So, this is it. Last blog for nearly a week.
I’m not sure if doing a blog every weekday is the best way forwards, on some days writing the blog is a fucking pain, especially when I’ve fuck all to write about because in reality I spent the night masturbating and rolling over the floor of my flat in the clutch of Slayer. On other times there are things that have simply occurred that I don’t want seen by ‘the public’, despite the anonymity of Piqued I reckon 50% of you reading this know me, or think you do. (I really didn’t mean to kill her, her head, it just came off.)
So, I’m seriously considering, on my return, to make Piqued three times weekly and a little more focussed. Whilst my readership is gradually increasing I’m getting concerned that I’m alienating some readers by the sheer quantity (over quality) of all this shit what comes out of my barnet. Or should I just fuck ‘em all and carry on? (really, look, she wouldn’t shut the FUCK up)
My bro and I had been trying to source some fucking quality rubber boots for Glastonbury. I shit you not, all of the major camping suppliers in London and the South East were out of stock, this was due the dreadful weather forecasts in the festival region and the reality that townies (the vast majority of the Glastonbury contingent) such as I don’t do fucking wellies, until now. Hence, no wellies.
After some head scratching a moronic colleague suggested some godforsaken shop in the Wimbledon area, an area I fucking hate I hasten to add, and after a phone call discovered that they had some in stock, indeed my size and my brothers. It took ages to get to this place but I got a result, well sort of. I’ve not worn fucking wellies since I was 6, I tried them on, I looked like a right cunt. To make matters worse they’re greenish, a twattish sort of a green. I plodded back up the road with my wankers footwear held fast in my arms feeling like a tool-o-la, it was hot and the sweat on my frowning must have exacerbated my ludicrous appearance. As I was carrying my brothers Sasquatch sized boots too, I’ll be forced to give him a dead arm next time I see him. It’s only fair.
My discomfort of having to traverse round southeast London resembling a rural rubber fetishist was offset at my joy at getting my new bins. Both are perfect but special mention must be made to my new shades, they make me look like a bent DC1, I fucking love them.
Last night Myfwt came over for some supper, we drunk Champagne (I’d won a load of it at work) and ate spaghetti bolognaise, I made the best fucking sauce to date and we ate it until our little faces were all covered in bits of food like a lovely couple of berks. We had a great night, bit of an iffy moment briefly following my telling of a very unpleasant joke, but she pulled through like a good ‘un and we merrily rolled off to bed before 12 where I was delighted to find out she was on the blob.
Here at the bloody office I’m right on deadline for this project, the boss is creeping about the office like Snake Plissken and I have to get some actual work done. Tonight I’m cycling back and meeting my bro in the usual boozer in Clapham to make final plans for tomorrow’s excursion and to give him that dead arm. (Hopefully the cops won’t find out about her til I’m long gone, it was an accident, surely they’ll know. Forensics?)
In the unlikely event I can get on to a PC between now and Wednesday I’ll post, if not, look forward to a big review next week. Or don’t.
Seeing these chaps on Saturday, or is it Sunday. Either way I’ll be fucked. BYE