moto mungday

Yesterday lunchtime my doorbell went, this usually spells some sort of aggravation either by a misguided religious twit who wants me to join their troubled organisation, a rubbish salesperson who clearly hasn’t taken food in a week or one of Cunt’s acquaintances, the latter being a very rare occurrence on account of his character and its similarity to that of underachieving plankton.

I was confronted by a short middle aged cockney gentleman bearing a flat cap and staring at me with piercing blue eyes, each with more than a hint of mischief/violence and I instantly amused myself with thought of him tucking his thumbs into his waistcoats and whistling My Old Man prior to collapsing on the pavement gasping to death with Consumption… He cheerily enquired of the (my) bike concealed under the tarp and would I like to sell it…

Alarm bells tinkled, how did this fellow know that was my bike? I don’t park it outside my flat, and how did he know to ring on my bell? Having never seen this bloke before, or anything like him since I saw Mary Poppins when I was 9, my mind went through a gamete of options, questions and responses. Something wasn’t at all right. I was then told it ‘nevah turned a wheel’ before him asking me if it was a Harley, at which point I slammed the door in his chirpy fucking face. It was such a puzzling encounter I’m half convinced I made it up; even so, I spent the remainder of the afternoon checking on my bike every 30 minutes.

The weekend begun after a loathsome day at work at the pub with Frank, we had a very congenial chat and a couple of guest ales before I returned to my gaff to get it ship shape for Saturday. The flat is on the market and I’d already been informed that humans were coming to look at it at 2pm on Saturday… So on Saturday morning I got up earlier than the norm to get some keys cut for the agent, I met her, gave her my house keys and took a lift with another agent with whom I’d some viewings. I was taken to four different properties in south London, two in Streatham despite my categorically saying ‘I don’t want to live in Streatham’ and being told that, ‘actually, I did really. I just hadn’t seen the right place’.

The first property was hideous, as was the pebbledashed street. The agent nearly had her car rammed by a Gilray-esque female, who was wearing so much rolled gold it’s a wonder her head hadn’t rolled off, who embarked on a string of expletives after the agent parped her horn to warn this inbred monster she was about to reverse into her. Frankly, following this incident the house, a few doors down from where this gold-strewn pig lurked, could’ve been free and I still would’ve shunned it like screaming Ebola.

The second place was expensive and clearly inhabited by vermin, I then directed the agent that, in no uncertain terms, did I wish to live in fucking Streatham and to take me somewhere else, at once. The third was ex ‘local authority’ sort of in the Wandsworth area (what ever happened to ‘council house’, the cunts) and not too bad except the décor within would have taken me 7 lifetimes to undo let alone decorate to some sort of standard of decency and the fourth property, despite being alright, was a burglars wet dream. That was my Saturday afternoon, a complete waste of time.

I plodded off to Sainsbury and returned home feeling disheartened. My flat no longer felt like mine as I clumped upstairs with armfuls of shopping, even if I didn’t know for sure that they had, it felt like strangers had been inside my space peering at my stuff and making assumptions as to the state of my being. It was 5pm, plans for the evening hadn’t really materialised -partially by my own design- and I planned on gorging myself with roast beef and all the necessary accoutrements. By 9 pm feeling much better after downing half a bottle of Minervois I had a fucking enormous plate of food under my nose. I ate this watching Gosford Park which seemed awfully apt, it was enormously gorgeous and I roundly patted myself on the back and celebrated by getting thoroughly pissed and rocking out until the small hours. Marvellous.

Sunday was always going to be geared around the Moto GP. I got up after lunchtime and nursed my hangover with a kipper the size of a pike and lots of toast and tea, after watching the Moto GP preview in the afternoon I did some writing, including some of this, and undertook household chores (I’ve another viewing this very afternoon) and took a bath.

The GP wasn’t due to begin until 8pm, it’s the first round and … (watches people leave) okay, I’ll keep it dead brief, The English rider (double World Superbike champ, but because he doesn’t cluster fuck, punch celebrity weathergirls or cheat on vacuous popstarlets, no one has heard of him –yet he’s a world champion, twice crowned…) did incredibly well, 2nd on pole, 6th to finish –for a debut that amazing. Also, it was the first time Moto GP has takenplace at night, dead exciting it was…

Myfwt came back just before it finished and I made supper, we watched Oscar winning Crash, won lots of Oscars apparently, utter fucking tosh.

