Category Archives: iggy pop

squitter critter

I’m back at home again; my return to work was a little premature methinks, I knew I should’ve been resting up, I fucking told you.

Yesterday was of course dreadful. I spent much of it in limbo between my desk and the bog, if you were to have averaged out my day it would’ve been a single image of me looking pensive either going to, or returning from, the chod bin.

By late morning I have to say I was feeling better so at lunch I concluded that I was pretty much cured, I ate a sandwich which was free from diary and enjoyed a small packet of Walkers salt and vinegar Square crisps, which are delicious, low in fat and great as a mid morning snack or pre teatime treat.

The afternoon was okay too, actually, yes, I think I was all right –I even regretted cancelling meeting a friend in town but felt it wise to not push my luck. ‘I’ll just have a quiet one’ I pondered, chewing the cap of a Bic biro as I did so. The day passed slowly and uneventfully, for April Fools Day it was a fucking shit dull load of toss if you ask me. Frank had suggested we meet up for a quick pint, I wasn’t sure if this was a good idea but like the hero you know and love, I succame, all over my tits.

It was a very pleasant evening, the first time I’ve been down the local in daylight for a while, it even felt a bit odd sat in there with sunshine streaming through the window, proper alcoholism stuff. Ace. Frank and I caught up and I impressed him with toilet-based tales of daring-do, we only had a couple pints as I didn’t want to push my luck and I toddled home after spending an hour catching up passing fucking satan is lord Tesco to pick up some vegetables.

I ate last night as normal, as if well, I’d picked up a slab of fresh smoked fish from the market in Whitstable and I ate half of it in a tortilla wrap with salad and tomato, it was rather good, I watched The Road to Perdition, it was rather like the slab of fresh smoked fish from the market in Whitstable which I’d eaten half of in that tortilla wrap with salad and tomato I mentioned back there.

I awoke in the middle of the fucking night with cramps and then this morning I was once again blasting my arsehole into smithereens with something resembling marmalade and curdled milk, really think about that too, awful isn’t it…

You may be thinking, ah ha, the fish was to blame, or perhaps the beer, but you’d be bang wrong, it was simply the bug (didn’t Tina Turner do that?). I should’ve rested up yesterday instead of cavorting round the office. I’ve just heard from Myfwt, she’s at work complaining of a stomach upset and is feeling nauseous, oh dear, here we go again.

This is rather quirky and lovely.

knarly poo

On the bus this morning my eye was directed towards a little scene taking place on the pavement, or rather, in the middle of a crowded London street. A woman had taken it on herself to drop her young sons trousers, produce a potty from her bag and plonk him right down on it, right there and then. She then had the fucking audacity to kneel beside him and quite obviously egg him on. I’ve no idea what the kid was about to pass but his little red face suggested it wasn’t just a straightforward piss. People passing by delivered a variety of expressions from the bemused to the amused, disparagement to utter disgust. I was in the latter camp. What the fuck has this country come to when some women thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to firstly display her toddlers peas to the whole world prior to not only allowing him to defecate in a public place but to actively will on its passage? They must have been Dutch.

It would be a pretty poor show, I feel, if we all carried on in this manner. The natural conclusion to such a break down of societies values would be to make it acceptable for adults to carry on in the same casual manner. Imagine some skateboarder doing an ollie only to remove his rucksack, produce a Tony Hawk signature Vans potty and ‘cack it off’ there and then.

I’m in a dreadful mood, last night I suggested to Myfwt that my hair needed a trim, before I was in a position to say when and where I’d been dragged into the bathroom and set upon by a drunken girl and some scissors. Full of Pinot Grigio I didn’t put up much of a fight, besides if she pulled it off I could save myself a few quid and anyway her confidence had disarmed me. This was an error, after a few snips her deadly serious Paul Mitchell expression cracked into a huge laughing face. I’m sitting here typing this with a flight of stairs carved into the side of my head. An appointment to a professional has been made.

But that’s not the real reason I’m in a bad mood, it’s because, you’ll note, I arrived here this morning by bus. Tonight there is another fucking works do, this time our annual outing takes us to the BBC fucking Proms at The Royal Albert Hall. God, if it’s not bad enough having to spend the most part of a day with my colleagues but to have to spend additional time with them outside a workplace engaging in an activity so fucking dull I’d have more stimulation picking bits of sweet corn out of my own shit with a blunt pencil.

We’re all still waiting for my sister to drop, I demand to know whether I’m going to be an uncle to a niece or a nephew but she’s selfishly late, nearly a bloody week now. I’ve not been an uncle before, the anticipation of my new role is frankly interrupting my routine and I’m too impatient to relax in my day-to-day life.

