Category Archives: motorhead

mean streets

What the hell happened to the BBC News last night? The coverage of that Steve Wright bastard was so sensationalist I was half expecting Kevin Whatley to give a fucking statement in character. It was unforgivably voyeuristic: over the top of a theatrically grim commentary we were treated to disturbing CCTV footage of the last moments these poor women were alive prior to being slain and posed in the shape of a cross, creepy CCTV footage of the killer stalking the streets, more CCTV footage of the shit being interrogated after being caught by the cops, before being privy to a history of his disturbed and pitiful existence, which included footage of him on TV in the 80’s slobbering over some bird. The most interesting aspect of the case, the forensics, without which he’d still be a-killing, was virtually ignored in favour of frankly comic book broadcasting… having said all that I’d have forgiven them everything if they’d dwelt more on the fact that his father was also his half brother, I still can’t get my head round that. One thing is sure though, don’t go to Ipswich.

I spent most of last night watching TV. I’d not planned to, Masterchef was one of the best to date, primarily because we witnessed the fascinating dead-eyed world of professional food criticism, and I’m intrigued by the technical proficiency of the remaining contestants, particularly the posh 18 years old (for all the right reason I hasten to add) who last night managed to make egg-yolk ravioli for crying out loud.

If ‘My Street’ on Channel 4 at 9 was anything to go by everyone who lives down your road is completely fucked up (calls to mind the lyrics of Civilisation Street by Culture Shock) though down mine they’re all on the fucking dole, no one seems to work but me. We peeked into the lives of, mainly, lonely sad men, an elderly widower, a middle-aged widower with literary aspirations, a schizophrenic ex drug smuggler and most upsetting of all an articulate 25 year old with chronic Tourette’s Syndrome called Adam.

He allowed the filmmaker to shoot him having an episode. Of course, we all know of TS, I wrote a rather pithy piece on a programme shown on TV last year on WWM (link right) but had no idea TS could get that serious. Adam was shown fitting on his sofa blasting out staccato words, largely directed at his TS, and convulsing so violently I thought he was going to snap, when this dreadful shuddering briefly ceased, he spoke softly and intelligently to camera before it kicked off again. It was harrowing and shocking stuff and I was genuinely saddened when we were informed that Adam was found dead 3 weeks later.

Jonathan Meades went some way to picking up the rest of my evening. I’m a massive fan of him and his new series Magnetic North. Meades demonstrates that he’s arguably the best broadcaster in the bloody world, his eloquence and dark wit is thrilling, his subject matter compelling and I sat there wriggling with delight at his literary commentary. It’s must see stuff, there are only two programmes in the series and it’s on BBC4 which means it’ll be repeated before the next instalment. Did you know, for example, the word ‘gargoyle’ derives from French onomatopoeic word for gargle? Miss it at your cerebral peril.

As there was no Piqued last Friday I’ve decided to reward you all with not just one Friday list but two, the first is the usual (edited for things relating to the title of Vladimir Nabokov’s seminal book, I’m sorry to say) searches over the past week and the second Piqueds all time top searches, worryingly.

Following that a youtube tune dedicated to Adam, who, when last filmed was wearing the same Motorhead hoodie that I own.

Good weekends all.

Search Terms for 7 days

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Search Terms for all days ending 2008-02-22

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2008 it is

Where the fuck did Christmas go?

After my last posting it’s been non-stop running around, eating, drinking, seeing friends and family… it’s been wonderful, so of course the powers that control time and space decide to speed it all up so ones hindsight consists of a blur punctuated by lots of laughing and lost hours in sitting rooms, bars and restaurants amid twinkling soft lights and the ubiquitous honk of pine and candles… then, all of a sudden, it’s gone. Back to work, back to darkness. Bugger.

It’s always worse, afterwards, when one has had a long time away from the ‘do for a living’ and has seriously indulged in lots of fun. Actually, I’ll go one step further, I fucking hate the post Christmas anti-climax, despite not being back to work until today I can feel my mind so adverse to facing the beginning of 2008 that I’m getting perversely obsessed with looking back at the previous fortnight and wishing more than world peace that I was right back there.

