Category Archives: Lewis Hamilton

formula bum

I’ve had a shaving accident. On Friday night at around the time most people get up I accidentally whipped off my moustache. Fiddling with ones beard in the wee hours isn’t unknown in chez piqued –indeed, I like to have my beard all trimmed and wotnot so it means I don’t have to fuck about with it in the morning- but bitter experience advises that when I’ve enjoyed a pale ale or a spot of wine to leave well alone. Bearing this in mind I merely did an all over trim with the clippers but subsequently noticed that my moustache wasn’t sufficiently shaved to my liking, so, using a razor I carefully adjusted the annoying bit between my the bottom of my nares and uppermost region of the philtrum, then, by using all my skillz, I gingerly allowed the Gillette to fucking slip on my face and lost half of one side of my precious muzzy.

I was now faced with a dilemma, do I lost the entire beard and start from scratch, or I do I spend a couple days looking like Texan pig farmer familiar with boar, banjo and bumming.

Howdee, you sure got a pretty mouth.

Not looking like a pillock Friday morning I alighted a crowded tube just after 9am and made my way to The British Library to meet up with Den. We greeted each other amidst a line of suitably terse writer types and got on with discussing a project we’re working on. The atmosphere for such activity is remarkably congenial, surrounded by strangers with a common objective lends itself very well to the task in hand, after 3 hours we’d pretty much made a good stab at a point of launch and headed off for lunch. Another friend, Liam –who in passing informed me that he’d published me in his latest book- joined us and we sat outside a little café by a market where dirt poor Londoners meet with garish plastic colanders, nylon throws and 3 for a pound pillow cases while we ate Panini.

After saying farewell to Liam who still had some work to do, Den and I, satisfied that we’d reached a point where introspective conjecture was the immediate future for our experiment, took ourselves off to the Tate Modern via Thomas Mallory’s place of internment, past St.Paul’s and over the compromised ‘blade of light’. It was a cheery day, bright with a nip to the air and we nattered about such-what as we passed through the genteel London throngs until finally arriving at the vast entrance of the Turbine Hall still sporting it’s impressive crack.

The exhibition we’d come to see was and impressive combination of works by Duchamp, Man Ray and Picabia, it was fucking £11 to get in. The three men knew each other and between them were instrumental in, essentially, inventing ‘modern art’, in particular the former who could put in a good claim for ‘Artist of the 20th Century’. There were some jolly works (most I’d seen before) but I thought the information was a bit ropey, simply speaking, barriers weren’t clearly defined… allow me briefly? Thank you. All the artists had moved from Dada, a very much an anti-art anti-ism movement, to Surrealism, the exact opposite in this respect, and objects and works appeared to have had foreign purposes imposed on them by their puzzling arranging –still, obviously I knew what was right… I think I bored Den to tears.

Late afternoon feeling all charging with intellectual energy we said our farewells at Borough Market and I jumped on the tube home. I did some work, prepared supper and met up with Frank and his missus for a right nice cosy chat at the local and, of course, to sup a few ales. I was home by 9.30, I ate pizza and listened to some Robert Calvert, by god it’s good, get hold of Live at The Queen Elizabeth Hall after you’ve read this… This will also explain why I went to bed so late.

Saturday began with some of the leftover pizza I prepared the night before with the F1 Qualifying session, jolly good show Lewis. I was just about to go out for the bloody weekly consumer nasties when there was a knock at my door. A fucking Estate Agent was there with a client, after bollocking him for not notifying me of the appointment, he insisted he had (he hadn’t) I let him and his client in. Not expecting a viewing the flat wasn’t at all ship shape, blinds were drawn, the lounge stunk of stale dope, the culprit was still sat there festering in the ashtray slap bang in the middle of the coffee table and, to my stultifying horror, the chod bin, which needs flushing a few times after one has passed a stool on account of water regulations which apply to properties such as mine, had all shit up it. I watched as the pair discreetly pretended not to notice the rancid clods of effulgent in the can prior to indiscreetly giving me the once over when they spotted the finger-sized joint on the table… and my beard made me look like a mental. I don’t think the client will be putting in an offer somehow.

After the shopping trip I wrote some of this, and went off to meet Frank and his missus for a return match in the boozer. I’d forgotten completely it was St.Patrick’s Day weekend, the pub was rammed full of very drunk Irish people who were drinking as fast as they possibly could amid a sea of green balloons, green shirts, green hats and green faces, it was absurdly noisy so we went outside to sit under the enormous brolly just as the loudest ever fireworks deployed for some 15 fucking minutes and Irish people came out all pissed and sung songs at them as they went off at gut shattering levels of explicit volume. Then it rained, hard. On my way home in the space of 5 mins I was soaked right through.

