Category Archives: metallica


I’ve just eaten a Hobnob, which, according to the manufacturers contain ‘60% oat and wholemeal goodness’. Fair enough, but they fail to mention that the other 40% is a life threatening combination of sugar, salt and fat. Surely that’s a bit like extolling the fucking army because, ignoring the very real possibility of being killed and having your dead anus dry humped by a bunch of bored nomads before they eat your balls with camel cheese, it offers you the chance to look pretty in a nice uniform, which is free and look dead hard running through woods with a bug gun shouting purposefully … actually that metaphor doesn’t work as they pretty much do that anyway. Isn’t advertising an atrocity.

So, January has finally kicked off, the cunt. This is the month in which things go wrong, not so much emotional things (they’re already wrong because of the post Christmas gloom) but mechanical things. Take the black bitch for example, yesterday she started happily in the morning following her little rest over the Christmas period -which was largely due to the impracticalities of ferrying a recovering Myfwt around on the back of a heavy metal rocking rolling speed machine and having to favour the how’s your father awight darlin’ white van instead- but by lunch, on account of her battery being flatter than Tara Palmer-Tomkinson’s vest, she wouldn’t even turn over.

Used to such inconveniences I keep a charger at work (alarms drain batteries when the protected machine is not in use, when the machine is being used constantly the battery charge is kept topped up by the alternator, but critical point when the latter achieves its aims remains shrouded in perplexity) in the case the cunt goes flat on me. I whipped the battery out and put it on charge for a couple of hours and before it went dark popped it back in the bike. I screwed the first terminal in tightly and went to screw in the second, but being the butterfingered arse I am, dropped the bastard which happily clattered its self down into the bowels of my engine block/suspension/mother earth, never to be seen again. ‘Blast’, I said quietly.

Before going home last night I had to visit the bike shop, having bound the screwless terminal in place with some copper wire, ironically liberated from my battery charger, to buy a piddly little screw, which I’ve subsequently fucking well gone and lost.

Last night was very clement, I met up with Frank for a couple of frankly life saving pints prior to returning home to find Myfwt waiting for me preparing dinner, which is all very old school traditional role stuff, that we ate in front of the TV like what the working classes do. I’ve decided to discuss one show I saw on Watch With Mothers (link right) but I won’t talk about the excellent remake of Dawn of Dead which was on after. Still at least I’m in work feeling all annoyed. And it’s raining.

happy family

This is late because I’ve been in the city having high profile meetings with corporations that own most of the fucking world, the upshot of all this is was a well meant invitation to some swanky fucking concert, an invitation I am unable to refuse thus satisfactorily putting a throbbing bulls dick in my Friday evening. To make matters worse Myfwt is in flat cap and clog land to see her mum for a birthday, so as all of my friends enjoy the relaxing sounds of grindcore and metal, I will arrive alone for the concert on Friday looking like the first cunt out of water.

I had a busy day yesterday that bore some fruit, finally, and I cycled home in the pissing rain gladdened by the arranged visit from Myfwt in the evening. I made supper; chicken and mushroom pasta bake which, although a bit Delia, was a triumph. We watched some TV, Family Guy stamped a prodigious end to the evening before bed happened.

At precisely 6.07 I was awoken by a sort of shrieking sobbing, I think this may have been going on for some time because the dream I was having involved an argument with rock-titted Dannii Minogue after she’s tried to nick my Yukata, and I was being such a cunt I made the robot faced hottie weep uncontrollably. Needing a piss I got up to find the source of this horrific noise, ‘please don’t let it be downstairs’ I sadly hoped to myself. No surprise when it turned out it was.

Their hairy kid was now also crying, I heard bits of conversation, ‘you said you were going to marry me’ she said ‘I fucking never’ came the heroic reply. I can just imagine him promise the poor cow heaven and earth just for a fucking reach around, the despicable snivelling little fuck. She then began to really howl and he naturally lost his rag. Obviously we’re dealing with damage incorporated here, a woefully sad story of a pathetic grunting fuck-wit taking advantage of a sad vulnerable girl and him not having the required intelligence or care to take responsibility for his actions. So in one puff of jism two lives are permanently destroyed, the hairy one never even had a chance, and mankind takes another step towards destruction. The conversation ended with him yelling ‘fuck you’ and lots of door slamming as she wailed herself to sleep a few feet below me. Mercifully Myfwt slept through the whole thing, I didn’t get back to sleep and am fucking exhausted subsequently.