Christmas day was spent in harmony with my family, mum dad, brother, sister and the new addition who was better than the post lunch telly. Joining us were my bro-in-law and my bros missus who fell into proceedings like a seasoned pro, the day was perfectly balanced, despite the lack of Myfwt who was with her family in Berkshire. In the evening we left mum, dad and my niece and went off to my sisters to indulge in more serious festivities. Already by Christmas evening the hindsight begins to creep in, a bit like being on borrowed time as I don’t want it to stop, this is made even more pertinent by my birthday which begins at midnight. Like everyone else (or most people depending on how you view Christmas) I’m no fan of Boxing Day. Sods Law then that that is the day I was fucking born.

Of course, after years of being born the day after Christmas I’m used to the inconvenience of it. Mum and dad have always made a special effort to ensure the day suits my requirements, almost as if there is some sort of guilt that it’s their fault, which it is, of course -naturally I don’t hold it against them, that defies logic. I remember on my 30th that they took me down the pub, my mum doesn’t drink (and whilst my dad does, he knows when he’s had enough) but they got me so plastered I vomited the moment I arrived home.

In the last couple of years things have been better. Because most of my friends are holed up with relatives the Boxing Day turn out has usually been disappointing (hence my drinking with my parents on my 30th) but this year there was Myfwt, my bro and his missus, Frank with his and Rick and James, who joined me in the pub after a splendid lunch with the family. Best birthday turn out ever I think… After a pile of ales my bro his missus, Myfwt and James came back to mine to further the evening with wines, James and I put in a 6am special and he left on the 27th utterly fucked out of his tree, hurrah. After a sleep the rest of the day was spent in bed with Myfwt glazed in front of the TV. Lovely. Holiday.

Friday, Myfwt and I drove to Berkshire to visit her family; well some of them, there are lots in her family, she has at least 20 nieces and nephews, and we arrived just in time for lunch. After a freezing cold but wholly exhilarating walk we headed back for London as I had an invitation to meet up with Justin at Daphne’s for dinner. Following an opulent meal in which I ate precisely the same food I’d eaten when I went last time (though I certainly didn’t drink the same champagnes and wines which were the best I’ve tasted in my life, and the most expensive) we headed off to this bar owned by the bloke that yells ‘Maow! Maow!’ at the Russian Roulette scene at the end of The Deer Hunter, and drunk cocktails.

On the Saturday, after another day in town shopping (I’d like to point out here that I rather enjoy going clothes shopping with Myfwt, it’s sort of solace for the soul, if not the wallet) we met up with drinks with Agnes in the Radisson Edwardian Hotel bar and drunk £100 of cocktails by accident. By now the depression of the passing of Christmas had begun to transmute into the awfulness of the New Year ordeal, the single most dreadful day in the calendar in which everyone looks back with cynical disdain / tear inducing hindsight and to the future in wrist-slicing dread / bodged optimism. Sunday was spent in bed recovering from the previous day but Monday was supremely busy as Myfwt and I had been charged with shopping for the evening festivities. We got salmon and oysters and pate and breads, booze, biscuits, sweets and treats, the bloody lot. I made some sauce for the oysters (shallots white wine vinegar and Tabasco) and off we went to the pub to see my bro and his missus in Clapham. After a few ales and much giggling we picked up our stuff and headed over to Den and Rebecca’s for a New Years Eve knees up. It felt terribly grown up us all sitting about nattering, Agnus had joined us to ‘welcome’ in the new year too so there we were, us 5 with a little person fast asleep next door playing Trivial Pursuit and stuffing our faces with booze and goodies. It was a gorgeous night that seemed to pass by at great speed, the next thing I know Myfwt and I were waking up on the sofa bed with Den’s son running about in his pants. We hung abut for a while playing with William, a charming young man who like me is cursed by a too near to Christmas birthday, before eating some breakfast and departing still feeling the effects of the booze. The journey home seemed to take hours, on arrival we both went to bed, but like the trooper I am I got up at 5 in order to sup with Frank at the local, it was New Years Day after all.