Metal Monday…

love tube

Apologies for my lateness with today’s instalment of crap.

Feel free to read this first, something I wrote on Banksy http://watchwithmothers.wordpress.com/2008/03/06/banksy/#comment-7870

I awoke this morning unable to move so I lowered myself out of my pit, yelling a bit, and transferred myself to the floor where I remained until my fucking back had re-aligned to it’s default position. I did a few rudimentary exercises and am now mobile to a certain extent, enough to come into the office anyway. Don’t expect any cartwheels.

Last night wasn’t dissimilar to the previous, I headed up to town on the tube, a journey I actually enjoy these days because it gives me time to absorb myself in my book, and met up with Harry in the pub on Monmouth Street. He and I then took ourselves to the Charlotte street Hotel to meet Bob who was over from Paris on a shoot. I chuckled when a group of tourists asked me to take their photo with Bob stood next to me, obviously I offered him the gig, he politely refused, he’d been at it all day photographing lingerie models the poor sod, one of which was Bruce Willis latest squeeze –he’s having dinner with him and her tonight.

Harry, Bob his entourage of stylists, make-up artists and assistants and yours truly went off to Busaba on Store Street for dinner. After a short queue we were in, we ordered and ate. The food here is exceptional, though not in gut tearing quantities and we picked around each other’s plates chatting away. Bob kindly took care of bill and after a bunch of farewells I was sitting on a packed tube heading south.

There must have been something in the water last night. In addition to being packed solid at 11.20pm on a Thursday night it was rammed full of less than attractive couples eager to get home and fuck each other. To my right a bubble-faced twat was flirting with her estate agent looking twit of a boyfriend seated opposite, she was kicking her chubby legs up and writhing and giggling and pouting all erotic like, he reciprocated by waggling his tongue at her and winking like he’d a fucking tick, I glared at him with violent intensity for acting in a manner not befitting an English gentleman and he deceased his prick-led idiocy at once. To my left some dreadful harridan was stood with her gunt inches from my head chewing the face off some teenage Johnny, every so often she’d pause to hiss bedroom words into his shell-like ear, I could practically hear her fallopian tubes flapping.

Right, the very edited Friday list -its getting worse I swear- and a popular tune, Oh, before I go the Moto GP starts this weekend, I’m pathetically exited about it so I hope, like me, you’ll all be tuning in on Sunday afternoon to cheer James Toseland to victory on his debut…

Hello?

Hello?

Bugger, they’ve all gone.

cormack mccarthy 2
“bombardier bb3” 2
nun paris brand 2
vorderman’s boobs 2
big pennis sex 2
kings road in the 80’s 2
youtube ducati 1098 in monaco 2
eskimo 2
nigella lawson is a twat 3
chickpea spinach gratin 2
grey’s .redheads .butchers .hatch 2

world super regret

After getting home on Friday evening following another intense yet barely productive afternoon in the fucking office, I decided to ‘check my emails’. Burn wasn’t due over for at least an hour and the cycle home in the sunshine had rather thrilled me. Mid way through a particularly fascinating post featuring a very bored housewife and some Marigolds the mobile went off, it was my boss.

The cunting client who’d been harassing me on Thursday had taken it on her self to forward on all of our complicated correspondence to his mailbox. The poor sod had literally just returned from holiday and was instantly transported to the hideous world of business. He wasn’t best pleased and proceeded to ask me 20 question in one single unending stream of moaning, subsequently my Friday feeling was quashed in favour of feeling fraught as I parried the thrust and blows of what amounted into an interrogation. Protected by a cloak of utter innocence I responded calmly, spoke soothingly, as one would a child who’d dropped his ice cream in their sand pit, and he finally hung up, confused but sated. I received a few apologetic texts and the evening returned to a sense of normality.

