bins

Fuzzy logic has caused my having a hangover. I met Frank in the pub last night; I had two pints of Old Speckled Hen (lovely stuff) and went home in time for a hilarious documentary about some misguided prick who was attempting to reinstate, quite literally, an old school, school. Basing it on strict Catholicism, parents pay a small fortune to send their kids to France to be educated as kids were educated over 300 years ago, chapel, Latin, buggery etc., Part of this fucking farce included him showing pupils how to dispatch and prepare a rabbit for eating. Such cackhandedness should be reserved the Corporal Clegg’s of this world, not an some upper class porker with delusions of grandeur. The fat cunt attempted to break the nape of the creature’s neck with the blunt end of an axe in order to slit its throat and drain it of its fluids. This is correct, I knew this. What I didn’t know was that if you’re a big fat arsehole with the dexterity of a Stephen Hawking’s on the bathroom floor, you can make the fucking animal actually scream, really loud, to the point that the hairs (hares) on the back of my neck nearly flew out of my skin and impaled me to my sofa.

Anyway, Myfwt is coming over tonight so I’m making spag bol, naturally this requires a good shot of red wine, so to balance things up, I drank the rest last night leaving a slug to languish in the bottle until this evening. Hey presto, hangover.

Oddly mid way through the bottle I found myself not really enjoying being drunk, I felt annoyed at myself and even considered throwing the rest of the bottle away, save the shot for cooking… I didn’t of course, it was a gorgeous Beaujolais and I’m not in the business of chucking things away that are fucking beautiful. I gurgled in front of Big Brother before giving myself a quick blast on that new Machine Head album, highly recommended by the way, before crashing at midnight.

Yesterday at lunch I had to make a dash to the opticians to see if I could get another pair of prescription dark bins before setting off to Glastonbury on Thursday. Dark glasses are essential; my eyes don’t like bright light and have a habit of pissing everywhere (the rides to and from work this week have been a nightmare) and the whole ‘seeing in daylight’ thing is rather important, especially when squinting at bands 4 miles off. It transpired, on arrival to the opticians, that I was practically due for an eye test anyway, it’s been nearly 2 years and to my astonishment they saw me there and then. My optician by the way was utterly lovely, massive cock. I was informed that my eyesight, for the first time since I was 4, has stabilised. Apparently despite being short sighted my eyes are in excellent nick, needless to say this cheered me up somewhat, despite having to give the bloke in the opticians £250 for two pairs of Armani bins, one dark pair and one regular, after sussing out a deal. Actually I did really well, despite having to spend yet more money on shit I didn’t have to had I been more careful…

So, one more Piqued tomorrow and for the first time since January you’ll hear nothing from me for nearly a week. I did try and enrol to post on the BBC Glastonbury blog; they were offering this machine to festival going bloggers allowing them to post their daily thoughts on the BBC website, so I applied, I even sent them a link to Piqued, I should imagine they were put off by all the fucking swearing, despite my assuring them that I wouldn’t use bad language on their site, that I swear not because of a lack of fucking vocabulary but because I think it’s fucking funny and makes me look dead hard…

The fucking cunts never got back to me.

pair o cunts

Well as predicted, as soon as I clapped eyes on the fucking germ and learnt of his circumstance, how does a person who never works, who does absolutely fuck all apart from living in fantasy la la world (whilst looking down on those that do have to work) is meant to handle the responsibilities of a relationship, let alone a family?

We left Cunt last time screaming ‘Don’t fuck with my life’at the severely anorexic mother of his children. The sort of thing you’d expect to come out of the mouth of a. a spoiled immature teen or b. said teen a decade on following more goodies from daddy, like a fucking house, guitars, mixing desks, keyboards, computers, fully furnished designer fucking everything for doing FUCK all…

Anyway, surprise surprise, she and the kid are gone. I’d already established that when the kid was about Cunt would have to be quiet, for the past few months it’s been relatively alright, even he understands that too much noise = screaming child, which directly effects him. And we can’t have Cunty getting fucking upset now can we, or daddy might have to come over and clap his hands over his sensitive ‘musicians’ ears until the nasty little baby stops making a horrid noise for FUCKS SAKE.

I helped; I didn’t slam doors (I’m not much of a slammer anyway, this is largely due, I think, despite my misanthropic default, to manners and respect, you know, indicators of being brought up well) and I made sure that I didn’t thump about, even when friends were over in the small hours following a skinfull. Besides, as already mentioned in previous posts, I have/had no beef with her or the kid. Why should they suffer more than they already do?

So, you’re asking, now his emotionless borg of an offspring and his ignored, disrespected and clearly ill partner have fucked off back to wherever, has my decency and goodwill been reciprocated?

Has it fuck.

Last night he had the fucking audacity to give me a full 6 hours of his repertoire, the only chink of light is that he’s clearly a bit sad that his family have fucked off, which, of course is entirely his fault. I mean the way he used to speak to her; really, you’ve not heard anything like it, it was infused with unadulterated hatred, made worse by its forced calmness. Nasty, nasty, nasty.

I’ve described his ‘music’ before right? He can’t play; timing, tone, tuning, rhythm are all off, he can’t sing; timing, tone, tune, key…never fucking had any of them, practise makes it worse, die death. But last night instead of confining himself to the (recently refurbished and fitted designer) kitchen (which is just slightly smaller than Kent) he was ‘musically’ doing territorial pissings (not the song, though he’s tried Christ help me, no, the act) by ‘performing’ in every room in the house, possibly in order to reclaim his pathetic existence as a 24/7 wanker. This meant that when I was cooking in the kitchen he was in the adjacent downstairs room, when I was in the living room, the same, and finally the bedroom, there he was.

I tried to remain calm, I thought, ‘he’ll stop in a sec’, I reasoned with myself, I have this facility. I’m an educated man, rational, decent even, it’s one in the morning and his directly beneath me clanging tonelessly…

*snap*

I leap out of bed and on to my feet and land with both heels onto the floor with a deafening thump, I stamp, and I mean STAMP, to the bathroom where there is a wooden floor, grabbed the door and after yelling at Ian Kilminster volume, ‘shut the fuck up YOU CUNT!’ slammed it so hard against the frame the screws shot out the top hinge.

Immediate blissful silence.

I slept like a baby.

This is for him