The past week has been incredibly busy. Myfwt and I have spent more time shopping -largely this has been to my advantage and I’ve managed to restock some clothing supplies in addition to satisfying my aesthetic-ego- and drinking in various bars with various friends/family in the evening. But the passing week has also been a bit tough on the grey matter. I’ve had such a good Christmas and such a long time away from work the thought of my going back there is enough to induce sobbing. It’s not as if my job is that bad either, I just don’t want to be doing anything but this, that is, not being at work and blowing wads of cash of clothes and drinkies with Myfwt.

Just to stick the knife in it seems that I am finishing the Christmas holiday in the same way I started it, with the shits. And for some incredible reason last night my body decided to be an insomniac, I went to bed at midnight and the last time I looked at my fizzing fucking clock it was 5am. Great.

Happy New Year by the way. Fuck.


nowhere kipperz

When I arrived at the Royal Festival Hall it was already dark. As I went in to the main entrance I recalled an earlier happier time when I went to see Motorhead with Myfwt and Jamie, you may have even read about it right here.

I found my way to the function room and walked in due, due to the clement October weather I suddenly realised that I was perspiring like a fucking pig just as a room roomful of total strangers gave me the once over simultaneously. A rivulet of syrupy sweat raced down my cheekbone and disappeared behind my jaw. Where the fuck was my client? I scanned the room dead casual like, I stepped back towards the bar area nearly sending a tray of drinkies over some big mouth berk giving it large on corporate responsibility. I grabbed a drinkie, nice drinkie, and drained it.

Standing in a room full of strangers that you’ve been invited to associate with is very peculiar. You have one thing in common with each and every one which forces you into a corner, either one makes oneself known to them as they’ve clearly noticed you (‘who was the sweaty cunt who nearly threw the shampoo over Brian?’ Etc.,) or one courts attention by looking wistfully out of the window as if trying to recall romantic poetry. I did both; the wistful window shit can only work for a few minutes, as can fiddling with your mobile suavely ‘reading’ non-existent text messages from all of your high-powered associates, so I was forced to hover round a bloke who looked liked he’d had a few and get in there. He was blabbing away to 3 subservient business types, I reasoned that if I targeted the mouthpiece he’d be forced to pass on my gratuities to his audience thus rolling the social ball. As he was pausing for breath I jumped in, introducing myself and reaching out a clammy paw in one badly coordinated move, he looked momentarily startled before suspiciously shaking my hand with a visage of abject confusion. As if cued in by Peter Hall my client appeared, ‘oh, I was just about to introduce you…’ she said to both of us. I was in.

Being much smaller than the Albert Hall, the Festival Hall space is much more intimate, ‘thanks’ to my client I was very close to the orchestra. It was only when I was taking my seat I discovered my ticket had cost fucking £75. To make matters worse I’d also been given a ticket for my un-guest, I’d forgotten to tell them Myfwt was away, which was rather embarrassing. £75 down the pan right there, well at least it wasn’t my money. Easy come easy go, eh…

The Chicago Symphony orchestra are reputed to be one of world’s best, the conductor I was informed, is a genius, my boss had earlier informed that he had a reputation for being a right cunt too. Either way, none of this meant anything to me; I was about to lose over two hours of my life. Of course I tried to get into it, concentrate on what was happening, offset the yawn factor with the visual experience when what I was hearing got dull and vice versa. Nothing helped, not even the bloke playing the Clarinet who went the colour of a ripe Strawberry every time he put the reed to his fat lips. After the first movement of Tchaikovsky’s 6th I was in a fucking coma, the disgusting coordinated coughing and hacking from the so-called posh when there was a break between pieces pulled me back from the brink of death, I’ve seen better manners in anal porn.

After what seemed like weeks there was a break, I nipped off for a fag and a slash and got back to the function room in time to drink some fruity fucking cocktail thing. The second half was due to be shorter; shame the booze wasn’t helping speed things up a bit. I returned to my seat, the conductor ponced back on with his nose in the air and initiated another archaic drone from his underlings. Christ, I’ve not been as bored as this since got so ill I couldn’t get up to turn off Country File, another piece finished, cue a bust of fucking hacking, and off we were again, the final piece, the home straight at last. It went on for ages and bloody ages until, suddenly a burst of applause signalled the end.

