pair o cunts

Well as predicted, as soon as I clapped eyes on the fucking germ and learnt of his circumstance, how does a person who never works, who does absolutely fuck all apart from living in fantasy la la world (whilst looking down on those that do have to work) is meant to handle the responsibilities of a relationship, let alone a family?

We left Cunt last time screaming ‘Don’t fuck with my life’at the severely anorexic mother of his children. The sort of thing you’d expect to come out of the mouth of a. a spoiled immature teen or b. said teen a decade on following more goodies from daddy, like a fucking house, guitars, mixing desks, keyboards, computers, fully furnished designer fucking everything for doing FUCK all…

Anyway, surprise surprise, she and the kid are gone. I’d already established that when the kid was about Cunt would have to be quiet, for the past few months it’s been relatively alright, even he understands that too much noise = screaming child, which directly effects him. And we can’t have Cunty getting fucking upset now can we, or daddy might have to come over and clap his hands over his sensitive ‘musicians’ ears until the nasty little baby stops making a horrid noise for FUCKS SAKE.

I helped; I didn’t slam doors (I’m not much of a slammer anyway, this is largely due, I think, despite my misanthropic default, to manners and respect, you know, indicators of being brought up well) and I made sure that I didn’t thump about, even when friends were over in the small hours following a skinfull. Besides, as already mentioned in previous posts, I have/had no beef with her or the kid. Why should they suffer more than they already do?

So, you’re asking, now his emotionless borg of an offspring and his ignored, disrespected and clearly ill partner have fucked off back to wherever, has my decency and goodwill been reciprocated?

Has it fuck.

Last night he had the fucking audacity to give me a full 6 hours of his repertoire, the only chink of light is that he’s clearly a bit sad that his family have fucked off, which, of course is entirely his fault. I mean the way he used to speak to her; really, you’ve not heard anything like it, it was infused with unadulterated hatred, made worse by its forced calmness. Nasty, nasty, nasty.

I’ve described his ‘music’ before right? He can’t play; timing, tone, tuning, rhythm are all off, he can’t sing; timing, tone, tune, key…never fucking had any of them, practise makes it worse, die death. But last night instead of confining himself to the (recently refurbished and fitted designer) kitchen (which is just slightly smaller than Kent) he was ‘musically’ doing territorial pissings (not the song, though he’s tried Christ help me, no, the act) by ‘performing’ in every room in the house, possibly in order to reclaim his pathetic existence as a 24/7 wanker. This meant that when I was cooking in the kitchen he was in the adjacent downstairs room, when I was in the living room, the same, and finally the bedroom, there he was.

I tried to remain calm, I thought, ‘he’ll stop in a sec’, I reasoned with myself, I have this facility. I’m an educated man, rational, decent even, it’s one in the morning and his directly beneath me clanging tonelessly…

*snap*

I leap out of bed and on to my feet and land with both heels onto the floor with a deafening thump, I stamp, and I mean STAMP, to the bathroom where there is a wooden floor, grabbed the door and after yelling at Ian Kilminster volume, ‘shut the fuck up YOU CUNT!’ slammed it so hard against the frame the screws shot out the top hinge.

Immediate blissful silence.

I slept like a baby.

This is for him

trace

I have a hangover from a bottle of wine and one g & t. This indicates to me that the combination of abstinence and not glugging back a bottle after the pub has already reduced my tolerance, which is a good thing I guess.

Actually, I have a headache more than a hangover. And my thumb hurts. This has a lot to do with cutting off a segment of lime and the end of my fucking thumb simultaneously. I bled like I’d been flayed, there was claret all over the fucking place, I utilised 6 plasters, 6!The end of my thumb looks like Ron Jeremy’s helmet after a hard days work.

I did sod all last night, I was exhausted from a combination of a lack of sleep and cycling. I couldn’t even be arsed to cook so I slammed a pair of posh haddock fishcakes in the oven and knocked together some tomato and cucumber in mayo, Dijon and pepper.

I made some notes during House for some scribbling I’m planning, I kept my eye on proceedings though it wasn’t a particularly good one. I’m not sure why I am such a fan of it; it’s a very formulaic American drama, sentimental, pretty and at times beggar’s belief. But it has something, Hugh Laurie is superb and the best of the writing is saved for his character, which I also like. It offers a place for my head to escape. But not last night.

