lost in museik

I was as busy as furious bee yesterday, for some reason everything needed doing at once, and in between all of this I spent a good deal of time having an online conversation (with a bloke called Earache whom I’ve linked to on the right) about the Guardian’s top 1000 albums. Entertaining it may’ve been but it was a right load of old bollocks with some dreadful emissions, no Dead Kennedys, Marilyn Manson, Mudhoney, Butthole Surfers… (but Girls Aloud and Rachael Stevens were in???) I really could go on but there will be enough listing on today’s Piqued, it’s Friday after all.

However, there were a few surprises (Space Ritual by Hawkwind, for example, which was let down by the balls written about it) and one in particular which I’ve posted as today’s guest youtube link. Listen to as loud as possible after taking drugs; it will utterly blow your head orf.

Just discovered a long blonde alien hair in my beard, pulling a long blonde (any colour actually, I’m no racist) alien hair out of ones beard feels almost as enjoyable as a ruddy great poo, but I digress. Last night I met up with my bro at Clapham Common tube following a small altercation with London Transport when my Oyster card split and there was no fucker to let me through the barrier. My bro was privy to my yelling at a gesticulating man behind a screen, who I couldn’t see because I wasn’t wearing my bins, desperately, apparently, trying to corral me to another barrier.

We arrived at the pub in good cheer, if a little frustrated on my part and imbibed Guinness whilst discussing the wonders of wanking. Shortly we were joined by my bros mate, Andy, where the conversation took a turn for more fruitiness, that’s right, prior to my having to leave hurriedly at 8 in order to get back and get supper on. I’d planned (line caught) smoked cod on steamed leek and broccoli with a mustard and spring onion sauce and was running out of time before Myfwt came back.

Of course the meal was a success, and we cheerfully shoved Cava down our faces whilst watching River Cottage Gone Fishing on 4+1 after we’d eaten. The evening passed rapidly over a conversation and a few tabs, and a G&T before bed.

There will be no Piqued on Monday as I’m off to Birmingham with dad to visit the International Motorcycle Show, in the evening I’m, and I can’t believe I’m typing this, off to the fucking Ballet. It’s a work related thing that I can’t refuse, the only consolation to this awfulness is that Myfwt is coming and she’s rather excited about it, being a girl and all that.

So, Tuesday then, dear reader. In the meantime, have a jolly good weekends (except the people that find themselves reading these hallowed words after asking to see something unspeakable. You don’t deserve to read this; you deserve to be shorn of your genitals).

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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.

bustup

I had a night in, first one in ages

Following a pitiful day at work, the situation compounded my facing legal action from a client, in addition to losing £££££ and, of course, no business, I was fucking chuffed to Henry’s getting out of the office without declaring myself bankrupt.

I whistled off home under a cloud of grey, the roads were still wet from the earlier rain so there was no space for heroics. After packing the bitch away I hopped upstairs and opted for a bath. It felt like the right thing to do to separate ‘work’ from ‘home’, radio 4 on in the background, shampoo, fresh towels, a burp of the worm, roll-on, shave, yukata… I felt like a new girl, I mean man.

I made a sensational meal, it’s a regular favourite and simple to prepare, allow me to indulge you. Cook some good quality pork sausages in the oven, in the meantime make a white sauce (gently cook equal parts butter and plain flour, slowly add milk until the consistency of old sump oil) and add some Dijon, grated cheese, seasoning and raw chopped onion (the RCO will thin the sauce so be aware of this) and cook the sauce off carefully. When the sausages are done steam a load of broccoli and dump the sauce over the lot, season and eat smugly. It’s fucking ace, really.

Just as the last morsel of food retired in my mouth I heard a commotion from downstairs, such was the commotion I was forced to turn down House, which in my flat is akin to pressing your bollocks up against the face of a baby. I needn’t have bothered altering the volume; Cunt had lost the fucking plot.

There was no sound from the source of his angst, which doesn’t surprise me, she’s so thin you could pick the food out of your teeth with her fingers, ironically. Nor was there any sound of the baby, which doesn’t make much noise anyway, something I find more disturbing than refreshing…

Cunt was in full flight, he was screaming his bastard lungs out, as usual due to a deficiency of humanness most of what was being yelled was incomprehensible though peppered with expletives, you could virtually hear his knuckles hit the wooden floor every time he said ‘fuck’. The only part of his speech that hit home was ‘stop fucking about with my life’. An interesting comment from a man who never works, has no friends, and is unable to take his penis out of casual girlfriend’s front bottom, who was just visiting from oversees, when the white worms come out. Anyway, so long as he’s suffering down there I’m happy.

I watched the rest of House and did some writing as I was hit with a poem, it happens yeah. Following some dreadful pile of shit on the ‘comedy of Hitler’ (cobbled together tish and fipsy from A Guardian journo) I washed up and hit the hay, lulled to sleep by Radio 4, as usual.

It’s lovely day to today, I’m in a fair mood, I’m certainly looking forward to this evenings drinkies with my bro and Frank, more importantly, I’m rather excited about the Wedding tomorrow. I don’t usually get too thrilled at the prospect of weddings, I hope I behave myself.

Tune in on Monday where you can find out what happened

(This is fucking ace, nice weekends kidsz)