Category Archives: korn

a new man

It’s a testament to the mildness of the weekend that I should be so surprised how cold it is today, I mean, it’s still fucking January after all but this morning it seemed colder than Captain Scott’s gaping maw. Not that I saw much of the weather this weekend, on Sunday I didn’t leave the flat, I didn’t get up until 6pm and that was only because I figured that unless I was vertical for at least a portion of the day, sleep might not happen later.

The black bitch doesn’t like this sort of weather and she squarked reluctantly into life this morning. As I rode in to work I past by the various landmarks of my weekend yearning for what was. It’s the most awful thing to do, dwell on what has recently past in the futile hope that you’ll be somehow whisked back to a particular moment in time all pissed up with two lie-ins ahead…

In lieu of being able to physically move there, let’s us take a journey back in time to Friday, sat in this very same spot as I type, shutting down my computer, getting on my bike clobber and leaving to get back home and change. Shortly after that Gee and I met in the usual and we were joined by Frank and his missus for a 3-pint debrief before heading off on the tube to Brixton. We decided that we had enough time to have a quick pint before Korn came on stage at a pub called The Goose. I’m only mentioning this because I’ve never ever been to a place that stunk as much as this. It wasn’t so much as revolting as extraordinary; the gents toilets were so dense with ammonia it was virtually impossible to actually breathe. Hyperbole aside this one, so bad was it that when I eventually did get home I put my Converse and my jeans straight in the wash… Gee and I sunk our drinks in under 5 mins and we went to the Academy. We had a couple in the bar with some of Gee’s friends and Gee noticed that Gary Numan was wandering about within metres of us. I’m fairly sure I’ve mentioned in a previous Piqued that he and I have a history, I met him once a long long time ago, I’d taken it on myself to sit behind him and perform a sarcastic rendition of ‘Cars’ and he asked if I’d ‘like a fucking medal’ -I was 14 and acting as a runner for a one off bank holiday telly show special called Names and Games. Twenty-five years on I walked up to Numan and mentioned the incident, in addition to remembering doing the show, he remembered a rude little sod taking the piss out of him, I took it upon myself to apologise for my precocious behaviour, he found the whole thing rather funny, in not a little surreal, and we shook hands. I’d been atoned.

Shortly after Korn appeared. The atmosphere was strangely restrained, I’m fairly sure the gig hadn’t sold-out because I was able to move without too much problem and whilst the band we right up to scratch, they were too quiet. I’m now sure of one of two things (bearing in mind I have had my ears cleaned lately) that some sort of health and safety shit has been slipped by requiring the volume to be substantially compromised or that cigarette smoke acted as some kind of molecular sound accelerant. We took the tube back to Tooting, grabbed a kebab each, returned home and rocked out with a tin or two of beer. I think we put in a 3am or so?

Either way I was awake by 11-ish feeling strangely okay, probably because I’d stuck to beer and eaten late. I ate breakfast / lunch (a splendid kipper with loads of toast) and undertook the usual Friday hell to the fucking shops. I took a long sobering bath and prepared myself for the evening, Myfwt bro-in-law 40th Birthday at a Brasserie in Wandsworth. Myfwt came over at about 6 and we got ready for the evening, we took a cab to the venue and were plied with champagne and canapés on arrival, both delicious. I knew quite a lot of Myfwt family but hadn’t seen some in years. I slipped into proceedings like a seasoned pro and did the rounds, ending on a table with a chap who I’d met a few years ago and another fellow from San Francisco who was big in the film industry (but without all the attitude I hasten to add). The former fellow had been a drummer in a punk band and had supported The Subhumans back in the day, which served to lubricate our already enthusiastic chitchat. Despite my initial trepidation of having to meet lots of family members and strangers the evening was a triumph and Myfwt and I wobbled home after many long goodbyes.

Myfwt and I returned home and drunk a bottle of Moet that I’d had lying around from some work do and we went to bed blowing bubbles. This should go some way to explaining why Sunday was somewhat subdued.

Gee has just called me, we were discussing Ministry in the small hours on Saturday morning and wondering when they may be playing, lo and behold dates have just been published. It’s small world isn’t it, but I wouldn’t like to paint it.


coffeeless

Something amused me yesterday, I’ll give you gist of this tale because it came from a tabloid and it was all writted funni. Essentially, a load of tourists travelling by ‘luxury coach’ had reported thefts from their suitcases, perfume (Collagen by Jordan / Git by Piddy) jewellery (Elizabeth Duke I shouldn’t wonder) etc., but what was baffling was that the goods were disappearing in between journeys. The tourists would load all their luggage in the hold of the coach, which was subsequently locked, and by the time they’d arrived at their destination, shit was missing. Transpires that one of the travellers, instead of loading his suitcase with Just For Men and Viagra et al was, instead, packing a dwarf. Once the journey was under way the dwarf would get out the suitcase, rifle through everyone’s luggage, help himself to whatever he wanted, get back in the suitcase and waited to be collected by his accomplice. There is something rather Victorian about all of this I pondered as I nibbled at my pain o chocolate and ordered more fucking Darjeeling.