After I’d settled I watched Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train, which I’d earlier been berated about in the pub by Frank and his missus. It’d been on TV on Saturday afternoon but because of the F1 I’d taped it, I’d recommended it in the pub on Friday so they’d watched it, and didn’t like it. I personally don’t think they were paying full attention to it because it’s wonderful and in places thoroughly nasty. I think they may have been fiddling with one another, there, I’ve said it.

Sunday was always going to be about the F1, the weather was still diabolical so any chance of getting on the black bitch was out of the window. I arose late and enjoyed a kipper with lots of toast and lashings of tea, did some work and watched the race.

The race was superb, stuffed full of incident, even the hardiest anti-car person would’ve been moved. From a technical point of view the turning off of traction control has had a huge impact on the drivers, it mow means that pure skill is required to drive the cars as opposed to having a very competent bit of software which is able to take liabilities with physics, the current world champion had a very thin time of it without his au fait computer system, much to my delight. Hamilton won with ease just going to show what a genuinely superb driver he is.

After getting hold of The Observer I spent the rest of the afternoon/evening lolling about. It was actually quite lovely, I even managed to spurn the booze and smoke favouring tea and too much fodder. Oddly, I feel ravaged this morning, like I’ve spent the weekend on a drugs binge, you know, a sort of filtered hangover, no headache or discomfort, just a feeling of invigorated vagueness.

Still, so long as it’s metal Monday…

pitch cack

The weekend seems to have sealed itself; I’m committed from one end of it to the other, arsehole to beak to paraphrase Jake The Poacher.

In one respect this is a good thing, I can look forward to the different facets of the weekend as they offer themselves to me in due course, but on the other I’ll have to fight for those weekend moments of enjoying doing nothing apart from lying in bed and lolling on the couch watching Saturday Kitchen or Scrapheap Challenge.

But the most awkward aspect of the weekend is juggling a mates birthday lunch and the final leg of the 2007 F1 season. I’m very much looking forward to the lunch I hasten to add, there are a lot of friends going at it will be plenty of fun, but I have to be home by 5 when the racing starts.

This may or may not be a problem, I can’t think of anyone else at the table who gives a shit if Lewis Hamilton clinches the championship or not (making him the youngest F1 champ ever and the first to start his season as a rookie and end with the title, a staggering achievement, if he does it) or that the last time the world championship went to the wire where one of three drivers could clinch it was 1976, 31 fucking years ago for crying out loud.

Trouble is a I do care, I’m worried that as the clock ticks towards my tube deadline (4pm to be safe, 4.15 as a push) I’m going to start displaying signs of acute nervousness, a slight tick, hysterical laughter, flinging poo like a chimp, that sort of thing. Lunch is booked for 1.30, is 2.5 hours enough? We’ll see.

Last night was very peculiar. I had a couple with Frank, we sampled two delicious guest ales, and I got back to the flat for supper, stir fry rice with onion, mushrooms and bacon in a marvellously seasoned sock that really stocked my knocks off…The weird thing was the deathly silence, none of the downstairs lights were on either so naturally I assumed Cunt was out, but he wasn’t.

Yes, he was sat there alone in the dark.

I see this as a positive thing. A person who voluntarily spends a lot of time in the pitch-blackness when they could be bathing in front of the warm glow of the TV or reading under an Ikea halogen spotlight is either deeply religious (Cunt has the morals of a Nazi) or is manically depressed, possibly (hopefully?) suicidal.

When I was a little, my best mate and I were regularly listeners of a BBC LP of ‘horror’ noises. It was quite excellent and included such gems as the sound of a person being beheaded, wolves howling in Mooreland, creaky doors and cackles but possibly the highlight was a good minute of people wailing and moaning punctuated by the occasional agonising scream.

I need to have this in my possession. I’m required to play it on loop for hours on end at volume. Anything I can do to help push the prick over the edge. Indeed, I see it as my social responsibility to go to ebay right after finishing this and make it mine.

Please enjoy the Friday list of those oddballs that find Piqued whilst searching for ‘other’ then soothe yourselves by the daily youtube link. It’s a beauty, despite cutting off at the end, annoyingly.

Piqued may or may not feature on Monday as I may be having a day off, either way, nice weekends all.

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time took a cigarette

On Friday following a rather unproductive day in the office I took the tube to Angel and caught the 38 bus in order to meet some friends in a very residentially located boozer on the borders of Hackney and Dalton. A mutual friend of Swineshead and myself, Rochelle, had come all the way down from up t’North for work reasons and was now happy ensconced on the pub with another mate, Belinda and a further three other birds, Cath, Laura and Savannah. I felt a bit like Ziggy entering the Big Brother house, except I didn’t say ‘daddy’s home’ to the front door and proceeded to act like a testosterone filled bollock with hair thin lips and a penchant for conversing over the top of my ‘yeah, that’ll do’ little bummer boys tattoo.

