booze n’ pooze

Masterchef last night was one of the best ever. Usually it’s possible to get a jolly good idea who is going to win, but on occasion it’s too close to call.

Last night was one of those editions, it wasn’t so much about food, it’s presentation, use of flavours and wotnot, it boiled down to raw emotion that had one of the fucking judges crying like a baby over a trifle. The winner was based on food being something of enormous enjoyment, not just the way it looks, but the way it makes you feel when you eat it. The dead cert to win, an excellent chef who pretty much didn’t put a foot wrong was pipped at the post, to my astonishment and sheer delight, by a woman who made food that evoked passion on the basis it that it come screaming from the heart.

Next week one of my friends is appearing it in, I’ll advise accordingly, you lucky, lucky, erm, folk.

Right, two days off the pop. Last time I did two days without booze I was in hospital with a kidney stone scraping it’s way to freedom via my inner guts. Drinking wasn’t an option, besides I was tanked to the amygdalae on sweet Morphine and to be honest, the last thing on my mind. Mentally I feel less soporific and docile but more alert, aggressive, even. Physically, I’m still finding sleeping hard, though it’s not as bad as it was and my back isn’t aching as much either. Oh, I done a plop last night which was a hymn to symmetry, usually they’re like pig slurry, and would’ve been the jewel in the crown of the Bristol stool scale if it was wasn’t now magnanimously heading torpedo-like to the North Sea, goodbye my darling, goodbye.

The weekend is gentle; few well deserved drinks with Frank, dinner with Myfwt and a Saturday of bloody shopping. Late afternoon I’m getting my hair cut which Myfwt is paying for as it’s she who is objecting to my wild locks (she has a point I suppose) and the evening is beautifully vague. Sunday, biking off to see my niece who’ve I’ve not seen since Christmas. Christ, them Monday happens again.

The Friday list (getting more and more edited on account of nasty entries) followed by a tune Swineshead reminded me of yesterday, it’s acer.

Nice weekends all.

essentially emily
stella artois fight club
masterchef roxanne
leah betts
me and my sexy aunt pictures fucked my m
nude baer gallery
photo big t i t woman farance
suckig tits
nude married bears
sargeant clegg
jerry springer striped and screaming
red tube hairy girls
touchthecrutch
hairy aunt
gg allin was gay
napoleon women with hairy cunts
valentino rossi.tattoo
budd dwyer aftermath
doog fuck wif

nearly frosty

Apart from a few Cheese Balls (the absolute king of cheese corn snacks, really, they’re like an evolved Wotsit and more moreish than Kylie’s charlie) I ate nothing last night. But I did tape Masterchef which I watched at midnight drooling like a cracked up Winehouse before retiring to bed, partially sober and very tired, and sleeping like a smacked up Doherty.

Earlier in the evening Myfwt and I met up with Notagay (link right, filed under ‘he’s not gay, okay’) in a rather downmarket hostelry for a drinks in fucking Wimbledon. I knew it was a bit below par because it was over populated by those wiry pale men that drink lager and look like they enjoy porn and assault, the barmaid screaming ‘Dave! Service! I’m busting for a big piss!’ didn’t exactly set the tone for champagne and oysters either. Anyway, Myfwt and I found a table and Notagay joined us shortly after and we settled down.

A pleasant evening ensued, Notagay and I had a few pints of ale and Myfwt enjoyed a few G&T’s which we supped slowly, mainly because we were all gassing at once. So much nattering went on that we found ourselves on the ‘blast’ side of closing time and we were virtually turfed out into the night. All the good intentions of taking a bus were poo poed when a black cab slunk past and Mywft and I bid a fond farewell to Notagay and we disappeared off home.

It’s a lovely day today, fucking cold but beautifully bright and sunny. I’m enjoying not feeling like I’ve spent all night being Abu Hamza’s bitch due to over indulgence and as a result my day at work is easier to deal with. Speaking of which, it’s a short post today because I’m extraordinarily busy but before I go some information on today’s youtube entry.