Oh Joy! I clapped for my life, the conductor pointed at members of the orchestra who he thought deserved adulation, the egomaniacal wanker, and they dutifully stood to swelling cheers and shout of ‘bravo’ Then they all stood up and the conductor bowed, he glided out the room with his head held high, the applause continued, some cunt shouted ‘more’, ‘no way motherfucker’ I thought, this gig’s scheduled to finish at 9.30, it was 9.30! Ha! I clapped harder, the conductor came on again to receive more adulation, he fucking loved himself, and then off he went again. The applause was unbroken; I waited for it to die down before leaving like a scalded rat, but the clapping had seemed to intensify, surely they weren’t hoping for an enc… Oh Christ no.

To my horror the conductor called for calm and addressed the audience. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, I was praying he’d just keel over, but I heard the word ‘Schubert’ and before I’d a chance to scream ‘Noooooooooooo’ off they all went again. A miserable dirge rose from the musicians, this was the sort of shit they played as the Titanic sunk, fucking hell, I’d seen Motorhead in this very place less than 4 months ago, I’d have gladly swapped the Chicago Symphony Orchestra to watch Lemmy checking his clockweights for lumps. Another age passed, when they finished this time I wasn’t going to hang about, fuck my clients, contacts, job, I was out the door. Gone in 60 seconds. I was free.

I rattled home on the tube infuriated that my Friday have been stoved in and that due to the time I may not make it to the off licence to procure life saving wine. I made it, just, and got back in time for the start of Phone Booth, what a load of fucking shit. No idea what time I went to bed, I rocked out after that.

On Saturday I got up in time for the F1 qualifying and to check my emails. Yesterday after posting the Anti Nowhere League vid on youtube I went out checked out their site. I last saw The League 15 years ago in a shut venue called The Jolly Boatman in Hampton Court. When I was a kid it used to be a café and mum would take me there for ice cream, and there I was 15 years later being sick in a bin. I digress.

The site http://www.antinowhereleague.com/ has a posting for a splendid single called ‘Mother, your a liar’, that’s ‘your’ not ‘you’re’. Being a pedantic little shit I decided to post Animal an e-mail to tell him. Not expect anything back I was rather chuffed when I received an amusing reply.

After the F1 and the fucking shopping I went out to meet with Frank at the pub, we had a couple in the midst of a load of Rugby types resting after the England/Aussie match. I went back home and rocked out until the small hours.

Full of trepidation I flicked on The Chinese F1 at 11.30 with a kipper on my lap (it was on a plate dear reader, I’m not falling for that one again) only to watch Hamilton’s team, McClaren, make the worst decision in history since someone bought George Best a pint. The upshot was disappointment personified but he’s still in with a chance. Fuck, though.

I decided a blast on the black bitch was the only solution so I headed off to the country to see my sis, bro in law and my still very new niece. It was a beautiful autumn day, warm with touch of crispness, the light was bright and sharp and I gave her a right handful, not my niece, my black bitch… I hung about for a couple of hours watching her blow bubbles and chatting with her parents whilst drinking tea and smoking tabs (outside of course).

The evening passed slouched in front of the box eating and drinking, I had Monday off; I could push the boat out as far as I wished. On Monday I didn’t get up until 1pm, I was free of any hangover, had slept straight for nearly 12 hours and Myfwt had left me a message saying he was coming back a day early. Acer. I took a long bath, ate another kipper and spent the remaining afternoon writing before hooking up with Frank for a couple of Theakston’s prior to the return of Myfwt. I must admit, when she did finally arrive it was jolly fucking nice to see her.

Cunt news just in. Following the row last week I can now confirm that the mother of his hairy kid and indeed, the hairy kid are no longer in the building. This means no more screaming from junior or indeed, them, but it could signal the restart of his wank jelqing career resulting on him embarking on the ‘I’m a cunt of such magnanimous vastness I should fucking die, now’ tour, the tour will take place nightly in a dirty little corner his grief hole. I will, of course, be the sole audience member of the ‘show’. I’m willing to show extreme anger and hate in his ludicrous face just to show my appreciation, for an encore I will kick his teeth in.