I’d not seen Burn in over a year. He and I grew up together as kids, after initial concerns about his politics we aligned and before you know it we were up to our necks in Tequila, hash and magic mushrooms. We followed the same bands and philosophy but Burn being Burn, he took the latter to its conclusion. Whilst I used to dream about doing the whole ‘hippie’ thing, Burn went and did it. He’s just about to build his own eco-friendly property in Wales for his family, an electrician by trade he can pretty much turn his hand to anything practical, his dropping out of college when he was 17 was, in hindsight, a bloody good move.

It’s not surprising then that for fucking years he’s been lending his support, on a voluntary basis of course, to festivals, particularly, Glastonbury. Due to all the running around in the beginning of year and his assumption I’d put all that sort of thing behind me, neither thought to trouble the other. After a good five minutes of head slapping in the local beer garden we’d got so far as to discovering that we were sat a few feet away from each other in the cabaret tent watching Phil Kay.

It was a glorious evening; Burn and I had some time to catch up before being joined by Frank and then James. We sat outside drinking under a warm golden sunset before going back in inside to finish the evening off in the cool of the pub. At one point Burn lit up at the table, I pointed out that he was smoking and he looked at me as if I’d said ‘you’ve got a face’ before realising it was now unlawful and darting outside before the landlord noticed.

After a few more than we should we all wondered off to the Shawarma shop and procured some delicious chicken wraps, Frank took his off home and we three returned back to the flat to continue our reunion. After Burn retired James and I stayed up into the small hours drinking whisky in the full knowledge that we’d pay for our sins on Saturday.

By the time he and I had got up Burn had already gone to see his family, he was wise not to have stayed up after 1am, James and I were fucked. I made some bacon and eggs and we sat about in the lounge watching Friday’s Big Brother groaning from dehydration but our obscene comments directed at some of the female housemates kept the worst of it under some sort of control.

After James left at lunchtime I watched the F1 qualifying, very controversial it was too, great stuff, before heading off do to the bastard weekly shop at fucking Sainsbury. Mercifully I was spared a panic attack and I was in and out in 30 minutes. The rest of Saturday afternoon was occupied by The Guardian, Lara fucking bitch twatting bloody Croft (I unstuck myself and got stuck again almost instantly) before setting off once again to imbibe in the sunshine with Frank.

After 3 sensible pints of Bombardier I got back and made some sauce for a superb home made cheese and ham pizza and hung about the place with a few glasses of Pinot Grigio. I tried to watch a movie but decided to listen to an old Venom album instead. Sensibly I was in bed by midnight so I could have some sort of a Sunday.

I got up at 9-ish, I couldn’t stay in bed, it was already warm and too bright to relax. Myfwt was due over later on so I got some writing done, had fresh kipper with toast and tea and settled down for the Grand Prix.

My intention following the racing was to go for a good scratch on the black bitch. Yesterday it was the World Superbike championships at Brands Hatch, my local circuit and a firm favourite. Dad had called me up on Saturday afternoon to remind me it was on and see if we should maybe go as we have in previous years. I’m not really sure why I declined, possibly a combination of sheer laziness (I would’ve had to get up early and once there walk miles in the baking heat through huge crowds) and OCD, my unbreakable Sunday was planned, I was going to write, have kippers and watch the Grand Prix for fucks sake…

I felt like a right cunt after the GP, actually I was furious with myself and couldn’t even face a ride aware that every decent Sunday afternoon biker would be at the track, where my spirit was. Bollocks to all of it, I thought as I shut the blinds, switched on the PS2 and met up with Lara. Four hours of my life I’ll never get back, the dirty bitch.

I was saved early evening by Myfwt, I must have looked like Gollum when she walked into the near darkness of my lounge. We had a splendid Sunday tea of pates and cheeses, hams, cucumber, coleslaw, potato salad and sun-drenched tomatoes, sliced and salted, with an assortment of breads and crackers. Despite a day of overt slobbery I was happy to continue in the same vein, punctuated with a few G & T’s and some grass the evening slid off towards the fresh crisply sheeted bed in a most conducive manner.

The boss is still very upset about this business with the cunting client, a colleague and I have colluded to suppress his angst and offer some sort of a solution to the matter. Another bloody Monday, let’s just see if this week I can make something of being in this place.

Bloody arseholes. (Not the following)