So far so good, I caught up with Rochelle and Belinda’s comings and goings and chatted to Savannah, a former Melody Maker journo but now attempting to un-cuff herself from a dubious women’s magazine. The Flowers was slipping down nicely (that’s the beer, not actual fucking flowers, dear reader) when Swinsehead arrived with his missus, Theresa. Crowded round a tiny table in a rapidly filling pub I mentally acknowledged each cigarette I slid from my packet and the smoky atmosphere with a certain degree of pre-emptive nostalgia. A pleasant evening ensued, beers were appearing with splendid regularity and I did some laughs to boot. In time to catch the last tube Belinda and I caught a cab from the pub to Angel. The fucking cabbie wasn’t prepared to take her on to West London, as she’s a fucked knee I hung about to make sure she was able to find a ride back home before I hopped on the tube for a head-lolling trip back to my flat.

On Saturday, as is usual at the weekends, I woke up, annoyingly, at my usual weekday time and found getting back to sleep a non-starter. Why does this happen? Even if I go to bed early during the week I’ve no desire to get up, but when I am in a position to lie in, I can’t be fucked. Bloody human condition.

I did a shit load of washing; my priority was to bleach Myfwt’s blob spillage off the bedclothes and shove the lot into the machine. I would like to make it abundantly clear that such thing bothers me not a jot, had she (or indeed, I) grumbled an arc of beer slurry all over the Egyptian cotton I’d be a little more concerned. After a blast on Lara (got fucking stuck again) breakfast (smoked trout on toast) and the F1 qualifying, I made the usual Saturday trudge to fucking Sainsbury and spent my hard earned on essentials. My mind turned to the evening, the last time I’d be able to smoke a cigarette in a pub without getting fined £50, for fucks sake.

I’d arranged to meet Frank and Robert in my local, despite the beer not being up to much -lagers, no ales- the music has improved lately beyond belief and it has an edgier atmosphere that the usual Frank and I frequent. The pub wasn’t too full, surprising for a Saturday, made more so by my expectation to see lots of smokers mournfully gazing at their fingers. It was 7pm, I had 5 hours to wolf down as many cigarettes as my endangered heart desired before becoming an outlaw for crying out loud. This was ridiculous, obscene, even.

Frank and Robert appeared a bit after 7, we chatted away, those two had been at boarding school together, you know what they say about what happens at boarding school (if you don’t it’s a word that sounds like ‘thuggery’) but Frank and Robert no more doff the brown hat than I. Indeed, they seem to have had quite a good time of it. When I was little if I misbehaved I was threatened with boarding school, a nightmare proposition, but I couldn’t help feeling as if I missed something. Robert and I reviewed our Glastonbury experience; it transpired he’d had a better lot than I but I agreed it had sort of been worth it for the bands and company.

The beer and cigarettes were going down fast, as was the evening, we had a few frames of pool before finally settling down as the minutes ticked toward midnight. Frank bought a round of fucking tequila’s which we demolished in between objections, I fucking hate the stuff, and the evening was closed with some Jack Daniels and coke. At 11.45 Frank and I bought one last pack of cigarettes from the machine before it gets slung onto the scrap heap. Ritually we pressed the Malboro red button together and split the pack. I lit my last ever cigarette in an English pub at 11.56 and drew heavily on it. When finished I crushed the butt into the soon to be defunct ashtray and for some reason, known only to myself, stole a pair of shot glasses as a way of exacting some sort of revenge. I was pissed rotten.

We said our farewells and I quite literally staggered the short distance home. I was even too bollocksed to eat or roll a joint so I went straight to bed.

Predictably I woke up at the usual time for bloody work but managed to get back to sleep until midday. I watched a rather average Grand Pricks, save a few moments of raw excitment, ate some kippers with a couple of cups of tea, tried to get Lara back on course and after failing did some writing, the fruits of which you’re now reading. I have a dose of the screaming brown hot shits to boot, probably due to over indulgence and a lack of food.

This evening I’m going to cook some sausages and make a broccoli and cauliflower bake and avoid alcohol. I don’t want to, I just should. Stick with my self imposed programme and all that. Doubtless I’ll watch Big Brother and turn in early as tomorrow it’s bloody work. Again.

On Radio 4 yesterday afternoon someone said life is like a Hen Ladder, shit from top to bottom. I laughed. I don’t find it so funny now. I mean I can’t even fucking well smoke in a pub anymore. Wankers.

joie de vision

I’d forgotten to mention that I was acutely aware during Thursday’s gig that this would be the last time I could (legally) smoke in a venue. I’ve tickets for motorhead before the fucking ban but as it’s in the Royal Festival Hall smoking isn’t permitted anyway. Indeed, I’m now very aware that I’m on borrowed time as far as smoking in pubs is concerned; it feels like the end of an era approaching. Balls. I hate change.

