanging around for the past 5 years, subsequently I purchased them at the arcane price of £36 Queen heads when they’re £42 brought direct from Halcyon. I asked the Skin if they were the silver ones with black leather, ‘dunno mate’ he said cheerily ‘lets find out’ and he helpfully ripped the box in half to satisfy my curiosity. I wasn’t going to bother complaining.
Following our final Christmas shopping trip, which was quite a success, we came home and settled down for the night. We had to get up early, at 6am to be precise, as Myfwt had a hospital appointment and I was the designated carer.
Living quite near to St.Georges in Tooting we were able to walk there. It was pitch black and cold outside and neither of us were in any mood for the journey that would end in surgery for one and a wait for the other. By 7am we were in the waiting room with about 20 others, all waiting for the stations to the theatre. At 9am Myfwt was gowned up, I walked her down to theatre with a very ginger male nurse and I said goodbye, assuring her I’d be there when she came round. Needless to say she was nervous, I’ve had two General aesthetics in my life but she was a virgin. My attempts at reassurance hadn’t helped either. Having been an auxiliary nurse (in fact, I had worked at the very hospital we were in) my bedside manner is somewhat pragmatic; I don’t think I was being very helpful in hindsight.
For me there began an 8-hour wait. I’d been told to call the relevant department at 10.30 to enquire about her allocation of a bed, then told to call back at 11.30, and so on. After a few hours my mind began to install itself into the wait. I deliberately spent time drifting between teas, cigarettes, sandwiches and various waiting rooms, all fired up to the temperature of fucking Hades, as is the want of such institutions. My book, which I’d been half way through, was soon finished to heightened emotion -Giles Milton, Samurai William, a triumph- and I was forced to purchase a paperback from the woefully inadequate but time-killing hospital shop. Fortunately, amidst all the fucking crap that passes for fiction these days, I found something rather good, a delicious crime novel into which I became immediately engrossed.
After what seemed like 2 days I eventually arrived on the ward at 5pm where Myfwt was due half an hour later, following a conversation with a chap who’d just had his toe amputated, a confused soporific patient with a bandaged limb was parked to rest. The procedure, we were informed by a rather dashing surgeon, had been an unmitigated success. Splendid news. Her sister arrived shortly after and I left them to it. On top of everything, tonight was the office Christmas party and was expected to be there for 7pm.
I didn’t bother going home; I jumped on a bus and in 30 minutes was in the loathsome Wimbledon ascending a staircase to my co-workers, who, it must be said, greeted me with a certain degree of enthusiasm. Most were already half cut, being the model of sobriety I allowed myself to fully indulge in all that was offered in the form of booze and to a lesser extent, food, though my appetite for the latter was virtually non existent. It was a nice evening, everyone in good cheer though toward the end some casualties were dropping off the end. One colleague, the unstable actor I occasionally have cause to chide like an infant, interrupted a colleague and I having a deep and meaningful. Of course I told him to fuck off out of it and he came at me shouting and screaming a few minutes later making an utter twat of himself. I had him removed. He later re-appeared to apologise, the berk.
I brushed of the hangover the next day. I called the hospital and discovered much to my delight Myfwt was ready to be discharged. I drove over and after a paperwork interlude took her back home. When we got back the noise downstairs was a fucking disgrace, despite having informed Cunt that she needed to rest the arsehole had decided to throw a fucking party for his grubby mates. At 11am I went down to tell him to shut the fuck up. He answered the door wearing sunglasses (what a fucking cunt) and clutching a can of strong lager. He apologised with as much sincerity as a Rumsfeld before inexplicably informing me he was Catholic and then, ironically, asking me to give Myfwt his blessing like he was the fucking Pope.
Myfwt was still very dazed by the drugs and spent most of the Saturday asleep in bed while I read, wrote and watched TV next door. The time passed in a not entirely dissimilar way to the previous one, I felt largely removed from reality but was snapped very much into focus when later in the afternoon the noise began again. There were by now a few of them downstairs and I assumed all were pissed stupid, we had no choice but to suffer his utter selfishness, going downstairs again on balance may have been unsafe, besides as Myfwt was largely out of it she didn’t seem overtly fussed by his cuntiness. The noise continued on and off all fucking night but despite it we were both so exhausted/stoned that we slept soundly. On the plus side he must have awoken knowing he’s been an utter wanker as I’ve not heard a peep downstairs since. I’m praying for violent death, of course.
On Sunday I took Myfwt to her sisters in dense fog, it was rather fun but no so much when on returning I got fucking lost. Earlier I’d been forced to Sainsbury to do some last minute food and booze shopping. I wasn’t expecting the place to be so crowded. It was fucking unbelievable actually, it was almost impossible to actually get to anything with a fight and I queued for over three quarters of an hour before I was served. That and the journey back in the fog had soured my mood but I was cheered by a trip to Clapham to meet my bro, Frank and his missus and Harry for a few Christmas drinks. I got back home in time to take delivery of an exhausted Myfwt who’d been dropped off by her sister. We had a lovely quiet evening, exchanged gifts and watched Christmassy shite on the box before retiring. I admit to staying up a little bit later and having a few whiskies, its Christmas, I thought. Why not…
So, here we are, Christmas eve. I’ve just dropped Myfwt off at her sisters (again), as they are all off up t’northern somewhere to meet the rest of family. Shortly I’m off to meet Frank for one last snifter before it all kicks off. Tomorrow I pick up My bro and his missus and we all head off to deepest darkest Surrey for the usual family shenanigans. I have to say I’m rather looking forward to it.
