Category Archives: hot fuzz

the head of motors

I’m at work. The bloke behind me and the girl opposite him are flirting heavily, it’s utterly nauseating, she’s twee and he’s socially inept, it’s turning my fucking stomach.

I need to focus on this. Calm, calm.

Yesterday afternoon I jumped on the black bitch and shot over to my folks. Father’s day and all that, grasping an offensive card (I like to deface cards designed for other purposes, it has the potential for both hilarity and offence, a winning combo) and one of those things that can inform you if the wall you’re about to drill into is criss-crossed with pipework and high voltage cables, I arrived mid way through the grand prix. I’d seen the start and managed to time my journey between pit stops, due to some creative biking.

My bro arrived along with my getting-heavily-pregnant sister with my brother in law and we all watched the end of the race together in between distasteful remarks about pedometers and the size of my sister’s remarkably massive tits. I may have mentioned before that I am lucky to have the family I do, nonetheless I still managed to make it home in time for most of Big Brothers On the Couch and BB itself, which I’ve politely reviewed in Watch With Mothers, link right. I ate, wrote (didn’t drink)
and went to bed, wishing that my dad hadn’t told me how he and my 100 year old grandfather drank more than 2 bottles (plus ‘a few’ G&T’s) every night when my parents went up to visit him last week. Mum had a couple of Sherries.

On Friday night I hopped on the tube and met James and Harry in a much-visited boozer in Coven Garden. The pub itself is very old but the décor is very unremarkable and doesn’t give any indication of its age, unless one is really looking. The most important thing is that the beer is well conditioned and absurdly cheap for London. You get change from a fiver with two pints. We three chatted about our recent comings and goings until joined by a mutual friend who’s just come back from Iraq following a tour of duty. Being a Captain his role was pretty much confined to a desk, but I learnt much more about the day to day realities of the region than I glean from the press. The Captain knows of my views on Iraq, indeed, most peoples views on the matter, but it didn’t (and shouldn’t) result in my condemnation of him a person. He’s a very brave chap; in fact he’s a bloody good bloke and takes time to explain things to me even when he can see my lefty liberal persona floundering in his face. He’s one more tour of duty and then he’s out for good. What he intends to do for his swansong (and I mean that in the proverbial sense, I really do) is remarkably dangerous, extremely courageous and not for here.

It was a splendid eye popping evening, James and I were suitably drunk when we got on the last tube and like twats we agreed to go back to mine for a smoke and a couple of cans. After much grindcore James left to the backing of the fucking birds at 5-ish or so.

At midday I was up, because I’d not been mixing my drinks I didn’t feel too bad, I’m sure this lack of the debilitating hangover has something to do with not boozing as much? Maybe? I don’t know. Either way I made it to the shops, I’d actually decided not to go but needed to pick up some more beer and breakfast things for the following day.
A few months ago my old mate from Leeds, Chaz had decided that we should see Motorhead at the Royal Festival Hall; he was going to come down and stay the weekend and I’d lay on the hospitality. Sadly this wasn’t meant to be a following a load of confusion on my part, stemming from a forgotten birthday on his, I ended up with 3 tickets, one for Myfwt, one for Jim, and one for me.

Myfwt arrived at 5, all teeth and tits looking stunning, we met Jim in the local boozer at 6-ish and began drinking. Myfwt reverted straight back to type, on the lager, matching me and Jim pint for pint and after a few we caught the tube and arrived at The Royal Festival in between the support act, Selfish Cunt, and The MH.

It was very odd crowd, largely the audience were 40 plus, some quite clearly well to do types with nervous looking spouses, even the usual MH fans were of an age and the subsequent atmosphere really was that of The Royal Festival Hall, coupled with a bit of grease. Badly Drawn Boy passed me in the lobby looking somewhat apprehensive. I was going to say something but decided against it after becoming distracted by his tea cosy headwear, it wouldn’t have been good for him. We managed to squeeze a couple more in before taking our seats (yes, seats) that were shown to us by an old fashioned usher with a torch and all that caper.

Motorhead seemed as weirded out by the situation as the majority of the crowd, they played a sterling set, despite a few tunes I’d not heard, but the whole scenario was so peculiar it was hard to get into the stride of the gig. I refused to sit down, as did some of the other patrons but even seeing seated a handful of the MH audience, nodding their bald heads against the green velvet upholstery, was alienating. Nonetheless, all was cured by a paint stripping rendition of Iron Fist which blew my teeth out. After the gig came to a close, finding its cowboy boot clad feet in the process, we popped to the upper balcony for some more beers. It was lovely up there, a perfect balmy evening over the Thames, people milled below, twinkling boats drifted past, the entire view loaded with landmarks and pretty lights… I went so far to verbally cherishing the moments, which was met with stifled drunken giggles from my two charming companions.