Yesterday was unremarkable, save one bollock twisting episode of disappointment. I mentioned yesterday that I had a hangover; I didn’t say that the office coffee machine died on the previous day. I’d forgotten about this so when I got into work, and on discovering there was no coffee, I nearly broke down. Extraordinarily, on the point of abject despair a courier arrived with a brand new machine. I don’t have luck like this I moaned softly to myself, brushing tears of joy from my red raw eyes. The machine was gently unpacked from it’s housing and glittering components blinked in the light, we birthed utensils and filters and instructions… a colleague ripped open a fresh foil wrap of coffee and begun in earnest to assemble the unit. I filled the shining glass coffee pot with water and poured it into machine…which then all pissed uselessly out of the bottom of it, all over my trousers and boots. I stood, dazed, watching the water exit from the broken fucked bastard unit. Fighting back my tears I returned to my desk, my brain pounding in my skull.

I didn’t drink last night, Myfwt and I drunk cups of tea and watched Masterchef and had an early night in preparation for the weekend. It’s a lovely day today and my mind is ensconced in the evenings entertainment, Gee and I are off to Brixton to see popular beat combo Korn at the Academy. Shortly you will get the opportunity to see some of their efforts, but before that, the (edited for very unpleasent searches) Friday list and a deep need for you all to have bloody lovely weekends.

rolex 2
https://piqued.wordpress.com/category/mon 1
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the idler magazine pete doherty 2
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full moon fever

It’s the full moon; I’ve just worked it out, why didn’t I notice this before? Up to, during, but seldom just after, Cunt is at his worst. Last night was no exception when he opened his ‘set’ at 11.00pm with a soundcheck. He actually said ‘one two one two, thank you’. There was no one there. Just him.

I pounded the heel my foot into the floor and it went quiet for about 15 minutes. Then the front door went and something unemployed and disgusting appeared out of the gloom. This creature reckoned it could play the harmonica, which wasn’t the problem; it was Cunt shouting someone’s lyrics tonelessly, tunelessly in the wrong order. Myfwt slept through the din while I seethed in the dark, I was compromised by my desire to go downstairs and slam hard on his door/face or remain impassive so as not to wake her up. I opted for the latter, I’m exhausted, she slept like a doll.

Up until then last night was rather nice, despite the fact I didn’t drink. I made salmon and stir fry with Piqued’s Pepper sauce *winks* and we watched Grand Designs on More4. Downstairs the hairy extension was screaming the place down, I’ve no idea where its mother was or what the fuck was going on, but at some point it went to afford the occurrences mentioned at the beginning of the post, or it died.

We watched Curb Your Enthusiasm in bed, Myfwt reluctant at first, apparently Larry David reminds her of me and this is apparently ‘irritating’, but it was such a beautifully crafted episode she couldn’t resist. The Mr. Jew line nearly killed me; really, you should’ve been there. Actually I’m glad you weren’t or I would’ve been forced to call the authorities.

It’s gorgeous day so far, winter sunlight is always the most sublime because it has that air of serendipity about it, and following my night off I have two days of mild socialising. I’ll probably take Thursday off too in order to prepare my liver for Friday, Gee and I are going to Brixton to see Korn which will probably involve our having to be social and shit.

Despite still being in the month of January I can see the end of it, February isn’t much better but at least it’s a moth closer to the start of the motor sport season, which, for me, means Spring and is imbued with misty, happy recollections of my childhood; TV after Sunday lunch with Murray Walker screaming his head off and my dad complaining at his inability to coherently express factual information about drivers and their cars…

Right, I need to get on, it’s busy here.

This is lovely, great video too…


very very drunk

After visiting James and his new son, a lovely little fellow who has grown an extraordinary amount since I last saw him, Friday night took a turn for the dark side.

Myfwt came back from her office party at about 1.30 am quite pissed, I mean really pissed. This in itself wasn’t an issue; she’s usually a jolly little soul after a few, but after a slurred giggly chat it was clearly time she hit the sack, about the same time as Cunt and some mates (this is a first, there were two of them down there, two!) decided to ‘sing’ with guitars. Imagine if you will 3 cunts singing The Drugs Don’t Work to an out of tune toneless guitar, with Cunt trying to out ‘sing’ all of them. It’s Friday night, they’re not playing through amps so I’m not overly fussed under the circumstances, but the snag is the room in which they were making this cacophony is right over the bathroom -which has not carpet, the same bathroom that Myfwt need to visit to throw her guts up.