This really is the last Piqued this year, I’ll be back in just over a week so don’t fuck off now. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all of you where ever you may be. (Obviously, I reserve this goodwill for cunts, however.)
So this is Christmas. This is my last day in the office for 2007, but not the last day of Piqued for the year you’ll be delighted to know, but things will wind down now. No more daily posts until the 7th January 2008 (a week before Piqued’s first birthday) and no more daily music to sustain you. Sorry.
Briefly looking back over the year, it’s been eventful in family terms, a new niece, my parents 40th wedding anniversary, my granddad’s 100th birthday, I’ve had some killer days, mainly involving motorcycles and Myfwt, some marvellous nights out with friends but in other ways it’s been a fucking awful year, no holiday, no more luck with the writing and I still live over a fucking steaming great cunt who even last night was doing his level best to involve me in his miserable pathetic life by playing his guitar at unreasonable volumes. Obviously if I’d come home from work one evening, stepping over a half burnt corpse with all shit coming out of its eyes, 2007 would’ve been the best year ever.
But there has been one consistent element to 2007, something that began through a desire to be able to overtly release a steam of consciousness, pour out my guts in public if you will, and in doing so sate the need to write, whether it be good or bad isn’t the issue here. Piqued fulfils certain necessities and I’m appreciative of my core and every growing readership, whomsoever you may be, for, well, reading it. Most of the stuff you read on this site is real, hyperbole permitting of course, but I’m keen to preserve my wider anonymity (and that of my friends) so I may write without impunity…having said that, if you look at early articles they’re quite different to their current incarnation, this is purely because all of my friends read this these days …but I still don’t know most of you personally and I’m keen to keep it that way, with all due respect of course.
So what’s next? In the short term Hawkwind tomorrow evening, Myfwt has to go to hospital for some minor surgery on Friday which will require me to look after her up until Christmas (something I’m delighted to do by the way, the only thing I’m concerned about is Cunt disturbing her convalescence, should that occur I’ll go public on the fucking news) then of course it’s Christmas with all if it’s boozy trimmings.
Speaking of booze, I didn’t touch a drop last night. I think Piqued has helped me realise that whilst not alcoholic I have propensity for drinking too much, it’s one of those things that can creep up on a chap. By publicly setting goals in the cold light of day (i.e., I’m not going to drink once a week and I’m cutting back when I do) helps me to fulfil my objectives, after all, insincerity is such a despicable trait in a person. What is fucking annoying is that today, despite being a good boy last night, I’ve a dose of the shits, you just can’t fucking win can you.
I was as busy as furious bee yesterday, for some reason everything needed doing at once, and in between all of this I spent a good deal of time having an online conversation (with a bloke called Earache whom I’ve linked to on the right) about the Guardian’s top 1000 albums. Entertaining it may’ve been but it was a right load of old bollocks with some dreadful emissions, no Dead Kennedys, Marilyn Manson, Mudhoney, Butthole Surfers… (but Girls Aloud and Rachael Stevens were in???) I really could go on but there will be enough listing on today’s Piqued, it’s Friday after all.
However, there were a few surprises (Space Ritual by Hawkwind, for example, which was let down by the balls written about it) and one in particular which I’ve posted as today’s guest youtube link. Listen to as loud as possible after taking drugs; it will utterly blow your head orf.
Just discovered a long blonde alien hair in my beard, pulling a long blonde (any colour actually, I’m no racist) alien hair out of ones beard feels almost as enjoyable as a ruddy great poo, but I digress. Last night I met up with my bro at Clapham Common tube following a small altercation with London Transport when my Oyster card split and there was no fucker to let me through the barrier. My bro was privy to my yelling at a gesticulating man behind a screen, who I couldn’t see because I wasn’t wearing my bins, desperately, apparently, trying to corral me to another barrier.
We arrived at the pub in good cheer, if a little frustrated on my part and imbibed Guinness whilst discussing the wonders of wanking. Shortly we were joined by my bros mate, Andy, where the conversation took a turn for more fruitiness, that’s right, prior to my having to leave hurriedly at 8 in order to get back and get supper on. I’d planned (line caught) smoked cod on steamed leek and broccoli with a mustard and spring onion sauce and was running out of time before Myfwt came back.
Of course the meal was a success, and we cheerfully shoved Cava down our faces whilst watching River Cottage Gone Fishing on 4+1 after we’d eaten. The evening passed rapidly over a conversation and a few tabs, and a G&T before bed.