This band look ridiculous. This may have something to do with their being a Swiss lot but any band who can lay claim to a tune called ‘Phallic Tantrum’ can’t be that bad. Their importance as pioneers of thrash/black metal cannot be understated and even now their influence can be heard in more contemporary acts such as Emperor and Dimmu Borgir. But their reach is wider than that, both Kurt Cobain and Dave Grohl were inspired by them, the latter even used the CF front man Tom Gabriel Fischer to perform on his metal compilation project Probot, more on that tomorrow. Do check out the awesome ‘death grunt’ employed by the lead fellow. It’s lovely.

very very drunk

After visiting James and his new son, a lovely little fellow who has grown an extraordinary amount since I last saw him, Friday night took a turn for the dark side.

Myfwt came back from her office party at about 1.30 am quite pissed, I mean really pissed. This in itself wasn’t an issue; she’s usually a jolly little soul after a few, but after a slurred giggly chat it was clearly time she hit the sack, about the same time as Cunt and some mates (this is a first, there were two of them down there, two!) decided to ‘sing’ with guitars. Imagine if you will 3 cunts singing The Drugs Don’t Work to an out of tune toneless guitar, with Cunt trying to out ‘sing’ all of them. It’s Friday night, they’re not playing through amps so I’m not overly fussed under the circumstances, but the snag is the room in which they were making this cacophony is right over the bathroom -which has not carpet, the same bathroom that Myfwt need to visit to throw her guts up.

In the space of an hour Myfwt went to the bathroom 16 times, accompanied by yours truly to ensure her safety as by now her motor skills had gone to shit. On each occasion we’d return to bed, she’d lie down and minutes later she’s be up and out the bedroom, opening the door to the bathroom to allow the fucking hideousness downstairs to run alongside the dulcet tones of Myfwt removing gins, sambuca, beer and whisky from her face. Put my desire to sleep into the equation and you can see how I felt as if looped in some sort of apocalyptic nightmare.

Even quiet the sound of the fucking 3 Amigos downstairs was permeating into the bedroom; this wasn’t helping so I made up the sofa bed in the lounge. I’m not entirely sure why but this hit the spot in terms of breaking the puke-cycle of Myfwt and we slept soundly until the following morning where we swapped back to our usual sleeping device to finish off our rest.

I made Myfwt some breakfast which alerted her system into one of recovery, I supplied her with tea and sympathy before leaving her in bed and taking the bus to Wimbledon train station. It was a cold wet morning but I was comforted by The Guardian and a fresh coffee on the station platform waiting for my bro and his missus, who were running late.

When they eventually arrived we jumped on the train for the 25 minute journey to Oxshott where we met up with my sister, whose birthday was the reason for our meeting in a restaurant fro lunch, my bro-in-law, niece, mum and dad. The afternoon passed in a most congenial manner, the wine flowed and traditional English fare sated our appetites amid much sniggering and conversation. My niece was being a little stroppy initially but she soon fell into the congenial mood of the family. It was a splendid afternoon and all too soon we were back on the train heading homewards. I’d had a few wines and was required to decide if I should stop or carry on… the latter decision was put upon me by Frank who requested my company for a couple of ales at the local.

I got back home at 8 or so, again, do I stop or continue? Spurning food, I was still digesting lunch, I opened a bottle of wine a fell into my headphones, beginning with the Suno ))) album which blew my head off and moving through Nirvana, Yes, PJ Harvey, Subhumans, Slayer, Machine Head, Bob Dylan, Korn… smoking and drinking all the while and wrapped in the most glorious cloud of sound and drugs.

At about 3 I was done, well and truly. I awoke at 1pm on Sunday feeling dreadful. The afternoon was written off but as luck would have it Back to the Future 2 was on to nurse me through my malaise. At 6 Myfwt arrived with some shopping and she made us supper after taking pity on my condition and going some way to repaying me for my care on Friday night. We both spurned drinks, preferring tea to accompany an evening sat quietly in front of the TV.

Christmas is fast approaching, this is my last full week at work until next year, a delightful prospect but one also fraught with having to finish off the seasonal gift-getting and wotnot. On the other hand it’s still Monday, it’s cold and wet and despite not having drunk last night, I feel crap.

Good Morning

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

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)