In the space of an hour Myfwt went to the bathroom 16 times, accompanied by yours truly to ensure her safety as by now her motor skills had gone to shit. On each occasion we’d return to bed, she’d lie down and minutes later she’s be up and out the bedroom, opening the door to the bathroom to allow the fucking hideousness downstairs to run alongside the dulcet tones of Myfwt removing gins, sambuca, beer and whisky from her face. Put my desire to sleep into the equation and you can see how I felt as if looped in some sort of apocalyptic nightmare.

Even quiet the sound of the fucking 3 Amigos downstairs was permeating into the bedroom; this wasn’t helping so I made up the sofa bed in the lounge. I’m not entirely sure why but this hit the spot in terms of breaking the puke-cycle of Myfwt and we slept soundly until the following morning where we swapped back to our usual sleeping device to finish off our rest.

I made Myfwt some breakfast which alerted her system into one of recovery, I supplied her with tea and sympathy before leaving her in bed and taking the bus to Wimbledon train station. It was a cold wet morning but I was comforted by The Guardian and a fresh coffee on the station platform waiting for my bro and his missus, who were running late.

When they eventually arrived we jumped on the train for the 25 minute journey to Oxshott where we met up with my sister, whose birthday was the reason for our meeting in a restaurant fro lunch, my bro-in-law, niece, mum and dad. The afternoon passed in a most congenial manner, the wine flowed and traditional English fare sated our appetites amid much sniggering and conversation. My niece was being a little stroppy initially but she soon fell into the congenial mood of the family. It was a splendid afternoon and all too soon we were back on the train heading homewards. I’d had a few wines and was required to decide if I should stop or carry on… the latter decision was put upon me by Frank who requested my company for a couple of ales at the local.

I got back home at 8 or so, again, do I stop or continue? Spurning food, I was still digesting lunch, I opened a bottle of wine a fell into my headphones, beginning with the Suno ))) album which blew my head off and moving through Nirvana, Yes, PJ Harvey, Subhumans, Slayer, Machine Head, Bob Dylan, Korn… smoking and drinking all the while and wrapped in the most glorious cloud of sound and drugs.

At about 3 I was done, well and truly. I awoke at 1pm on Sunday feeling dreadful. The afternoon was written off but as luck would have it Back to the Future 2 was on to nurse me through my malaise. At 6 Myfwt arrived with some shopping and she made us supper after taking pity on my condition and going some way to repaying me for my care on Friday night. We both spurned drinks, preferring tea to accompany an evening sat quietly in front of the TV.

Christmas is fast approaching, this is my last full week at work until next year, a delightful prospect but one also fraught with having to finish off the seasonal gift-getting and wotnot. On the other hand it’s still Monday, it’s cold and wet and despite not having drunk last night, I feel crap.

Good Morning


sweet feet

Christ, I really do have a hangover. Actually, I think I’m still drunk. I went out with my bro last night; we hadn’t hooked up in a while so the ‘couple of pints’ turned into 3 pints and a large scotch. The evening ended with a killer idea as what to do for dad’s 70th birthday next March, if it comes good you’ll be informed. Probably.

This wasn’t the entire reason for the hangover. I got home at a reasonable 8.30 had a hot bath and made sardines on toast following a sort of pre-menstrual craving for them as I was coming back on the tube. For some absurd reason, following the bath, I was feeling, well, great. Sort of thirty-something death restlessness. Looking back on it I put this squarely at the ironic feet of yesterdays new shoe purchase. To someone who is blessed with OCD new shoes are akin to Hugh Hefner and rabbits.

I bought them yesterday afternoon. Being a chap who lives in Converse, the baseball high tops, classic black fellows with white rubber trim -I even wear the full white ones to functions when required to don a fucking whistle- new footwear is a strange animal in my zoo. I bought them specifically for next weeks fucking weekend shafting work function but they are sleazy enough to cope with the following weekends shenanigans in Leeds, all will become clear in due course dear reader. They’re light tan coloured Chelsea boot with a zip up the side, not my usual fare, I wear black, largely, but these Phalange and Metatarsal houses are simply beautiful, all singing and dancing fucking leather.

So lovely are they and so delighted was I with my purchase that I decided to celebrate with a whisky and ginger, then another, then, oddly, with some Sake. Then a bit more. I’d forgotten how much I liked the stuff, so I reminded myself again before hitting the hay at 3am, following miniscule re-arrangements of my furniture and fucking coasters (bizarrely), quite pissed but as happy as freed sex slave.

It’s the weekend so shortly you’ll be subject to the filth and oddities people type into google before they arrive on this site prior to rapidly leaving. Firstly, a very important mention to Hilly Crystal, founder of CBGB, who died yesterday. I went to CBGB last year the day before it shut, in addition to briefly meeting Hilly I found out from a journalist why he closed the club in NYC, it had fuck all to do with rent.

Have good weekends, Jonty to win. You heard me.

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2007-08-26
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…God it gets worse.

RIP Hilly