By means of distracting and to at least do something to prepare myself for the role I’ve already made a small purchase. A bag of Werthers, I think I’m going to be a fucking brilliant uncle, I really do.

grundy monday

Ray left at some point yesterday morning to go to work, the poor sod, he and I got back home so late it was the next day, sun up birds fucking tweeting… Jesus. I think we tried to drink some more beer but I was now muttering utter drivel. I can recall Ray asking me if I was all right. I was, just wankered

The previous evening I’d met up with my bro in the usual boozer that we frequent on a Sunday, it was 6-ish and we had a pint before being joined by Ray. We had a hilarious chat about onanism made more poignant as the subject is somewhat taboo, off topic as it were, and realising that men operate in very similar ways, in ways most women wouldn’t quite understand, resulted in childish giggles from the back of the pub. The place was rammed as usual with a good ratio of fine women to twattish rugger types. Our conversation required gestures and we were ignored, not unsurprisingly.

At about 8 we three hopped on the tube, one stop south to attend an old mates birthday party. On arrival we were greeted by a pair of bemused European girls and led to the garden where a few guests we sat around a table and a mountain of food and drink. The evening began sedately, my bro and I chatted, we were introduced to the guests and gradually I hit form, largely due to this dreadful moonshine that tasted like poison and had an instant effect on my balance. I was also drinking wine and later beer, I think. I assume I behaved myself because the host of the party, Rick who is teetotal, emailed me to invite me on the motorcycle ride we’d discussed that evening. The spirit was willing but the flesh was still soaked, I was forced to decline on grounds of common sense. The evening passed swiftly, I had no desire to leave, besides I was nattring to a Polish girl with broken English and enchanting eyes. I think I invited her back to my flat being a bit pissed out of my head. Rick was very encouraging in suggesting that would be bad, ‘She’ll never leave!’ he kept saying, I took heed of his advice for a while, until she spat on the ground. For some reason a revolting part of psyche opened up, I found this single action very appealing. I need to try and work out the source of this… or perhaps see a doctor.

The weekend got off to a fine start. After work I hooked up with Frank and we had a few pints in the local. Mercifully the place wasn’t jammed full of no necked skins for the football as, apparently, it was a ‘friendly’ whatever the fuck that means. At around 8 he and I walked to a mates house. We didn’t stay long but got incredibly stoned on this hybrid weed. My mate was regaling us with tales of his youth, drinking heavily and having punch ups outside the local, Frank sarcastically referred to them as ‘salad days’ and I had to bite my lip as I don’t think the comment went down well and one of us chuckling was enough. I was so stoned that on leaving my mouth took on an inane grin, my vision tunnelled and I began to feel the dawning of a trip. Frank was in a similar state. I’ve no idea what the fuck he was saying, or I for that matter, but we were laughing so hard to neither of us could walk in a straight line and on occasion we were forced to physically stop.

I said goodbye to Frank at the junction and we wobbled off to our respective homes. The world smelt of baked beans and vinegar and my legs weighed 10 stone each, by the time I got to the top of my street I could barely walk. I was still grinning like a mental patient when out of the blue, quite literally, I was hit on the side of the face by some behemoth insect, I screamed and flayed my arms about before collecting myself, much to the amusement to a passing couple on the other side of the road. I say amusement, it may have been concern.

Saturday morning I was up early and remarkably clear headed. I made some tea and then Myfwt turned up. She was looking fabulous as usual and no sooner had she parked herself on the sofa, Swineshead turned up too. It was very peculiar, us 3 occupying a part of the day that is normally swallowed up by sleep sat around chatting about Reggae Sauce among other things. It’s been one of those weekends where everything seems to have been funny. Essentially for one hour we just laughed, nearly all the quips were off colour in some form or another but it made for a lively start to day. After Swineshead breezed off I walked Myfwt to her car, got a paper and returned home for a much needed poo. Even that was funny.

I got up on Sunday after 2; I was enormously hungover and missed the Moto GP much to my annoyance. I spent the day in a malaise of writing, lolling about, reading and burping the worm. I ate a kipper with some toast and it did something to take the edge of my illness, as did a bath later. I’d made the decision to not drink that evening so I wrote some more and watched Big Brother, which I’ve reviewed on WWM (link to the right kids, go there after this).

The highlight of the evening was to the 7 Ages of Rock as they were doing punk. What a disappointment, more than that, they ignored some fundamental acts. Firstly, Iggy and The Stooges got a mention whereas they should’ve been given a segment, same with CBGB, the birthplace of punk, we were treated to one shot of a closed venue. It was here that Malcolm Mclaren saw The Ramones and Television prior to returning to London and forming the Pistols. This wasn’t clear; punk was an American invention, however that sticks in my throat. Also some credit to should’ve made to Blondie who managed to take punk into the mainstream, Debbie Harry herself was a key player in the development of the movement, yet all this was ignored. Even the actual shows theme tune musicians The Damned were given the bird save one tiny fragment of footage.

Still it wasn’t all bad, The Ramones got a fair chunk but even this was cut dead by too much irrelevant Pistols footage, the Bill Grundy incident for example, if I remember it was Grundy that got the blame for what happened, it wasn’t a big deal, it was a cheap early evening programme on ITV that clashed with the news on BBC.

All in all the programme was a mess, worst so far. They’d better not balls up Heavy Metal or I’ll start writing offensive letters to the beeb.

I’m a work, I’ve no hangover but I’m tired… actually if the BBC can’t be pissed I’ll do it.

Nice boys too, Captain Sensible is running for parliament at the mo, I shit you not yeah