Category Archives: northern line

weakendz

I’ve just had a very harrowing cycle ride into work. A car jumped a red light on a pedestrian crossing and very nearly hit me and two fellow rat racers, if it wasn’t down to our collective awareness of ‘Mmm, he’s not slowing down is he’ and taking evasive action one or all of us wouldn’t be whacking off to porn when we got in this evening. It was left to me to remind the motorist that he was a fucking cunt. The cycle that followed was bloody hard going too; I had a very heavy weekend, far heavier than usual and taking into account the new cleaner Piqued, as of late, I paid for my sins with interest.

Friday afternoon was extraordinarily busy in the office; this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing because the upshot of such activity equals cold hard cash. With this joie de vivre in place Frank and I caught the tube to Clapham in the evening to meet Harry in the boozer by Clapham Common. This pretty much set the tone for the weekend to come, conversation, giggling and, of course, drinking. We were lucky to grab a table on our arrival as the place was heaving by 9pm. The clientele are not really my type, they consist of largely well to do 20 to 30 wotnots, you get quite a few suits and lots of public schoolboy swaggering. The girls are pretty but conceited; most dress like utter prats but the place is well mannered enough for them sit about with being harangued against their will.

Frank and I took a late tube home, both of us plastered. I alighted at my stop. It was raining but the air was fresh, I felt good as I wandered up my street to my door. Big mistake feeling good when you know you don’t have to get up the following day and you decide to investigate the Subhumans album that arrived in the post that morning. Wine happened. When I went to bed it was daylight.

I was woken at 1pm by Myfwt coming in, she was in a similar condition to me. I got up showered, shat and shaved and ate some peanut butter on toast with tea. Myfwt lay down on the couch like the Lady of Shallot and we decided we were good only for TV, or a movie. I had Lucky Number Sleven in a pile of DVD’s, I’d not seen it because it looked shite, I don’t even know how I acquired it. Fuck my old boots it was actually really quite good. By 5.30 Myfwt had fawned off and I was feeling well enough to undertake the Sainsbury run. A mistake.

I’ve realised that my panic attacks are largely (not exclusively) derived from alcohol leaving my system. In essence at about the time I begin to feel better, I’m due a panic. I had one in Sainsbury, a really big nasty hairy freak out that I fought so very hard, on two occasions I had to seek refuge in the toilet, splashing my face and wrists with water hoping that my progressively filling trolley wouldn’t be commandeered by some officious git before it passed. When the third wave came in I had nearly finished purchasing but still, I so very nearly left.

I made it back to the van feeling better and drove back to the flat. After unpacking the shopping I walked up the road to meet Frank in the local as the last vestiges of fear exited my system. It would have been alright if just Frank and I been left to our own devices, but mid through the second pint Jamie called to announce he would be joining us to. This was of course great news, despite remotely watching my Sunday, after being produced with a flourish, to shatter into a tiny million billion fragments.

Jamie, like myself, is a very thirsty gentleman. This alone means that he and I have a very enthusiastic time of it in bars, add the fact that Jamie is soon to be a dad, that I was already 2 pints down before he arrived and his very persuasive, insistent generosity ensured that I don’t actually remember getting home, though I do remember calling a big skinhead a potty mouth and enthusiastically hugging Jamie in the street. Sensibly Frank had left us to it a long while before.

I was supposed to attend a barbeque yesterday, needless to day that didn’t happen. I got up at 4 in the afternoon feeling ravaged but having slept through most of the hangover I just had to deal with the fucking panic attack which began, uniquely, in the fucking bath and prepare dinner, which cured me of all my ills.

Myfwt came over at 6.30 and we ate roast chicken with all the required extras, it was lovely. She had a few G&T’s (actually, she did a commendable job) and I enjoyed a few glasses of wine, I was rather restrained, largely because I didn’t fancy a hung over panic attack at work.

Still, due to the weekend’s exuberance, the cycle here was a fucking slog. I nearly vetoed the bike in favour of the black bitch but it’s a beautiful day so I forced myself onto the former. Towards the end of the journey I was just getting into my stride, nature buzzed and scurried about me a black and white cat lying in the towpath catching the sun…with all of it’s internal organs fucking hanging out. Jesus.

RIP Ingmar Bergman, you were hardly a barrel of laughs but fuck me, if one gave you a bit of an effort, one was richly rewarded

Oh, RIP Mike Reid, the original cockney wanker

Anyone else? I don’t think these chaps are too far off…

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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?


qwiz

I got roped into going to a charity pub quiz last night in aid of breast cancer.

It didn’t start until 8 but by 5.30 I was still at work talking to one of my favourite, and indeed, oldest clients. Her beloved daughter was a very well known and respected actress, she died a few years ago, her husband needs 24 hour care yet she still runs a successful business and even has time to natter to yours truly. She natters a lot actually. I don’t mind at all but at 5.30 and with a missed call from Myfwt I could feel my skin prickle with wanderlust.

