Regular visitors to this picnic will be aware that only this week I mentioned Gary Numan and some TV show in which the 14-year-old incarnation of Piqued was fucking rude to said popstar. Well, also in this show was Jeremy Beadle, undoubtedly the biggest star amidst a plethora of minor-ish celebs. I remember Peter Duncan (who I was also rude to but I consider that one a fucking success, little shit) Mickey Most, Simon Bates and a very camp GMTV weather reporter that Beadle referred to as ‘Rocky’.
Anyway, I did meet Beadle briefly and I thought he was great. He was like a naughty schoolboy, almost feral, yet charismatic, charming and genuinely funny. In later years when he was on the butt end of criticism for dumbing down TV and making tacky television etc., which I always thought was quite absurd when you looked at the plethora of mind bendingly trite ‘gameshows’ that occupied the schedules at the time –not to mention the shit we put up these days with X Factor, Pop Idol, Strictly Come Ice Ballroom etc., shows that perpetuate the cult of the celebrity- I felt he’d been completely wronged. ‘Watch Out Beadles About’ was at times inspired and ‘You’ve Been Framed’, despite the (superb) contemporary spin that Harry Hill has put on the show, still feels like it belongs to Beadle.
It’s sad that he’ll probably be remembered, despite everything, for a disability as a result of Poland Syndrome, ironic to think that those that accused him of ‘dumbing down’ TV are probably still chuckling about the fact he had a small hand.
After work yesterday, one of the busiest I’ve had in months I shot home and jumped on the tube to meet my bro in a boozer in Clapham. We had a few pints and jolly good chuckle over the Engrish on the Thai menu and I got back home in time for Masterchef. Myfwt had had quite a fraught day and wasn’t in the best of moods, still, she rustled up a delicious supper of goats cheese and onion ravioli with a rich tomato sauce which we ate in front of a ludicrous Grand Designs in which a couple had spent over a grand on a fucking tap.
It’s an awful day today; the rain is horizontal and the wind cyclonic. This weather perfectly reflects my mood. It’s busy in here again but I’m happy to present a youtube offing that continues on from yesterday before I get back to fucking work.
Probot was a project devised by Dave Grohl in which he teams up with his ‘heavy metal’ heroes from the 80’s and 90’s. In many ways it’s a case of Grohl realising his dreams and the upshot is a collection of tunes that occasionally hit the spot but more frequently miss their mark. The track ‘Big Sky’ fronted by Tom G Warrior of Celtic Frost is sadly unavailable so the collaboration with Lemmy will adequately suffice. It’s some video I hasten to add. Turn it up.
They’re dropping like flies, yesterday Bergman, possibly one of the greatest film directors ever, save maybe Michael ‘Deathwish’ Winner and Lemmy, who isn’t a film director, but if he had been I reckon he’d have been right up there, instead he chose to chair the board of Motorhead, and now I hear Phil Drabble has hung up his crook.
Drabble burst onto our screens on one Sunday afternoon in 1973 with One Man and his Dog, already in his late 60’s Drabble cut an unlikely sex symbol but his knicker soaking sheep dog trails attracted audiences of over 8,000,000. This wasn’t just Sunday afternoon teatime viewing, this was fucking essential TV.
As kids the following day at school we’d attempt to reconstruct the sheep dogs/ sheep movement, we’d follow the staccato whistles of the celebrity shepherds with record quality accuracy, the complex pattern of both sheep and Shep as he creeps towards his charges, as they displace and form into a group and are headed to the gate. One of us, just one, would get the role of Drabble.
To be Drabble for the day was a personal highlight of my school career, it only happened once, but on that day the 6th of March 1980, I was the king of the world.
Yesterday at work was fucking awful. After writing the blog I had a panic attack, very strange timing, so I had to take a 30-minute shit in order to better myself. I was in a tentative state all bastard day, combine that with the pressure of the fucking office, it was a day I could’ve left. I met Frank in the boozer for a few pints in the evening, it was actually warm and sunny and the beer was back on after the flooding of the cellar, I started to feel better. It was short lived, on my return to the flat I ran into Cunt, he was waiting for me because he’s a fucking arsehole with no life.
There was no conversation, just a stream of utter drivel from him as he floundered in a pit of pseudo-fuck all. He knows nothing but thinks he in a position to postulate on everything. I said only this to him, ‘you’re a noisy little bastard’ and in return, hyperbole free, I got 15 fucking minutes of free form fuckity. I hate his stinking guts so much I was unable to physically move, I allowed my jaw to drop wide open, whilst keeping my dark glasses clamped to my head, and he slowly backed into his grief hole as he indulged me a diatribe of hybrid cack and closed the door.
The first part of my evening at home had been fucked up by my encounter, the only good to come out of it was the news that his hairy daughter and stick missus are coming to stay in a few weeks, which means he has to behave less like a fucking retarded chimp and more like a socially integrated one. The sensational supper and few TV derived chuckles sorted me out, as did a chat with Myfwt on the ‘phone and a stiff whisky.
I went to be in time to catch the late news on Radio 4. Unfortunately for some unknown reason I woke up at 5.14 am but at least I was having yet another fucking panic attack. So that was good, then.
I’m at work. The bloke behind me and the girl opposite him are flirting heavily, it’s utterly nauseating, she’s twee and he’s socially inept, it’s turning my fucking stomach.
I need to focus on this. Calm, calm.
