Category Archives: moto gp

love tube

Apologies for my lateness with today’s instalment of crap.

Feel free to read this first, something I wrote on Banksy http://watchwithmothers.wordpress.com/2008/03/06/banksy/#comment-7870

I awoke this morning unable to move so I lowered myself out of my pit, yelling a bit, and transferred myself to the floor where I remained until my fucking back had re-aligned to it’s default position. I did a few rudimentary exercises and am now mobile to a certain extent, enough to come into the office anyway. Don’t expect any cartwheels.

Last night wasn’t dissimilar to the previous, I headed up to town on the tube, a journey I actually enjoy these days because it gives me time to absorb myself in my book, and met up with Harry in the pub on Monmouth Street. He and I then took ourselves to the Charlotte street Hotel to meet Bob who was over from Paris on a shoot. I chuckled when a group of tourists asked me to take their photo with Bob stood next to me, obviously I offered him the gig, he politely refused, he’d been at it all day photographing lingerie models the poor sod, one of which was Bruce Willis latest squeeze –he’s having dinner with him and her tonight.

Harry, Bob his entourage of stylists, make-up artists and assistants and yours truly went off to Busaba on Store Street for dinner. After a short queue we were in, we ordered and ate. The food here is exceptional, though not in gut tearing quantities and we picked around each other’s plates chatting away. Bob kindly took care of bill and after a bunch of farewells I was sitting on a packed tube heading south.

There must have been something in the water last night. In addition to being packed solid at 11.20pm on a Thursday night it was rammed full of less than attractive couples eager to get home and fuck each other. To my right a bubble-faced twat was flirting with her estate agent looking twit of a boyfriend seated opposite, she was kicking her chubby legs up and writhing and giggling and pouting all erotic like, he reciprocated by waggling his tongue at her and winking like he’d a fucking tick, I glared at him with violent intensity for acting in a manner not befitting an English gentleman and he deceased his prick-led idiocy at once. To my left some dreadful harridan was stood with her gunt inches from my head chewing the face off some teenage Johnny, every so often she’d pause to hiss bedroom words into his shell-like ear, I could practically hear her fallopian tubes flapping.

Right, the very edited Friday list -its getting worse I swear- and a popular tune, Oh, before I go the Moto GP starts this weekend, I’m pathetically exited about it so I hope, like me, you’ll all be tuning in on Sunday afternoon to cheer James Toseland to victory on his debut…

Hello?

Hello?

Bugger, they’ve all gone.

cormack mccarthy 2
“bombardier bb3” 2
nun paris brand 2
vorderman’s boobs 2
big pennis sex 2
kings road in the 80’s 2
youtube ducati 1098 in monaco 2
eskimo 2
nigella lawson is a twat 3
chickpea spinach gratin 2
grey’s .redheads .butchers .hatch 2

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awturn

It’s that the time of year again, I find myself atop the seasonal slagheap, bejewelled and dappled it may be with russet browns and burnt orange hues perfectly framed by a smoky blue sky… Pap! ‘tis no more than a beauty born of deceit and lies. Soon the relentless hand of time will shove me gently from the summit, down, down towards the wilful jaws of winter, sliding hopelessly through v-shaped geese heading for warmer climbs, backward clocks, skeletal trees until finally tumbling through the gnashing teeth of misery where we flounder in the darkness and cold for what seems like eternity, our only friend is endless, ceaseless despair…

My bike ride yesterday afternoon had that awful feeling of cessation about it. As the motorcycle season begins preparation for hibernation, my ride, following a very disappointing Moto GP (the last few races have been, actually) was notable for two reasons. Firstly the leaves are beginning to turn, I was passing through the same stretch of road as last week, in that short space of time things had deteriorated, the green of the trees and fields has been compromised with a telling twinge of brown ‘other’. The second dead give away was the air, not so much the temperature, it was fairly mild but the freshness of it belied something that had hardened, within it there was an element of strength, wicked advantage even. Soon the air will be perfumed with a note of wood smoke before collapsing into a default odour of sheer bleakness. Shit.

The ride was still a triumph despite being buffeted extensively on some of the faster open roads –my neck is growing scaffolding- and made all the better for a visit to my month old niece. She’s beginning to focus now and for the first time actually looked directly at me. She looked confused, bemused and perplexed but within it all there was something in the way of recognition, I stared at her little blue haematite eyes as they grasped at all these new images before her, then her little face became frozen in a visage of shock and turned colour of plum, she burped loudly in my face. She is one of us. Not you, us.