By 6.00 I was on the phone to Myfwt walking with my bike down the hill towards the towpath that leads to home, she and I chatted for a while and after I mounted my steed and arrived back at the flat hot and sweaty enough to warrant a shower.

By 7.15 I was on the tube to town, I alighted at Leicester Square and walked past Chinatown to the foot of Wardour Street. The cloying smell of miso and MSG cut through the early evening traffic fumes, it was a lovely evening, people drifted past me, I must say that I did notice a few rather charming oriental types as I hurried up the street, past the remnants of The Intrepid Fox, the gay bars with Stretch Armstrong bouncers checking for bigots, past numerous eateries of all possible genre before opening the doors to the awful Slug and Lettuce that sits squat on the side of the street like an elephant turd.

‘It’s for a good cause’ I reminded myself as I pushed past the endless cunts with polo shirts, collars turned, and little blonde twatlets stinking of Dune and Darling. I went downstairs to the function room and got a beer, my colleagues from work arrived in a group Harri, Kit and Lee, and we settled down. After deciding what to call ourselves (‘Double Mastectomy’ and ‘S’only Rape’ didn’t go down well) we settled on ‘Cack Farmers’ and the show got underway. The quiz was presided over by 3 jolly hockey sticks types who’d taken it on themselves to boom out the questions without the aid of a microphone, not that they needed it. One of them was so fucking loud she made my teeth shake in my skull; it was like being yelled at in infant school when ones ears weren’t fully developed.

We weren’t doing badly; it may have been helpful if one of our team hadn’t ordered a sandwich the size of a brickies forearm which required virtually all of her attention for the first half round. I was answering the majority of questions but fell down on film quotes (all from things like ‘Pretty Women’ and the hilarious ‘Three men and a little winkie’ or something) world flags and the shittiest round of all where we had to guess what one of the yar-okay compares had done, i.e., ‘wheech whon of arse hes skydived frorm a pleen?’ Oddly I did quite well on sport, usually the weakest of my quiz categories.

Out of the 17 teams we came 14, not too bad, but not enough to win the fucking wine, which irked me somewhat, it was a fucking tenner to get in…AND more men die of bollock cancer than women of charley cancer.

Still it was for charity. And tits. I like tits.

This has nothing to do with tits, in the literal sense anyway. Take it away chaps…


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


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


petit holiday

It was about 10, walking back from an eatery in Brixton with a friend from work, Harri, and her step dad who was down from Wales to help install a kitchen for his daughter in law. The evening was warm, a little muggy but offset by a gentle breeze, I just had half a bottle of wine and eaten a very rich but delicious fisherman’s pie, not as good as mine of course… We’d not decided at this stage to go the pub, the stage at which a large quantity of small discreet farts were being released from my bottom ending in that crippling realisation that…yes, I think, no, Christ, I’ve followed through.

I managed to get to the pub and calmly walk to the toilets, it wasn’t as bad as I’d expected, I’d not touched clothed for example but it had been a close call. It took a good 5 minutes of pedantic attention to ensure I was out of the woods so to speak. I arrived in the beer garden as if nothing had happened and carried on drinking like a good boy.

Harri’s step dad was sporting a watch; the bloody thing had been bugging me all evening. It was a very expensive Breitling, apart from the cost it was unremarkable but for one fascinating feature. There was a pin set in the side, if said pin was a removed a fucking helicopter would land within feet of the watch. I’ve checked this matter out btw and it’s quite true, there is a £60,000 fine if the feature is misused but it hadn’t stopped me weighing up the pros and considerably heavy cons against grabbing his wrist and yanking out the pin. To be honest the watch made the evening awkward, as I couldn’t get this idea out of my OCD riddled mind and on at least 2 occasions I was dangerously close to actually busting a move, yeah. The fact I’m here typing this should indicate that I didn’t, Harri’s step dad whilst being a perfectly nice chap is built like a brick shithouse and I didn’t think he’d have been best pleased.

Here at work I’ve a similar day to yesterday, interview, meeting but there is light at the end of the tunnel. Tonight Jim is shooting over and he and I are going to meet up with an old punk mate from my childhood, Gee, and after a few beers go to the Astoria to see Fields of the Nephilim, an established though rarely seen goth outfit in the dying days of one of London’s most wonderful music venues. Aware of the very real possibility of a hangover following our venture I’m taking Friday off which means, as it’s a bank holiday on Monday, I’ll get 4 days off. I can’t remember the last time I had 4 days off…

This does also mean, dear reader, that my blog tomorrow will be late, in fact, it may not even be up ‘til sat/sun and as it’s a bank holiday Monday, which also means that the Monday one will be late…

I’ll make up for it though. Oh, one bit of useless information; I learnt last night that brown/granary bread is made up from the literal sweepings off the bakery floor. Warbrtons are the exception, apparently.

Apparently this was the first time performed on US TV…