Category Archives: jesus and mary chain

psycho tubey

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’ll leave you with this, of course.

jesus vera

Anyone seen Vera Drake? Really you must, honestly, the funniest fucking film I think I’ve ever seen? Yes, it wins; I laughed and laughed and laughed until I was almost sick…

What is the matter with British Filmakers? Ken Loach, David Lean, Terence Davies (Mike Leigh of course, who also made the gigglefest masterpiece that is Naked) all have this aptitude to craft pure unadulterated misery.

Of course I enjoy British Films immensely, when we want we make (certainly have made) the greatest films in the world, putting aside the Hitch and Chaplin-directors that went oversees, and had much more fun with their genre -Michael Powell probably ranks as the most accomplished filmmaker ever. Yet we still have this kinky penchant to make these deeply introspect dialogues that examine the minutiae of (usually) parochial British existence.

But Vera Drake must take the biscuit for being the most ceaselessly bleak and unremittingly depressing film ever made, it makes All is Quiet on The Western Front seem like Airplane. There isn’t any one aspect of this film that is cheery, by the time it’d finished I felt like drinking a bottle of gin and taking a hot bath clutching a knitting needle. Christ help us.

Regular readers may have noticed that I’ve not mentioned Cunt in while. It would seem, now the flat is on the market, that his 5-year noise campaign has achieved its objective. He can now relax. Mission accomplished. I sincerely hope my successors are a large physically disabled family, partially deaf, hugely obese and with a psychotic devotion to Country and Western. Having said that I spoke to James over the weekend and my situation with Cunt was put somewhat into perspective.

James has a 3 month old son, he and his wife have put their house on the market, it’s not a big house and it’s in a dubious area of sarf London so… time to go. James’s neighbour is a single ‘mother’ with a son in his early teens, from the outset James and his missus have been privy to this poor sod being verbally abused by his sponsor and a succession of Bill Sykes type ‘boy’friends. Apparently it’s very upsetting, especially as the kid never says a word back.

Last week James came home to find a hole in his fence, it could’ve only been the neighbour that did it (only person that had access to the fence) and James suspected it was ‘revenge’ because his son is a baby and has this habit of crying… James went to ask her about the fence and before he’d a chance to say a word was subject to a tirade of verbal abuse and threats of violence. If this wasn’t bad enough from then-on every time his son cries this fucking bitch (take note dear reader, ‘bitch’ is a word I never use to describe a woman unless I really mean it) whacks her stereo up at ear splitting volume…

Speaking of volume, I’m seeing the Jesus and Mary Chain this evening. Let’s hope they play longer than 7 minutes when I last saw them back in the 80’s when I was, er, 7.

just a tad

I have a fucking hangover. I met my bro at the getting-less-than-usual usual, subsequently seeing him has turned into a mini event, we had 3 pints and a scotch and due to my cheer in seeing him I returned home and dove into some wine and continued into the small hours. The evenings delights were punctuated by a hot bath and a croque monsieur, then instead of Saxondale, which isn’t really working, I watched The Shawshank Redemption and quite unexpectedly cried like a peeled baby in bleach. I’ve seen the film a dozen times and it’s never had that effect, my period must be due. Following a very useful bout of OCD where I sorted the cupboards in my kitchen, I rounded the evening off with Gang of Fours celebrated offing Entertainment, some really early Jesus and Mary Chain and the debut album from The Young Knives which isn’t too hot on production but nonetheless a Piqued recommend.

Following work today I’m off to have my hails painted black at a nail bar, sorry, let me correct myself. Following work today I’m off to have my hails painted black at a nail bar. Yes, that was it after all.

Fear not, I’m not about to place a brown hat atop my head, this weekend I’m off to Leeds with Myfwt to attend a very old mates 40th birthday. There is a fancy dress aspect to it so I’m going to attend as some sort of satanic rake, top hat, lacy short, cock out…We all lived together as students so when we hook up we’re inclined to behave like we’re in our early 20’s (late teen in the case of Myfwt). Despite the journey I’m looking forward to it, I’m not looking forward to the Sunday after though, so much so that I’m taking Monday off. This means its highly unlike there will be a Piqued but a bumper issue will follow on Tuesday.

Short one today, shit loads to do, first the usual list of weirdo’s that come onto this site by accident after typing filth into google. I see the Casey Thompson wankers are still at large, Ziggy’s penis still looms and someone seems to have a kink for impaling. How nice.

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Still bored? Go to Watch With Mothers (link right) and check my revue of The Restaurant…

Enjoy the youtube clip drunk eating fast food. Nice weekends kids.

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.

lost in music

I managed to get to Fopp records at just the right time. The hairy arsehole on the door had told me The Idler event was full to capacity, I curtly informed him I was on the guest list (I’ve no idea if I was) and in I went, instantly bumping in to a newly married Den. Perfect.

The first band on were The Rubbish Men of Soho, who were deliberately shit, the joke wore off after 15 seconds and Den and I went out for a fag. In the small courtyard behind Fopp half the guests were huddled in groups drinking and smoking, the atmosphere was far more congenial and within seconds Den and I were besieged by old familiar faces and I was introduced to the ones that weren’t.

We retuned to the bar where Den was in the superb position of not having to pay for his drinks, the gratuity was passed on to yours truly. Air Hammer, who I was informed was a classically trained opera singer, was a one man band, a cross between Lee Evans and Dennis Pennis with a guitar, it started well at least. The headline act were Zodiac Mindwarp and The Love Reaction. Way back in the late 80’s this outfit made a bit of a stir in my little group, Zody himself was the crush choice for most of my girlfriends and I was a fan too, of the music I hasten to add, I’m not a good listener… They put on a sterling show, they must be in their 50’s now but he’s still got it, even stripped to the waste on Prime Mover he didn’t look like he was a man facing a bus pass application in a few years. After the show I introduced myself to Cobalt Stargazer, the guitarist, who was drinking 2 beers by the stage, he didn’t seem too keen on making chitchat, but I persevered and impressed him with my tale of the trip to Durham high security prison to meet a mate who’d beaten his wife’s lover to death with a lamp stand, purely because he was a Glaswegian and my incarcerated mate was from Fife.

Den and I hooked up with chaps from The Chap and an illustrator in fantastic heels and we all fucked off to Soho. Somehow Den and I engaged in deep discussion lost our companions, Den invited me to The Groucho for a bit of peace and quiet and a chance to continue our chat undisturbed. I bumped into a former member of the Jesus and Mary Chain following a much needed shit in the toilets and being subsequently lost in the labyrinthine mess of stairs and corridors, who joined us with a couple of charming Cambridge university students who were already up to their necks in daring do.

Den left at about 11.30 and I followed shortly after as I didn’t want the expense of a cab. I rushed down Dean Street and got to Oxford Circus in the nick of time. The fucking tube was packed solid and after being made to wait at Stockwell for what seemed like a lifetime, my teeth now floating from all the beer and wine. On the platform a thin tattooed girl with haunted eyes was playing the violin with enormous skill, clearly classically trained and with an addiction to narcotics I was transfixed by her, I even gave her money muttering, ‘I’m patronising you giving change, but so be it’. She smiled weakly, I moved clear.

I arrived home at 12.30 hungry and, probably, stinking to high heaven. I resolved both and hit the hay at sometime after 1am.

I arrived to work on public transport this morning as there are after work drinks for a departing member of staff and a myriad of options follow, all of which require me to not be aboard my black bitch.

Todays offing is appropriate, in fact Den has asked me to take his wife when they play at the RFH, I’m sure Myfwt would like to come too…

It’s not raining today by the way, in fact it’s fucking sunny