Category Archives: maris piper

gay beard

Until yesterday night at 11.42pm I had a beard.

Through my late teens to my late 20’s I had a beard, it varied in length and precision cuts were made into its basic shape, but essentially, Piqued, in addition to his long hair, was known casually as Jesus-Man. Then one day, just to see how my face looked without it, I shaved it off in bits until a fucking great Maris Piper with piss-hole eyes was staring back at me in utter horror.

Early last week I made the decision to grow it back properly, not just sport tuffs of chin weed or sideboard runs, no, a fucking beard, maybe work into it in a month or two but get it on first. It was looking great last night when after half a bottle of Claret I decided to tweak a rogue hair -half an hour later all I was left with were my fucking sideboards and extreme rage.

OCD you see, it’s just there for the moving furniture and stuff about until it’s in its optimum position, no, it works on the face too.

Tried doing some work on the second book last night and I’ve decided it’s like my second tattoo. The first book was pondered and mulled over for nearly 15 years before anything happened, where’s this one only germinated as an idea in the spring and already I’ve something to show for it. The second Tattoo is better too so I hope my simile retains its integrity.

As I was waking up this morning I heard more about the ongoing suggestion that taking the piss out of someone for their sexual orientation would be, as seen in the eyes of the law, as bad as calling a black person a nigger. The fuzzy logic which is leading towards such fucking nonsense must be along the lines of ‘well you can’t chose the colour of your skin anymore than one can chose ones sexual orientation’. Which is of course true. But the two things are a million poles apart.

What the fuck is going on here? Has everyone had a sense of humour failure? If I go up to a black man and call him a nigger then I get what I deserve, similarly if I approach a homosexual and call him a faggot. But what if I make comments that imply a person is gay by saying he’s ‘good with colours’ a ‘puddle jumper’ ‘doesn’t follow Rugby’ etc? New legislation would make quips such as that an offence, therefore if a gay man calls me ‘darling’ (and they do, gays) surely I could do him for discrimination as he’s mocking my heterosexuality? There is a big difference between pulling someone’s leg over stereotypes (everyone is a fucking stereotype to someone) and another to be a hateful cunt.

Christ, when you got Christopher Biggins on Radio 4, whose gayer than Marc Almond crocheting a tea cosy in Madam Jo Jo’s, squealing out against the proposed law calling it draconian and fundamentally preposterous you suddenly realise that it’s a lot more dangerous than it initially sounds, think about it.

Oh, Friday night I get a text from my brother, as he was leaving work he bumped into a chap, instead of saying ‘sorry buddy’ or ‘sorry dude’, it came out as ‘sorry daddy’… Christ. The fucking shame…

This is a lovely little ditty, do turn it up. Many thanks (hilarious introduction)


I’ve come to the conclusion that I loathe cycling; really, over the past couple of years I’ve attempted to convince myself that it’s alright, fun, even. I’m consciously aware that when the skies are blue and its warm and I’m cycling through a naturally beautiful part of my journey -the sunlight flashing into my eyes as it breaks cover from a canopy of lime green leaves, squirrels dancing to my side, birds fluttering at eye level- that I am to be enjoying this. ‘Enjoy this…’ Says my boiling hot brains, ‘…For this is fun isn’t it? Yes. Fun.’

It’s not, all I want is to be on my black bitch accelerating unreasonably hard from congested junctions, overtaking ribbons of cars on the outside of left hander bends, braking late and hard into corners, flicking v signs at cunts in BMW’s, shouting, all the while, shouting.

I got home yesterday evening and tried to do some more on the book, as Myfwt was due in an hour or so I couldn’t focus so I played with myself instead. Shortly after, and making sure I’d washed my hands yeah, I began supper with radio 4s 6.30 comedy slot irritating me in the background. (‘1966 And All That’ is bloody awful. Who commissioned that? It’s an anachronism that thinks it’s far cleverer than it actually is. I’m even tempted to complain in writing.)

I was undertaking a Shepherds Pie, whilst a dab hand at the Cottage variety this was an unexplored area. By the time Myfwt arrived I had the bastard nailed and was already crushing boiled Maris Piper (for mashing and roasting you’d be insane to use any other variety) to top over my filling.

We spent the evening lolling about like art students (oh those were the days) watching TV and eating, the pie was a sensation, incidentally, and Tribe on TV actually stunned us both into silence. Which is unusual in the case of Myfwt. At times you’d have more p&q watching George Bush on TV in a Mosque.

Almost to the point of cliché middle classness, I managed to cut my forefinger to the bone, sickenly I hasten to add, when slicing a lime for a g&t. I felt like a right tool. Unfortunately for me a rather tipsy Myfwt who is to nursing as gorillas are to needlepoint, arrived in the kitchen decided to take control. It was as if she swallowed a copy of ‘Horse and Hound’ and opened her portfolio of medical care by furiously sucking on the injured digit to the point I thought I may lose a nail. I was then dragged by my finger, I was plodding behind objecting, into the bathroom where she smacked a dollop of Savlon into, that’s ‘into’ not ‘onto’, the wound and applied a plaster so tightly I figured that unless I took it off in the next minute I’d be terminally unable to point at things.

Right, I’m going to post another non-music clip. This puts footballers /rugby players /cricketers moaning about having a dicky knee or some tendon injury that means they can’t play for 6 months into context.

Before you throw up, this bloke survived without so much as a broken bone. Fuck knows how.