cut-up

After a thoroughly pressurised day at work I left a few minutes early and climbed on my black bitch. Within seconds of getting on my bike some cunt in a black BMW tried to drive into me. After he honked his horn at me for no reason what so ever I screamed ‘fuck you!’ at a enough volume for him to express his frustration, which prompted me, entirely out of character to say ‘come on then’ (I heard it come out all cross as if someone else said it). Mercifully he got frightened and drove off… but something of this scene seemed to have penetrated the cosmos, for on my journey home, I was forced to let off two further ‘fuck you’ (s) and one ‘indicate cunt’ as the drivers of sarf London took it on themselves to pull out in front of me, perform surprise u-turns and generally conspire to have your old mucca screaming in the back of an ambulance.

After arriving home (physically shaking I hasten to add –a combination of rage and fear) I changed my DM’s to my trusty Converse and rushed out to grab the tube to Leicester Square in order to meet my bro and an old mate, Arnie in a local hostelry. After a few pints Arnie and I went back to his magnificent apartment in Charing Cross and we smoked this quite amazing grass with his wife and nattered away as I held a whiteout at arms length. As the evening passed I became mildly concerned about getting home. Oddly, smoking dope and tubes don’t mix for me, I get panicky when I’m stoned underground, but this shit had the reverse effect on my barnet. For the entire journey back I was stifling idiotic giggles and the urge to spontaneously talk to passengers, which I didn’t. The misanthrope in me wins every time, see.

I got back in time to watch that showman doctor Gunther Von Hagen cut up some 25 stone bloke who had died of being, well, a 25 stone bloke. Jamie Oliver (who virtually undid all of his good work in recent years in a second) urged us to watch the inside guts of a fellow who spent his life eating delicious deep fried pies. Trouble is the Plastination process developed by that Penny Dreadful removes all the squirty liquid horror of human insides; when the stiff was finally opened up following a virtual drum roll, we’re presented with something that resembles waxy lasagne, which is surely ironic? Anyway, the dramatic lighting, the faces of horrified audience members completely undermines any sort of educational factor. I was actually expecting a hysterically played organ and a rolling laugh, at least that would’ve been honest because what we got instead was cheap vaudeville that should act as a shame fart for all involved.

I was saved by the Snooker and a late arriving Myfwt who breezed in and went directly to bed, it was late, with me joining her shortly after. Incidentally, this snooker thing, you really ought to give it a shot, it’s wonderful. Oh, before I leave you with some tunes there is a comment on yesterdays post worth checking with reference to something I said about Masterchef…. Go there after this choon, then see how we’re getting on with that popular music video I ‘reviewed’ a few days ago. Do these things to please me.

leaf nuts

The light, the fucking light, it’s gone all golden and otherworldly, the light is dying, dying I tells thee. I refused to be touched or moved by its shimmering beauty, the leaves, see how they fall! SEE HOW THEY FALL.

Maybe it’s in the light of this, no pun intended, actually, maybe a bit, that I’ve decided to have my hair cut. Cut. Not a trim or a few inches off but a radical cut. I’ve not seen my neck since I was 15, it was seriously long throughout my 20’s, we’re talking about it getting caught round my pills from the back long, and even when I went for the big chop in Vidal Sassoon in my early 30’s (I figured I may as well have it done properly, even if it was 90 fucking quid) it was still long short.

I figure that to maintain some sort of rock credential I’ll be forced to head off in the Jesus and Mary Chain direction, long fringe, short back. Essentially, post punk rather than looking like a trucker who likes Bruce Springsteen, as I feel I do now.

Of course making such a decision required a bottle of wine at least, though in fairness to my sober self and in the cold light of day (another one there) the decision was reinforced rather than formed by an excellent 2004 Bordeaux, and a quick shot of Glenfiddich for pudding.

I did some writing when I got in from work yesterday, not much but enough to get the fucker flowing. I hate starting a book, its like wanting to sneeze but being unable, so instead you make that ridiculous face and inhale sporadically with a clenched fist in front of your face. Of course once it’s started it’s an uncontrollable fit. I like that part.

Flushed with some sort of mild success following a few hours scribbling (and a wee wankie during a nasty bout of writers B) I made dinner, Piqued’s Gourmet Sausage and Brocolli Wonder with Cheese, Onion and Mustard Sauce (from here on in known as PGSBWCOMS because I eat it a lot) in front of Jamie Oliver’s cheery cockney chappie fizzog who I like incidentally, which I then ate in from of Tribe, somewhat ironically if you saw it.

Listening to Today this morning, I was rather surprised and upset to learn that Nuts, a ‘lads mag’ for mentally challenged cunts, has launched its own TV Channel. I thoroughly disapprove. Whilst I’ll be the first to admit I’m not adverse to spending time looking at ladies privates, the shit I view doesn’t piss about pretending to be anything other than what it is, it doesn’t attempt to gentrify pornography, make it acceptable to view women in such a way, which is what Nuts does.

The thing about so called lads mags isn’t necessarily how they effect the attitude of mentally challenged cunts, lets face it, you’ve got to be a little under par from the outset to even want to buy something like that, and being 15 isn’t an excuse, it’s also the fact that it glamorises the glamour industry for girls. Girls see boys reading it, talking about in a public space, rather than being confined to their bedrooms coyly whacking off, and it becomes ‘acceptable’. The fact that young girls see fucking Jordan, that plastic boobed horror with more testosterone than Vin Diesel, as a role model makes me want to physically be sick.

I’m off for a trog.