Right, its Anti Nowhere League week, this is one for the laydeez


panique

They’re dropping like flies, yesterday Bergman, possibly one of the greatest film directors ever, save maybe Michael ‘Deathwish’ Winner and Lemmy, who isn’t a film director, but if he had been I reckon he’d have been right up there, instead he chose to chair the board of Motorhead, and now I hear Phil Drabble has hung up his crook.

Drabble burst onto our screens on one Sunday afternoon in 1973 with One Man and his Dog, already in his late 60’s Drabble cut an unlikely sex symbol but his knicker soaking sheep dog trails attracted audiences of over 8,000,000. This wasn’t just Sunday afternoon teatime viewing, this was fucking essential TV.

As kids the following day at school we’d attempt to reconstruct the sheep dogs/ sheep movement, we’d follow the staccato whistles of the celebrity shepherds with record quality accuracy, the complex pattern of both sheep and Shep as he creeps towards his charges, as they displace and form into a group and are headed to the gate. One of us, just one, would get the role of Drabble.

To be Drabble for the day was a personal highlight of my school career, it only happened once, but on that day the 6th of March 1980, I was the king of the world.

Yesterday at work was fucking awful. After writing the blog I had a panic attack, very strange timing, so I had to take a 30-minute shit in order to better myself. I was in a tentative state all bastard day, combine that with the pressure of the fucking office, it was a day I could’ve left. I met Frank in the boozer for a few pints in the evening, it was actually warm and sunny and the beer was back on after the flooding of the cellar, I started to feel better. It was short lived, on my return to the flat I ran into Cunt, he was waiting for me because he’s a fucking arsehole with no life.

There was no conversation, just a stream of utter drivel from him as he floundered in a pit of pseudo-fuck all. He knows nothing but thinks he in a position to postulate on everything. I said only this to him, ‘you’re a noisy little bastard’ and in return, hyperbole free, I got 15 fucking minutes of free form fuckity. I hate his stinking guts so much I was unable to physically move, I allowed my jaw to drop wide open, whilst keeping my dark glasses clamped to my head, and he slowly backed into his grief hole as he indulged me a diatribe of hybrid cack and closed the door.

The first part of my evening at home had been fucked up by my encounter, the only good to come out of it was the news that his hairy daughter and stick missus are coming to stay in a few weeks, which means he has to behave less like a fucking retarded chimp and more like a socially integrated one. The sensational supper and few TV derived chuckles sorted me out, as did a chat with Myfwt on the ‘phone and a stiff whisky.

I went to be in time to catch the late news on Radio 4. Unfortunately for some unknown reason I woke up at 5.14 am but at least I was having yet another fucking panic attack. So that was good, then.


the head of motors

I’m at work. The bloke behind me and the girl opposite him are flirting heavily, it’s utterly nauseating, she’s twee and he’s socially inept, it’s turning my fucking stomach.

I need to focus on this. Calm, calm.

Yesterday afternoon I jumped on the black bitch and shot over to my folks. Father’s day and all that, grasping an offensive card (I like to deface cards designed for other purposes, it has the potential for both hilarity and offence, a winning combo) and one of those things that can inform you if the wall you’re about to drill into is criss-crossed with pipework and high voltage cables, I arrived mid way through the grand prix. I’d seen the start and managed to time my journey between pit stops, due to some creative biking.

My bro arrived along with my getting-heavily-pregnant sister with my brother in law and we all watched the end of the race together in between distasteful remarks about pedometers and the size of my sister’s remarkably massive tits. I may have mentioned before that I am lucky to have the family I do, nonetheless I still managed to make it home in time for most of Big Brothers On the Couch and BB itself, which I’ve politely reviewed in Watch With Mothers, link right. I ate, wrote (didn’t drink)
and went to bed, wishing that my dad hadn’t told me how he and my 100 year old grandfather drank more than 2 bottles (plus ‘a few’ G&T’s) every night when my parents went up to visit him last week. Mum had a couple of Sherries.

