Category Archives: paul kaye

hear this

Right, now I feel really ill, yet here I am in work, what a fucking trooper/berk. I suppose a hangover doesn’t help, but really illness prevails.

However, I can hear. I can hear everything. The treatment I undertook yesterday afternoon was a sensation. Allow me to share…

By lunchtime yesterday the deafness in my right here had evolved from just being a fucking nuisance, it was starting to hurt; an ache in my jaw was slowly shifting into a isolated pain in the side of my head. At 3pm the black bitch and I raced across London as the day faded into night, we went through Battersea and over Lambeth bridge past Parliament, round Trafalgar Square and up the Charing Cross road. I still get a huge kick riding a motorcycle round the famed parts of this wonderful city; somehow it feels as if one is privileged, as if its not strictly allowed but personal permission has been granted. I parked up, passing a yelling Chris Evans oddly, second time I’ve seen him in a month, and made my way to the surgery.

An Australian woman met me and went through the procedure; she pretty much assured me that she could resolve the hearing issue. A speculum was placed in my ear and I laid down on a couch. She popped in some drops and using a tiny vacuum began to suck the muck out of my head. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, actually at times it was quite uncomfortable, this was largely because the ‘oh, gracious’ comment from the Australian woman derived from the appalling state of my log ‘oles and the removal of the wax wasn’t as straightforward as it first appeared. The wax had become attached to the skin inside my ear; she needed forceps to detach the stuff, which was apparently squishing my eardrum (which is subsequently bruised) before she could suck it out. The whooshing sound in my ear would periodically stop as the vacuum became blocked with a large portion of cerumen, this was the painful part as it was glued to the inside of my head. After a good 5 minutes there was this immense *pop* and all of a sudden I could hear car doors shutting on Cavendish Square 3 floors below through a closed window. The lump of wax she removed was the size of a marrowfat pea, one of two apparently though the first one had disintegrated. I nearly vomited on her lap.

The procedure was repeated on my ‘good’ ear which it transpired was nearly as bad; she removed a (regular) pea sized ball of cerumen which I was apparently ‘very old’. I asked her how I could avoid this sort of thing in the future, her advice was explicit, don’t put anything in your ear, wipe the concha periodically with a tissue but that’s that. The treatment cost £50 but for some reason the nice lady charged me half that amount, no idea why. I suspect it was because I was wearing biker clothes, leather trousers and motorcycle boots are very sexy, and she wanted to see my penis.

I met up with Frank for a pint later on, oh the luxury of being about to converse without straining or grinning inanely at unheard comments, before returning home to make dinner for Myfwt and I, another sausage casserole, this one better than the last, largely because I could eat it with hearing it being masticated and swallowed and dropping into my stomach.

Interpol tonight, but before all that some more Paul Kaye.

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deaf as a post

Last night I hooked up with Frank for a couple of pints (Fortyniner, delicious, like drinking Marmite) and he and I ended up chatting to the landlord who is a rather splendid fellow. Turns out he’s a bit of an expert in turning around failing boozers. A few years ago my local was a fucking slag heap, a place where you were guaranteed warm lager and a fist in your teeth, these days it’s the paradigm of boozer perfection. Hey, I drink in there right? Right ; ) You betcha etc.,

Being ill and all that, I’d not sorted out dinner so was forced to pop by Tesco on my way back home. It may delight some of the readers of Piqued to confess that I bought 2 Tesco Chicken Kievs (and a bottle of wine) as I wasn’t feeling able to do any hard kitchen graft outside of preparing some cabbage and broccoli for steaming. The kievs may or may not have been good/bad, the wine vinegar, I can only taste snots, but this is the least of my worries.

I’m totally deaf in my right ear. It’s actually worse than yesterday as I took a bath and instead of making sure I didn’t get water in my ear by closing the tragus over the external auditory meatus with my index finger, something I’ve been doing for a year or so, I decided to throw caution to the wind –I figured as I was deaf anyway I may as well submerse my sweet little head underwater (without closing the tragus over the external auditory meatus with my index finger) so down I went shouting ‘fuck it yeah, rock and roll, woo-hoo’ before realising that I’d been partially deaf up until that point.

Being deaf in one ear isn’t as bad as being deaf, of course, but being used to hearing with both ears it’s fucking horrible. For a start one half of your mind becomes dormant, if today’s Piqued seems a little odd or strange you can safely assume it’s down to that satan is lord. It’s like being half awake, nothing seems quite real, and no, it’s not surreal for crying out loud… it’s very strange though, surreal, even.