We got back in time to indulge in a couple more beers on the way to the Lebanese Café for some Shwarma. Myfwt tits to my utter amazement had a chicken one which to her genuine surprise she loved. On the way back to the flat someone bought a load of chocolate, no idea why, and we all arrived back pissed up and full of good cheer.

Sunday morning I made breakfast and Jim departed leaving Myfwt and I in the company of Badly Drawn Boy sardonically discussing Motorheads gig on some sofa based TV show and Hot Fuzz. The latter was fucking brilliant, as with Sean of the Dead I was genuinely jealous to have not been involved. The former was just embarrassing. Myfwt left after lunch and I joined Lara for some more gymnastics and puzzles.

Christ, the flirting couple at work are virtually engaging in oral, it’s stomach churning stuff and is preventing me from focussing on the task in hand, I need to have a cigarette immediately before I say something so inappropriate one of us will cry. I fucking hate Monday.

I’ve lost my dark glasses too.

This is the band we missed, shit, I fucked up here


going down the pub

In the pub last night Frank cracked the bubo question. ‘Blocked sweat glands’ he mused convincingly, it all made sense. It’s only recently been warm enough to sweat; in addition I’ve been making more of an effort to make the cycle in proper exercise rather than just laboured transport, I wear a bandana that covers the lower half of my ear and my hair is long. Problem solved, worry over etc.,

Frank and I stayed for 3 pints, the Bombardier was off so we had to settle for Tribute and Deuchars, both a little tart and orangey for my taste but they slipped down nonetheless. I wobbled off home and took a bath.

I’d had a long day, not entirely unproductive, I managed to get closer to seeing the fucking project off, pointless relying on others to help, and at lunch took a trip to fucking Hersham, home of Sham 69 to pick up my Transit, which following the failure of it’s MOT had remained in the garage until the necessary issues had been ironed out. The bill was fucking £235.

The journey there was utterly unremarkable save for one incident. On the train from Wimbledon to Hersham I sat in front of a tall skinhead sort of wearing a suit, I’d say he was 19 or so. As soon as the train pulled away I knew he was a clicker. He whistled, beeped, whooshed and mimicked most of the passing sounds as we rattled through the suburban woo. At some point he got a call from what I could ascertain was his girlfriend, they chatted away and at one point he said ‘shut-up’, I heard her question him, ‘nah, don’t worry’ he said ‘wasn’t me, you know how it is…’

We got off the train and he asked me for a light, ‘don’t worry about the noises’, he said ‘bit mental ain’t I’.
‘You have Tourette’s mate, not your problem…’ I said, the lad seemed genuinely pleased at my identification of what is now a well-documented disorder.
‘Driving me mental it is, just off to the docs now to get some more meds, these ain’t working…’
He gave me directions to the garage and I bid him farewell. Some time ago I wrote about Tourette’s in WWM (link right). After my encounter with the lad on the train I can’t say I feel too proud of how I conducted myself on the website, however funny the disorder may appear to be. The reality of day-to-day life was clearly getting to him, it was written in his eyes, his brow, his sheepish smile…he didn’t swear once by the way.

When I got home last night Hot Fuzz was waiting for me. I decided after the bath, some roast chicken (breast wrapped in bacon with steamed courgettes and peas, lots of seasoning and a handful of freshly grated mature cheddar, no effort to make and it tastes fucking ace) and Big Brother which is becoming more and more chaotic, I’d give the film a shot. The wine left over from Wednesday (just over half a bottle) was sat partially in my glass and partially in my veins. Incidentally, with regard to breaking any rules about drinking wine alone, I feel exonerated, if I hadn’t have drunk it last night it would be vinegar by now…

A month ago I could’ve drunk 4 pints in the pub, downed a bottle of Fitou and still been able to, just about, focus on a film. After 3 pints and a glass I was pissed to the point of not being able to focus on the film to such a degree I gave up. I was also exhausted; I’ve been going to bed before midnight lately, this would have been fucking unheard of a few weeks ago. It would seem that my body is adjusting to my new, (slightly) healthier lifestyle.

I woke up with a mild hangover this morning, the bubo had burst in the night and had dried spume all over it, it felt like someone had glued a Monster Munch behind my lobe. I was up in time to shave, do some laundry and enjoy a good 15-minute shit with Viz and Today on radio 4.

On my cycle in this morning I saw that fat bastard I’d called a ‘fat cunt’ a few days ago. He passed me on the towpath without a word; in fact, he made a conscious effort to not look at me at all… So I gave him a hearty ‘good morning’ for the hell of it. Then I saw massive fucking crow picking at the guts of a mutilated dead rat

It’s a portent of doom, kids.

Have nice weekends; be careful, for fucks sake…

I went to a house party with Jimmy Percy once… he’s a bit of a tit