There will be no Piqued on Monday as I’m off to Birmingham with dad to visit the International Motorcycle Show, in the evening I’m, and I can’t believe I’m typing this, off to the fucking Ballet. It’s a work related thing that I can’t refuse, the only consolation to this awfulness is that Myfwt is coming and she’s rather excited about it, being a girl and all that.
So, Tuesday then, dear reader. In the meantime, have a jolly good weekends (except the people that find themselves reading these hallowed words after asking to see something unspeakable. You don’t deserve to read this; you deserve to be shorn of your genitals).
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I have to confess that over the last few weeks I’ve been nonchalantly buying lottery tickets with my tabs on a Saturday, you know, ‘20 B&H silver and a lucky dip’ it rolls off the tongue rather easily as you can plainly see.
Once you have a ticket in your possession one can’t help but speculate on what one would do with the cash should one win. Won one. A tenner yesterday, I’m a lottery winner and will spend my fortunes on 40 B&H Silver. The 10 quid win, which is better than a smack in the mouth, follows my first online Lottery play after I became a bit bored at work.
Just knowing you might win is a rather nice, it’s a bit like taking reality LSD in which you find your mind wandering into the possible realms of suddenly being able to buy houses in cash. Despite knowing it’s highly unlikely the mind gently chews the options automatically and occasionally will pervade your afternoon with motorcycle collections, cocktails acquired with a click, huge white condos framed by azure blue… where the fuck is the Marmite?
I’m still waiting for the cops to call to make my statement, they phoned yesterday to make sure I’d gone into the police station to make a report, which I though was rather nice, then a bit odd. Last night I met up with Frank for a pint in the local, jolly nice it was too, no idea which guest ale was on but it was fucking gorgeous. I walked home on the bitter cold enjoying the resistance from my less than a week old leather jacket. As usual I wondered what the situation would be like at home, annoyed at being put into this position and, like winning the lottery, I started imagine what my reaction would be if, when I opened the door, I walked into a pair of suspended piss soaked legs and looked up to discover Cunt with his tongue all hanging out gently swinging from a light fitting by his dressing gown chord. I think I’d have nightmares for weeks actually, so there’s a lesson there, be careful what you wish for…
As in the previous evenings I spent the evening with silence from below. I know it won’t last so being able to fully relax isn’t really possible, besides, traditionally he’s usually fairly quiet at this point in the week, Sunday and Monday are the bad days for some reason. Christ that annoyed me just writing that, another thing, he gets up when I get in from work…. The sooner plod call the better, I reckon he’s headed for a full on freak out.
This is lovely, just pics of my favourite band of all time with one of their most beautiful offings…
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.
After reading about that little berk that shot up 32 people in Virginia I’ve been informed that the University authorities were ‘warned ’ about him a couple of years ago… Oooh, I thought, what have the authorities missed now! ‘Heads are going to roll’ I concluded before I’d even finished reading the article (obviously the NRA are perpetually exempt in all of this) what did he do?
Well, it turns out in creative writing classes he wrote ‘disturbing pieces’.
Has anyone read 120 Days of Sodom? I don’t recall the Marquis De Sade going on a Parisian rampage with a Flintlock Pistol; the only thing he abused was an anal dildo in the Bastille. Does this now mean that any child who writes things that aren’t to everyone’s taste will be scrutinised, compromised, investigated even? Come on people this is 21st century USA we’re talking about here, yeah. So the answer is fucking ‘yes’, then.
I’m feeling a little better today; the malaise is still apparent but somewhat suppressed due to nothing more than ones personal joie de vivre, sort of. I think my angst stems from the annual feeling that I’ve failed in some way; I never spent all those years studying to wind up at a desk with a boss for example, all my friends are either married, or with kids, or both. I think I’d quite fancy that sense of paternity; indeed, I’ve always been keen, even when my peers, now with 2 or more kids felt that the concept of ‘family’ was conventional and conformist. In fact, looking around, despite my family and friends of whom I’m very fond, I’ve got ‘me’. And this is why yesterday was so difficult because that connection with the self wasn’t apparent, in addition to realising that I didn’t just want ‘me’ anymore.
Well, it’s a fucking blog, it’s going to get heavy sometimes so deal with it.
Anyway, last night I had a bottle of wine, a couple of scotches and a few spiffs. I ate roast chicken and broccoli, pate and crackers and all in all had a jolly evening, eventually. I spent most of the evening giggling like a git at the TV, pausing occasionally to order my thoughts in terms of the days disconsolateness. One highlight was a programme on BBC3 called ‘Panic Room’ in which two people are persuaded to overcome everyday phobias by psychologists and the use of BBC f/x, props and resources. The Welsh chap who didn’t like fish (but did a bloody good Robbie Williams impression I hasten to add) vomited at the site of them. In fact, he even threw up in the actual panic room. His case was a lot more interesting than the enormous women who hated snakes, as it was clear as day she feared cock.
Oh, I’ve decided that Family Guy is better than The Simpsons too…
Special treat today my little Pique a Boos. It’s nearly 10 minutes long, two classic songs that, as they are on the album, run from one into the other. Please forgive the silly opening but when it kicks off it’s nothing short of illustrious.
futile screamings from a git 