Last night I attempted to watch TV in this condition, it was useless but not as bad as trying to read. I could hear all the blood in my head making a fucking noise which was frankly terrifying, I don’t want to be aware of shit like that, I’m happy it goes on and all that but I’d rather I wasn’t privy to it. I mean, I like a good shit as much as the next fellow but I don’t want to spend any time, outside of a cursory glance, ruminating on what has been jettisoned from my toned body. I gave the radio a shot on the good ear, it was okay but there was nothing on Radio 4 that inspired, music was out from the off so I made do with the TV absorbing the wine to aid my cold. What a fucking mess I am I thought. Help, actually.

So I’m dong something about it, I’m full of fucking fuck off cold pills today and I’ve just booked an appointment in some place in Soho to have my ears vacuumed this very afternoon. A bloke here in the office had it done a few months ago, apparently they put some stuff in your lug ‘ol to soften the wax, fire or something, and then literally suck it all out. The bloke at work says it was amazing, could hear a sparrow closing its beak 100 yards off. It does cost fifty fucking quid though, still I really can’t wait. I’m seeing Interpol tomorrow night (with Blonde Redhead supporting, I prefer them to Interpol actually) and I’d like to be able to hear all of it it, not just half.

More Paul Kaye today, this is quite marvellous, but be warned he says ‘fuck’ in it and it depicts the usage of a drugs…


deaf bike

I am with cold and have been deaf in my right sodding ear now since Sunday when washing the luxurious hair on my sweet little head I blasted a jet of water right into the side of my brains. Pardon? What? It’s really bastard annoying.

The weekend was unremarkable but quite lovely. I’m fully resigned to all this winter nonsense. At some point on Friday men, big men, from the council arrived and removed all the dead branches and leaves from the trees down the street, including the fellow outside my flat. Obviously I responded to this with casseroles and stews, wines and newspapers. Actually, apart from a spot of shopping (for food and a scarf, I left mine in the pub last week and what with this cold and all…Pardon?) Myfwt and I spent virtually all of it in the flat watching Scrapheap Challenge, Come Dine with Me and Top Gear (s) to accompany the gastric delights. Quick recipe for you, this was so good I nearly grated my helmet, venison and wine sausages (in season at Sainzburry at the mo) browned and chopped up, par boiled sliced potatoes (use Maris Piper, mmm? What? Yes MARIS PIPER…) and flash fry roughly chopped onion, garlic, leeks and peas. Season the lot, bung in some herbs and all that shit, then layer the ingredients in a oven proof dish: potato, veg, sausage, potato, veg sausage etc., slosh half a pint of chicken stock and red wine over the lot and shove in the oven for an hour and half. I reckon it’s one of the best things I’ve had all year.

Yesterday morning I was up at 6.30am. It was dark and weird. I dressed, jumped on the bitch of blackness and rode over to my folks in the rush hour as the dawn broke. It was an oddly serene experience, despite all the suits in their fucking cars arsing about. I dropped the bike orf and dad and I headed up to Birmingham for the 2007 International Bike show at the NEC. We’ve been going to this show since I was a wee nipper, it used to be held at Earl’s Court but was moved to the Midlands to make it more accessible to the Northern types, and I still retain the same mawkish delight sitting on an array of beautifully crafted metal for the purposes of satisfying my groundless urge to ride motorcycles. I sat on the updated version of the black bitch, keeerrrchhing! I will have one next year, but the most gorgeous bike I sat on was the new Ducati 1098, an unfeasibly beautiful machine but not practical for everyday use sadly. If I had the cash and a garage I’d bite off my mum arms to have one in my possession. Dad and I stuffed our eyes for a few hours, pausing only for lunch, a Subway sandwich which was fucking fantastic, despite the chilli causing the old man some concern in advance of the following days ablutions, and returned to the bikes for some more giggling.

The journey back home was choc-full-o nattering, I was a little rushed for time as I had to get back home, meet Myfwt, and get into town in time for the Ballet at the Royal Albert Hall, St Petersburg Ballet were performing fucking Swan Lake, and my client had given us the best box in the house.

I’ve decided to review the episode in Watch With Mothers, link to the right. Check back later. In the meantime, no music but this. It’s utterly hilarious but not for those of a nervous disposition, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Eh? WARN YOU.