The weekend was largely pleasant. Following the hangover on Friday, and the fact I’d not had an alcohol free for a fortnight, I decided that I’d abstain that very night. Frankly, I was feeling quite jaded from the boozy past few weeks, I was exhausted enough to be able to watch the BB finale and go off to sleep pretty much unchallenged by the screams from the bottles in the kitchen. At 7pm James called me asking if I fancied a pint, how could I refuse? We met at 9pm in my local and sat under the pergola in the garden, it was truly the last day of summer. We supped ale and chatted away, I’m glad I made it out despite not committing to my intended plan, we’ve been friends practically from birth (despite the fact he dropped a kettle on my head when we were three) so there is no pressure for either party to perform, it’s the purest form of relaxation, really.

I went to bed before 1 am and awoke at 10.30. Myfwt was supposed to have called me the previous evening following a night out on the tiles with work colleagues; I made a cup of tea and gave her a ring. She answered, clearly still pissed from the night out but also suffering the early stages of what would be a behemoth hangover. She softly requested I came to get her following each sentence with a nervous laugh, this wasn’t a good sign.

When I arrived at her house she appeared looking as beautiful as ever but as if recently electrocuted. She rigidly got into my vehicle grasping a bottle of water and gulping back last night’s entertainment. We arrived back at the flat and I put her to bed following a tentative sandwich. In the afternoon I met up with my mate Gerry, we had a couple of points and caught up. Bang went my second intention to abstain. Went I got back Myfwt had just made it to the couch, she wasn’t at all well but was gradually coming to life. We watched films as I imbibed steadily and I accidentally pulled off a 3am one, Myfwt having gone to bed sensibly some four hours earlier.

Subsequently last night I managed to stay off the pop. I knew it was the right course of action and today I feel all the better for it, so much so I decided to cycle in. I’ve noticed as I finish off Monday’s blog that the sun had just come out. That’s autumn for you, a googly-bowling bastard bounder.

This is out of sync…


grundy monday

Ray left at some point yesterday morning to go to work, the poor sod, he and I got back home so late it was the next day, sun up birds fucking tweeting… Jesus. I think we tried to drink some more beer but I was now muttering utter drivel. I can recall Ray asking me if I was all right. I was, just wankered

The previous evening I’d met up with my bro in the usual boozer that we frequent on a Sunday, it was 6-ish and we had a pint before being joined by Ray. We had a hilarious chat about onanism made more poignant as the subject is somewhat taboo, off topic as it were, and realising that men operate in very similar ways, in ways most women wouldn’t quite understand, resulted in childish giggles from the back of the pub. The place was rammed as usual with a good ratio of fine women to twattish rugger types. Our conversation required gestures and we were ignored, not unsurprisingly.

At about 8 we three hopped on the tube, one stop south to attend an old mates birthday party. On arrival we were greeted by a pair of bemused European girls and led to the garden where a few guests we sat around a table and a mountain of food and drink. The evening began sedately, my bro and I chatted, we were introduced to the guests and gradually I hit form, largely due to this dreadful moonshine that tasted like poison and had an instant effect on my balance. I was also drinking wine and later beer, I think. I assume I behaved myself because the host of the party, Rick who is teetotal, emailed me to invite me on the motorcycle ride we’d discussed that evening. The spirit was willing but the flesh was still soaked, I was forced to decline on grounds of common sense. The evening passed swiftly, I had no desire to leave, besides I was nattring to a Polish girl with broken English and enchanting eyes. I think I invited her back to my flat being a bit pissed out of my head. Rick was very encouraging in suggesting that would be bad, ‘She’ll never leave!’ he kept saying, I took heed of his advice for a while, until she spat on the ground. For some reason a revolting part of psyche opened up, I found this single action very appealing. I need to try and work out the source of this… or perhaps see a doctor.