Big Brother 8. Fucking hell, the most annoying person in there so far is Tracy, the incarnation of a nightmare, I can actually imagine waking up and seeing it at the foot of my bed, it standing up slowly, bellowing ‘ows in going’ in that Baritone voice prior to raping me with a strap-on, if it needs one. She moans at the other girls for wearing make up but seems to think her fucking 80’s haircut, labret and tongue piercing are exempt from vanity. She’s got a hair trigger temper and I can see her kicking off at the drop of a roll-up.

There is another reason I think she’s a wanker. Much more personal. When I was in my early 20’s there was somewhat of a mini psychedelic revival, there was this great little club in Deptford called The Crypt which was frequented by me and my little pals. We’d all take lots of speed and ride up there, see some bands have a drink drop some acid take some more speed, and ride back. The Ozric Tentacles were like a house band and just before the place was shut down I was fortunate enough to see The Stone Roses prior to being signed.

The reason the place was shut down was because of cunts like Tracy. All of a sudden there were builders in there hugging you, wide-eyed pilled out turds with whistles and fluorescent clothing, the soaring crunching guitars and rock beats were exchanged by a single booming pulse, Neanderthal noise for Neanderthal’s. So unsubtle and moronic were these twats that they drew the attention of the police and government and all of a sudden bars were being raided, clubs and venues were being shut down, The Crypt being one of them, and the reinforced zero tolerance to drugs, gatherings and parties had a massive negative impact on all of us.

All thanks to Tracy, the fuck.

(Hey have a nice weekend y’all BYEs)

black night

It’s rather spiffing when one is looking forward to an evening and it ends up as a classic. After a rather pithy day in the office I cycled home full of good spirits, I’d had a jolly chat with Myfwt, Jim had e-mailed me to tell me he was already waiting at the flat and after a quick change at home we were just about to get into the tube when I got a call from Ray. I’d not from him in a while but as soon as his number appeared it was obvious that we were both heading in the same direction, he too had succumbed to the whole goth thing in the 80’s and had figured out that I was going. We arranged to meet at The (new) Intrepid Fox in a couple of hours

I’d already made plans to meet pals at The Two Brewers on Monmouth street so at precisely 6.10 I met Gee and Rick, who’d just arrived, and bumped into Swinsehead as I went to the bar. It was a glorious warm evening, if a little muggy, but stood on the street with a pint watching the passing throngs going about their business I could actually feel my self unwinding. A friend of a friend passed by and I grabbed him to say thanks for the book he’d kindly signed and given to me, he’s currently enjoying an acting role in a nearby theatre but to say anymore would be indiscreet. Nice bloke.

We had a couple of pints at The Brewers and made our way to The Fox, needless to say it was rammed with just the crowd I’d expected, largely middle aged men, a few gothy chicks and all still maintaining something of the you-wouldn’t-understand-if-you-don’t-know about them; wall to wall black, piercings tattoos, it felt like coming home. Essentially, it felt 20 years ago. Beautiful.

We were joined by one of Gee’s mates, Justin, he runs a nightclub in Surrey (I can assure you it’s not as shit as it sounds) and is good pals with members of Hawkwind, I liked him instantly. By this time the pints were going down nicely and the crowd had begun to thin to catch the support act, slowly the black faded and the usual ‘metal’ punters began to diffuse the absence of colour.

Ray arrived with his boss who immediately bumped into some of his friends, who, coincidentally, Justin knew. Even more coincidental, I popped on a Cardiacs youtube link last week and one of them was the guitarist from the band. Everyone was introduced to everyone else; there were now 9 of us.

We arrived at the Astoria just as The Fields of The Nephilim took the stage, Ray got me a beer and I began yelling at the exact same moment Myfwt texted to wish me a good evening and to not get shouty, as is my want. The band began sedately, a little to quiet for my ravaged ears before kicking off into their main set. It was fucking hot in there, sweat was pouring off the crowd, it was a sold out gig and the place was rammed solid much to the detriment of getting a good view. Our group disbanded into individuals and couples vying for a good spot, I found a super platform on the stairs to the bogs until Jim found me and ushered me upstairs to a prime location on the balcony. We bumped into a gild who’d flown alone from Dan Diego just to see the band, it was her first trip to London, she was flying back the following day. I only mention this to give some idea of the impact the band has had on some of its fans. Largely the crowd were congenial and polite most probably due to age, despite that the atmosphere was intense. The closing number was the best, a swirling, gliding drone that had a hypnotic quality; it was one of the best numbers I’ve seen performed by any band anywhere. By this time the volume was immense, my trousers were vibrating to the bass and I could feel the chorus in my chest.