Another thing, the swervedriver video I posted in Fridays blog, the red motorcycle (it’s a Ducati 900ss) I used to have one of those. It’s a miracle it made it to the end of the video, mine was more unreliable than radiotherapy.

So, what’s been going down this weekend, yeah, well, not much frankly. On Friday afternoon Myfwt came round for a cup of tea and a chat, it was lovely to see her despite her not feeling on top of the game. After a couple of hours she left to do some work, I did some housework which included fucking hovering, a task I despise out of all proportion. I’d decided that due to the previous evening hedonism that I wanted to share a night with the self, I nipped out to get some tobacco and settled in for the evening. At least my carpet no longer looks like Brighton Beach.

I was an unremarkable night but very much needed. I read, started a short poem and watched TV with a few G&T’s, spliffs and roast chicken wallowing in gravy and cooked to perfection roasted potatoes and steamed vegetables. Jools Holland was the highlight of the evening, it has to be said that if you have any passion for contemporary music, there will always be something to tinkle ones fancy, in this instance Wilco, LCD Soundsystems and surprisingly, Joan Armatrading.

I was woken late Saturday morning with a phone call from Myfwt, she was going away for the weekend so I went back to my pit and slept until early afternoon. After a bath and late lunch I spent the afternoon looking at grot on the PC before watching Apollo 13. Early evening I met Frank up the road for a drink. Our usual venue was stuffed full of no neck cropped haired wankers all yelling at a large flatscreen TV, we decided to leave them to it, it’s wonder their knuckles weren’t wearing shoes.

We convened in this bland wine bar cum eatery and were forced to drink fizzy bastard Carling in lieu of man’s ale. At least the place was quiet. Frank and I discussed Joy Division and this which beggar’s total disbelief. I wandered home after a few pints following a short visit to fucking Tesco, the bane of my consumer life for a bottle of wine and crabsticks that I think I’m addicted to. BBC2 came to my rescue in the form of The Seven Ages of Rock featuring Pink Floyd, Velvet Underground, David Bowie, Genesis and most inappropriately, Roxy Fucking music, or Poxy Music as my dad calls them. What the fuck were they doing there? Utter shit, who did they influence in the 70’s apart from The Yorkshire Ripper, probably. In order to cleanse myself of Brian Fairy and the girls, I bathed in session of progressive rock and metal, which saw me well into the small hours. I went to bed a little squiffy don’t you know.

I was up in time for the Grand Prix on Sunday. Monaco, one of my favourites despite the circuit making overtaking almost impossible. It was an impressive race, if a little samey, due to the two victorious Mclaren’s and the continuation of the remarkable fledgling career of Lewis Hamilton, 19 years old with makings of a world champion, so long as the team orders on Sunday weren’t the thin end of the wedge as far as he and Alonso are concerned. I can tell I’m boring you, I don’t care really. Okay I do.

I met my bro at 5 for a pint at the Sunday usual as he had some dinner appointment with his missus and friends at 7, we drank wine, some quaffable Spanish fare because he’d just had lunch with our folks and had a few glasses on board and didn’t want to mix his poisons. The subject of Poxy Music being on that BBC2 Rockumentary came up, my bro informed me that dad wasn’t impressed either which comes of no surprise. My dad isn’t an aficionado on all things ‘rock’ by the way but he’s fairly well versed in 60’s ‘pop’. I remember when I was about 7 telling him that I thought The Monkees were much better than The Beatles, dad was under the Maxi (he was always under some Leyland design fault in the 70’s) but he downed tools, popped his head out from under the door sill and yelled ‘don’t be so fucking stupid’ so loudly my mum heard him in the back garden. I still think I’m right by the way, fab four my arse, Jerk, Prat, Git and Ringpeice.

It’s worth noting that since Friday evening it’s pretty much been raining constantly. The upshot is that I’ve been forced indoors for virtually the whole weekend and bank holiday, save a few trips to the pub to see Frank and my bro. The flat is now entirely spotless; I’ve even had time to purge my clothing rail. Actually, I’m bored fucking shitless, I especially wanted to take the black bitch out for a ride. On the upside my head has been farting out ideas, I wrote a poem and after an hour of drunken deliberations over a succession of evenings concluded that all art was the subjective manifestation of projected thinking. As I type this it’s Monday afternoon, I’m meeting Frank for a pint in a couple of hours then home to eat and watch a film.

I’ll leave it to Ian and the boys to provide today’s entertainment. (I think Ian may be on drugs, maybe if he’d read that story in the link he’d still be with us today)