On Friday night I hopped on the tube and met James and Harry in a much-visited boozer in Coven Garden. The pub itself is very old but the décor is very unremarkable and doesn’t give any indication of its age, unless one is really looking. The most important thing is that the beer is well conditioned and absurdly cheap for London. You get change from a fiver with two pints. We three chatted about our recent comings and goings until joined by a mutual friend who’s just come back from Iraq following a tour of duty. Being a Captain his role was pretty much confined to a desk, but I learnt much more about the day to day realities of the region than I glean from the press. The Captain knows of my views on Iraq, indeed, most peoples views on the matter, but it didn’t (and shouldn’t) result in my condemnation of him a person. He’s a very brave chap; in fact he’s a bloody good bloke and takes time to explain things to me even when he can see my lefty liberal persona floundering in his face. He’s one more tour of duty and then he’s out for good. What he intends to do for his swansong (and I mean that in the proverbial sense, I really do) is remarkably dangerous, extremely courageous and not for here.

It was a splendid eye popping evening, James and I were suitably drunk when we got on the last tube and like twats we agreed to go back to mine for a smoke and a couple of cans. After much grindcore James left to the backing of the fucking birds at 5-ish or so.

At midday I was up, because I’d not been mixing my drinks I didn’t feel too bad, I’m sure this lack of the debilitating hangover has something to do with not boozing as much? Maybe? I don’t know. Either way I made it to the shops, I’d actually decided not to go but needed to pick up some more beer and breakfast things for the following day.
A few months ago my old mate from Leeds, Chaz had decided that we should see Motorhead at the Royal Festival Hall; he was going to come down and stay the weekend and I’d lay on the hospitality. Sadly this wasn’t meant to be a following a load of confusion on my part, stemming from a forgotten birthday on his, I ended up with 3 tickets, one for Myfwt, one for Jim, and one for me.

Myfwt arrived at 5, all teeth and tits looking stunning, we met Jim in the local boozer at 6-ish and began drinking. Myfwt reverted straight back to type, on the lager, matching me and Jim pint for pint and after a few we caught the tube and arrived at The Royal Festival in between the support act, Selfish Cunt, and The MH.

It was very odd crowd, largely the audience were 40 plus, some quite clearly well to do types with nervous looking spouses, even the usual MH fans were of an age and the subsequent atmosphere really was that of The Royal Festival Hall, coupled with a bit of grease. Badly Drawn Boy passed me in the lobby looking somewhat apprehensive. I was going to say something but decided against it after becoming distracted by his tea cosy headwear, it wouldn’t have been good for him. We managed to squeeze a couple more in before taking our seats (yes, seats) that were shown to us by an old fashioned usher with a torch and all that caper.

Motorhead seemed as weirded out by the situation as the majority of the crowd, they played a sterling set, despite a few tunes I’d not heard, but the whole scenario was so peculiar it was hard to get into the stride of the gig. I refused to sit down, as did some of the other patrons but even seeing seated a handful of the MH audience, nodding their bald heads against the green velvet upholstery, was alienating. Nonetheless, all was cured by a paint stripping rendition of Iron Fist which blew my teeth out. After the gig came to a close, finding its cowboy boot clad feet in the process, we popped to the upper balcony for some more beers. It was lovely up there, a perfect balmy evening over the Thames, people milled below, twinkling boats drifted past, the entire view loaded with landmarks and pretty lights… I went so far to verbally cherishing the moments, which was met with stifled drunken giggles from my two charming companions.

We got back in time to indulge in a couple more beers on the way to the Lebanese Café for some Shwarma. Myfwt tits to my utter amazement had a chicken one which to her genuine surprise she loved. On the way back to the flat someone bought a load of chocolate, no idea why, and we all arrived back pissed up and full of good cheer.

Sunday morning I made breakfast and Jim departed leaving Myfwt and I in the company of Badly Drawn Boy sardonically discussing Motorheads gig on some sofa based TV show and Hot Fuzz. The latter was fucking brilliant, as with Sean of the Dead I was genuinely jealous to have not been involved. The former was just embarrassing. Myfwt left after lunch and I joined Lara for some more gymnastics and puzzles.

Christ, the flirting couple at work are virtually engaging in oral, it’s stomach churning stuff and is preventing me from focussing on the task in hand, I need to have a cigarette immediately before I say something so inappropriate one of us will cry. I fucking hate Monday.

I’ve lost my dark glasses too.

This is the band we missed, shit, I fucked up here


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?