After the gig we convened on the street and wandered over to The George for a closing pint. It was still very muggy but a relief to be out of the venue which by the end was like the Persian Gulf. The 9 of us stood about chatting, I was texted by a friend who wanted to know the band personification of ‘shoegazing’. This resulted in a ludicrous and hilarious 5-minute conversation of grown men shouting over each other. We settled on Ride.

When it was time to go Jim and I were half cut, as were my friends. I left Gee grinning at me from the entrance to the pub clutching yet another full pint. Both Gee and Jim are married with kids so when they do get a chance to get out, neither wastes it. We got off the tube at Tooting, Jim and I were ravenous but it being Thursday and after midnight the decent fast food outlets were shut so we had to opt for snacks from fucking Tesco. We didn’t drink anymore when we got back, a cup of tea and a spliff, which wiped Jim out completely, and he crashed out fully clothed in my bed.

Jim and I have always slept together since we were 17, neither of us is remotely known to doff the brown hat I hasten to add, it’s just the way it is. I woke up to the dulcet tones of Jim having a good old spit up in the bathroom, when he came back to bed he smelt exactly like aromatic pipe tobacco. His heart was racing and he was feeling shitter than dung, he put this down to over indulgence, I put it squarely at the feet of eating 3 cheap Cornish Pasties, two bags of Revels and most of a large bag of cheese balls prior to sleeping. He was just about okay when he set off and I ran a fucking massive bath before sitting down to write this crap.

Myfwt is popping over in a minute, it’s another warm bright day and I’m feeling just fine.

Today’s youtube clip is in memory of Rod Poole of Swervedriver who was murdered in LA last week. Bye dude

dogs

Virtually every morning, as I’m unwrapping my black bitch for the journey to work, this short middle aged woman purposefully strides past me, she has short grey hair and big glasses that make her look like an officious prat. There is nothing remarkable about this woman in any shape or form save the fact she’s always accompanied by the biggest dog I’ve ever seen.

It’s a blonde coloured Alsatian and it quite literally comes up to her rib cage, its the size of a small pit pony and has something of a docile, supernatural air about it. For every step the dog takes, she takes 2 so as they pass, one gets the impression that she’s perpetually trying to run past it. This in itself isn’t peculiar, yes, it’s a fucking massive dog being operated by a small peevish woman but what irks, the rub of this situation as it were, is the women is always carrying a bright orange plastic bag full of the dogs turds.

The dog doesn’t seem too fussed about this, fair enough, it’s not him waving them about (though I don’t think I’d be overly delighted if I was being followed by a person clutching a substantial quantity of my cack) but she doesn’t seem to bothered either. She’s walking down the street with a bag full of fucking dog shit, what’s the matter with her…

This morning she didn’t have her bag. I was in the process of stuffing my m/c cover into the van and the odd couple appeared in my peripheral vision, I instantly knew something was amiss; the balloon of orange with the heavy, heavy base was noticeably absent. The pair approached and just as they became level with me and the bike she and the fucking dog suddenly halted approximately half a foot from my feet and without any warning (can’t they fit these things with claxons?) it dropped it’s rear half down on to the pavement, lifted it’s fucking tale and uncoiled a good stone of dog eggs right at my feet.

In a flash the women had produced the orange bag like Debbie Magee, bent down and picked up the whole collection in one foul-swoop. Standing, watching in eye popping horror, she gave me the once over and looked at me as if I’d fucking done it. Without so much as a ‘pardon’ or ‘sorry’ the bastard was led off by her considerably lighter dog leaving me on the brink of being sick into my crash helmet. What a cunt.

Speaking of Cunt. Nirvana last night, sorry what I am I saying, Cunt trying to play Smells Like Teen Spirit. This isn’t the first time he’s tried to tackle this song, even the thought of him thinking about Mr. Cobain is offensive enough let alone the deliberate action of slowly raping, torturing and disembowelling a classic with toneless Neanderthalism, his arm with angular irregularity punching his knuckles into the strings as his fat tongue hangs out of his mouth sucking up air to subsequently return it in the form of a gormless guttural protracted fucking honk, this wasn’t part of Darwin’s agenda, surely…

As I was walking to the pub yesterday I passed his cadaverous girlfriend in the street. Her face is no more than a collection of long teeth and weary, listless eyes; she was pushing the emotionless automaton that passed for a baby in a buggy. The baby looked at me without a flicker of anything resembling life and she asked me if the child was disturbing me. I kept my mouth closed, it’s not the child that disturbs me (it does but not in the way she meant) I wanted to say, but I suppose I didn’t have to, she already knows. She lives with it.

You need to turn this up and the sound isn’t great, thought they are, and he was