Yesterday afternoon I jumped on the black bitch and shot over to my folks. Father’s day and all that, grasping an offensive card (I like to deface cards designed for other purposes, it has the potential for both hilarity and offence, a winning combo) and one of those things that can inform you if the wall you’re about to drill into is criss-crossed with pipework and high voltage cables, I arrived mid way through the grand prix. I’d seen the start and managed to time my journey between pit stops, due to some creative biking.
My bro arrived along with my getting-heavily-pregnant sister with my brother in law and we all watched the end of the race together in between distasteful remarks about pedometers and the size of my sister’s remarkably massive tits. I may have mentioned before that I am lucky to have the family I do, nonetheless I still managed to make it home in time for most of Big Brothers On the Couch and BB itself, which I’ve politely reviewed in Watch With Mothers, link right. I ate, wrote (didn’t drink)
and went to bed, wishing that my dad hadn’t told me how he and my 100 year old grandfather drank more than 2 bottles (plus ‘a few’ G&T’s) every night when my parents went up to visit him last week. Mum had a couple of Sherries.
On Friday night I hopped on the tube and met James and Harry in a much-visited boozer in Coven Garden. The pub itself is very old but the décor is very unremarkable and doesn’t give any indication of its age, unless one is really looking. The most important thing is that the beer is well conditioned and absurdly cheap for London. You get change from a fiver with two pints. We three chatted about our recent comings and goings until joined by a mutual friend who’s just come back from Iraq following a tour of duty. Being a Captain his role was pretty much confined to a desk, but I learnt much more about the day to day realities of the region than I glean from the press. The Captain knows of my views on Iraq, indeed, most peoples views on the matter, but it didn’t (and shouldn’t) result in my condemnation of him a person. He’s a very brave chap; in fact he’s a bloody good bloke and takes time to explain things to me even when he can see my lefty liberal persona floundering in his face. He’s one more tour of duty and then he’s out for good. What he intends to do for his swansong (and I mean that in the proverbial sense, I really do) is remarkably dangerous, extremely courageous and not for here.
It was a splendid eye popping evening, James and I were suitably drunk when we got on the last tube and like twats we agreed to go back to mine for a smoke and a couple of cans. After much grindcore James left to the backing of the fucking birds at 5-ish or so.
At midday I was up, because I’d not been mixing my drinks I didn’t feel too bad, I’m sure this lack of the debilitating hangover has something to do with not boozing as much? Maybe? I don’t know. Either way I made it to the shops, I’d actually decided not to go but needed to pick up some more beer and breakfast things for the following day.
A few months ago my old mate from Leeds, Chaz had decided that we should see Motorhead at the Royal Festival Hall; he was going to come down and stay the weekend and I’d lay on the hospitality. Sadly this wasn’t meant to be a following a load of confusion on my part, stemming from a forgotten birthday on his, I ended up with 3 tickets, one for Myfwt, one for Jim, and one for me.
Myfwt arrived at 5, all teeth and tits looking stunning, we met Jim in the local boozer at 6-ish and began drinking. Myfwt reverted straight back to type, on the lager, matching me and Jim pint for pint and after a few we caught the tube and arrived at The Royal Festival in between the support act, Selfish Cunt, and The MH.
It was very odd crowd, largely the audience were 40 plus, some quite clearly well to do types with nervous looking spouses, even the usual MH fans were of an age and the subsequent atmosphere really was that of The Royal Festival Hall, coupled with a bit of grease. Badly Drawn Boy passed me in the lobby looking somewhat apprehensive. I was going to say something but decided against it after becoming distracted by his tea cosy headwear, it wouldn’t have been good for him. We managed to squeeze a couple more in before taking our seats (yes, seats) that were shown to us by an old fashioned usher with a torch and all that caper.
Motorhead seemed as weirded out by the situation as the majority of the crowd, they played a sterling set, despite a few tunes I’d not heard, but the whole scenario was so peculiar it was hard to get into the stride of the gig. I refused to sit down, as did some of the other patrons but even seeing seated a handful of the MH audience, nodding their bald heads against the green velvet upholstery, was alienating. Nonetheless, all was cured by a paint stripping rendition of Iron Fist which blew my teeth out. After the gig came to a close, finding its cowboy boot clad feet in the process, we popped to the upper balcony for some more beers. It was lovely up there, a perfect balmy evening over the Thames, people milled below, twinkling boats drifted past, the entire view loaded with landmarks and pretty lights… I went so far to verbally cherishing the moments, which was met with stifled drunken giggles from my two charming companions.
We got back in time to indulge in a couple more beers on the way to the Lebanese Café for some Shwarma. Myfwt tits to my utter amazement had a chicken one which to her genuine surprise she loved. On the way back to the flat someone bought a load of chocolate, no idea why, and we all arrived back pissed up and full of good cheer.
Sunday morning I made breakfast and Jim departed leaving Myfwt and I in the company of Badly Drawn Boy sardonically discussing Motorheads gig on some sofa based TV show and Hot Fuzz. The latter was fucking brilliant, as with Sean of the Dead I was genuinely jealous to have not been involved. The former was just embarrassing. Myfwt left after lunch and I joined Lara for some more gymnastics and puzzles.
Christ, the flirting couple at work are virtually engaging in oral, it’s stomach churning stuff and is preventing me from focussing on the task in hand, I need to have a cigarette immediately before I say something so inappropriate one of us will cry. I fucking hate Monday.
I’ve lost my dark glasses too.
This is the band we missed, shit, I fucked up here
futile screamings from a git 