The weekend got off to a fine start. After work I hooked up with Frank and we had a few pints in the local. Mercifully the place wasn’t jammed full of no necked skins for the football as, apparently, it was a ‘friendly’ whatever the fuck that means. At around 8 he and I walked to a mates house. We didn’t stay long but got incredibly stoned on this hybrid weed. My mate was regaling us with tales of his youth, drinking heavily and having punch ups outside the local, Frank sarcastically referred to them as ‘salad days’ and I had to bite my lip as I don’t think the comment went down well and one of us chuckling was enough. I was so stoned that on leaving my mouth took on an inane grin, my vision tunnelled and I began to feel the dawning of a trip. Frank was in a similar state. I’ve no idea what the fuck he was saying, or I for that matter, but we were laughing so hard to neither of us could walk in a straight line and on occasion we were forced to physically stop.

I said goodbye to Frank at the junction and we wobbled off to our respective homes. The world smelt of baked beans and vinegar and my legs weighed 10 stone each, by the time I got to the top of my street I could barely walk. I was still grinning like a mental patient when out of the blue, quite literally, I was hit on the side of the face by some behemoth insect, I screamed and flayed my arms about before collecting myself, much to the amusement to a passing couple on the other side of the road. I say amusement, it may have been concern.

Saturday morning I was up early and remarkably clear headed. I made some tea and then Myfwt turned up. She was looking fabulous as usual and no sooner had she parked herself on the sofa, Swineshead turned up too. It was very peculiar, us 3 occupying a part of the day that is normally swallowed up by sleep sat around chatting about Reggae Sauce among other things. It’s been one of those weekends where everything seems to have been funny. Essentially for one hour we just laughed, nearly all the quips were off colour in some form or another but it made for a lively start to day. After Swineshead breezed off I walked Myfwt to her car, got a paper and returned home for a much needed poo. Even that was funny.

I got up on Sunday after 2; I was enormously hungover and missed the Moto GP much to my annoyance. I spent the day in a malaise of writing, lolling about, reading and burping the worm. I ate a kipper with some toast and it did something to take the edge of my illness, as did a bath later. I’d made the decision to not drink that evening so I wrote some more and watched Big Brother, which I’ve reviewed on WWM (link to the right kids, go there after this).

The highlight of the evening was to the 7 Ages of Rock as they were doing punk. What a disappointment, more than that, they ignored some fundamental acts. Firstly, Iggy and The Stooges got a mention whereas they should’ve been given a segment, same with CBGB, the birthplace of punk, we were treated to one shot of a closed venue. It was here that Malcolm Mclaren saw The Ramones and Television prior to returning to London and forming the Pistols. This wasn’t clear; punk was an American invention, however that sticks in my throat. Also some credit to should’ve made to Blondie who managed to take punk into the mainstream, Debbie Harry herself was a key player in the development of the movement, yet all this was ignored. Even the actual shows theme tune musicians The Damned were given the bird save one tiny fragment of footage.

Still it wasn’t all bad, The Ramones got a fair chunk but even this was cut dead by too much irrelevant Pistols footage, the Bill Grundy incident for example, if I remember it was Grundy that got the blame for what happened, it wasn’t a big deal, it was a cheap early evening programme on ITV that clashed with the news on BBC.

All in all the programme was a mess, worst so far. They’d better not balls up Heavy Metal or I’ll start writing offensive letters to the beeb.

I’m a work, I’ve no hangover but I’m tired… actually if the BBC can’t be pissed I’ll do it.

Nice boys too, Captain Sensible is running for parliament at the mo, I shit you not yeah


reassembly

On Friday evening, following a pint and a half at the nearest pub to my office (a vile stinking boozer with the character of a stroke victim) in order to wish a colleague farewell, I made my way slowly to Angel to meet up with Swineshead. We made our way to a venue/pub to see 3 bands as part of Lark in the Park. We were joined shortly by his brother and uncle and finally by my old sparring partner, Jim. He and I go way back and like my other old friend, James, have no ability to know when it’s time to stop. Many a time he and I have been a liability to our friends, he in particular… happy days of shoving Jim into shopping trollies and running him over cobbles as he vomits heavily on his Dio t-shirt calling us all ‘cunts’ in between gasps. I swear the exact same scenario happened on a least 3 separate occasion, witnessed by the same t-shirt.

The second band on weren’t much to write home about despite being competent but apart from the excellent drumming from the support band, the headline act were the most impressive. Obviously I’ve no idea what they were called, I was with Jim and Swineshead, himself known to be quite good at blowing the froth of a few (7 at the last count) so my memory is a little pressed. Jim and I managed to get to the tube just as the last train was due to set from the platform. The carriage was surprisingly empty apart from three lads, one was lying on the carriage floor retching into a Sainsbury’s shopping back. Jim, smiled, looked at the lad on the floor and said to me, ‘I used to be like that…’ I remembered our trip to Hyde Park last summer where he’d got so pissed I had to stay with him and witness his fair features transform to one of Notre Dames gargoyles for an hour as sick came out. ‘Used’ to be like that?