RIP Ned Sherrin

Odd/crap video, great song under the circumstances

ages of cock

This week the 7 ages of rock not only managed to make more of a pigs ear than that of the punk program, it also managed to get facts wrong, actually incorrect. I’m fucking livid…

Whilst Black Sabbath did invent heavy metal we didn’t need to know the rest of Ozzy’s career as it’s not pertinent to the genre. To even discuss Motley Crue is an insult, especially when ‘glam’ was invented by the Finnish ban Hanoi Rocks in the early 80’s, despite being told by Julian Rhind-Tutt (what sort of a fucking name is that) the Crue influenced Hanoi! Fucking unbelievable! I’ll tell you this, a little bit of info they didn’t mention, Vince Neil, the fat Crue frontman, killed Hanoi’s drummer Razzle in a drink driving incident… That’s the only way Crue influenced anyone.

The Judas Priest stuff was barely relevant outside of the duel lead guitar stuff and maybe the idiocies that surrounded the prosecution for subliminal lyrics that resulted in the death of what Bill Hicks called the last garage attendants in the world. Metallica were featured but they didn’t kick the genre off by any means, Venom, even Motorhead, were way before Metallica ever got a record deal. To not mention at least one is ignorant, to not mention fucking either has prompted me to write a letter to the BBC.

I’m not going to write a list of who should’ve been mentioned but it’s worth noting that no attention was paid at all to nu-metal. Kick started when rap and thrash collided it prompted a seismic shift in how ‘metal’ was perceived and encouraged an entirely fresh fan base. Nor did it mention any of the crucial sub-genres, death metal, grindcore, battlemetal… the programme was a fucking disgrace, an insult to fan and musician alike.

The Moto GP yesterday was the reverse, some of the best racing I’ve ever, ever seen. You didn’t see it, you missed out. Stunning.

The weekend was very busy, a few beers with a mate form work in a walled beer garden in Tooting on Friday followed by a few cans and food in front of the box, namely Big Brother, a review in Watch With Mothers (link right of the page awaits you). Saturday I food shopped and started playing Tomb Raider in the afternoon, and here marks the beginning of the end of my summer. It’s fantastic, addictive and will serve me well this week when I have an alcohol free. I decided to spend Saturday in with Lara, made a pile of food, spoke to Myfwt, smoked skunk, more beer cans (I’m still saying off the wine and generally drinking less) and watched a ridiculous film, The Butterfly Effect, which I enjoyed way more than I should.

Yesterday morning I got up, burped the worm, ate a kipper before getting into my van to drive in to Soho. It was a blisteringly hot day, humid to boot and the last place I wanted to be was in the cabin of a vehicle stick firstly in Tooting, then Vauxhall, then the West End prior to getting fucking pissed about by roadwork’s and one-way street signs as I attempted to crack Greek Street. I was driving around, or rather, being sucked through London in a giant grid-lock, every option in my repertoire of navigation was halted by circumstance until I took the decision to illegally drive up Oxford Street and dive down Dean to finally meet my brother. I’d been screaming at him down the phone as I’d become increasingly incensed by having to spend my Sunday driving around tiny streets in a fucking van (I wanted to be on Box Hill with my black bitch) nonetheless he was pleased I’d finally arrived.

Me, him and his missus loaded a bunch of furniture into the guts of my van and I drove them back to Clapham, we unloaded the bloody van and I fucked off to my folks. The MOT on the white sod is due Friday, my dad is going to sort it for me which is fucking ace of him. It’d better pass; I need the bloody thing for Glastonbury in 10 days.

I took the train and bus back to Clapham where I finally met my bro in our usual Sunday boozer. He was a little flat initially but perked up eventually, we had 3 pints and a chaser and went our merry way. It was a glorious evening, the proper summer stuff and I was feeling quite pissed. The cutting back on drinking is making getting pissed more overt. This can only be a good thing?