We quizzed the sick lads mates, nice chaps, clearly taking responsibility for their pal whose eyes were rolling in his sockets like cue balls. We offered some advice, Jim in particular. ‘You know’, he mused, ‘he can hear everything we’re saying yet he’s unable to communicate with us’. Jim smiled, like he was fondly recalling a moment of agonising inebriation as if it were his first go on a pair of tits. The lads got off at Waterloo, Jim and I helped get the vomiter up on his feet and offered advice to his amused mates. Just as the train pulled off the sick lad opened his mouth a puked a substantial stream of raw beer all over himself.

When we got back to Tooting we opted for a Shawarma, essentially a slightly posher kebab, after being harangued by some racist Irish prick we rushed back to flat to eat. The flat was boozeless save some vodka in the freezer so Jim and I had sensibly purchased a couple of bottles of Coconut and Pineapple juice. To our joy and following day’s regret, it made a superb mixer and we cheerfully pushed on until 4-ish.

After a spot of breakfast Jim left. I had a shit lot to do after I’d strangled some veins, wash up, hoover, dust, prior to timing my trip to Sainsbury’s with the insufferable FA Cup Final as I figured there would be less people shopping. It paid off and after spending a fucking fortune I’d re-stocked on all the supplies that’d been dwindling due to the previous weekends’ engagements.

Later in the evening I met Frank in the local. The pub was full of weird people that had hung around following the football, more oddballs arrived. There was a strange atmosphere Frank and I concluded. It didn’t stop us putting four pints of Bombardier away though, and I walked back home feeling dozy as the sinking sun ignited a warm orange over half of the crisp blue sky. I took a bath, ate my favourite dish and watched a ‘rockumentary’ on BBC2 that focussed on the late 60’s and Jimi Hendrix, it was an above average effort at deconstructing the birth of ‘rock’ but as it featured lots of footage of Hendrix screwing his guitar I couldn’t have given a tinkers cuss about the editorial. Later I watched The Blair Witch Project, I’ve seen it a few times so being familiar with it, felt it would be safe to watch. Alone. ‘Of course’, I said out loud, ‘I mean it’s only a bloody film’, I don’t even believe in god let alone ghosts… By the end I was having a panic attack, possibly due to some sublime Skunk I’d allowed myself to become utterly absorbed in it to the point that I considered helping to look for fucking Josh. Despite it being late I was required to watch Southern Comfort just to help my brain settle. No idea what time I went to bed to bear witness to a nightmare of such horrific proportions it’s a miracle my heart didn’t explode, but at least I woke up with a hangover.

I stayed in bed ‘til noon, the motorcycle GP was on and I had a date with a cup of tea, toast, kippers and Valentino Rossi who’s more fun to watch ride than Silvia Saint (lads). Smashing race indeed, I was inspired to have a word with my black bitch and we hit the road, perfect riding conditions, warm without the stuffiness and bright but without glare. After checking my tyre pressures, essential to a slick ride, I shot down some A roads in Surrey, the bitch was responding as if made from my own flesh and we laughed at wankers in cars and speed limits. I nipped by to see my folks to give the bike a quick wash. She was all dirty from the rain earlier in week. I touched her clean. On the way back to the flat I had a race with a very souped up Subaru, it gave me a run for my money (to my surprise) but I was just about to make the podium.

By 7 I was home, shaking with adrenalin and feeling wholly purged. I wrote, bathed and ate a burger in fresh cheese and onion bread before settling down for the evening. I say settled down, I spent the vast majority of Sunday having an episode of OCD that required me to readjust aspects of the flat, nothing major, just minor adjustments but to the trained OCDer, essential minutiae. I did manage to watch High Anxiety in relative peace though; I’d forgotten how superb that film is.

In order to inject some sort of good into my battered body I cycled in today. Apart from a mid trip cough-up which I felt a positive thing it wasn’t too bad. I’m going to try and keep it up so I don’t look like a melted candle at Glastonbury. Busy week this week, I’ve decided I’m taking Friday off for reasons that will become apparent.

Aren’t I a little tease.