fink ployd: the final cunt

When I got in last night, a tad tipsy as a result of wine involvement at the beeb, Myfwt was already in, on the phone of course to a sister (giggling) but ready to serve me with Rioja and pizza, specifically a meat feast as she’d an inkling ‘I’d be pissed’. Fucking ace. This morning not all was ace, in addition to a hangover, my morning movement wasn’t the usual Trafalgar Square Lapper, oh no, it was more of a case of farting out a Gormley, my delicate freckle subsequently feels as if Janet Street Porter has been eating habanero chillies orf it.

I read something yesterday evening from the revolting tabloid that is the Metro that caused me to say ‘cunt’ on the tube in front of strangers and hurl the fucking rag down the carriage, allow me to hand this one over to you. Some 17-year-old ginger halfwit was given a piano by a relative. So far so good, but it turns out that said piano was rescued from a recording studio previously used by Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and Queen … Indeed Freddie Mercury himself had paid to have it repaired after he damaged it ‘playing too roughly’. But the recipient of this legendary instrument is far from happy, Emily Davies, 17, from the forest of fucking Dean says the bands ‘hammered it so its not a very good piano’, and it’s covered in fag burns. Her piano, the headline claims, isn’t a ‘Steinway to Heaven’ and she’d like to ‘have a word with Led Zeppelin for wrecking it’. I’m not going to make any more comment on this but if you’re not apoplectic with seething rage after reading that there is something wrong with you. I hope Emily’s fanny eats her alive.

Right, busy day and a busy weekend to boot. Due to all of this I’ve decided to publish an article on Piqued that I wrote about getting a kidney stone, you’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll want Morphine. Following that the usual despicable Friday list, the last one of 2007, and to cap the lot orf, some very early Pink Floyd as promised in yesterdays ramblings. It’s probably my best ever youtube find, it’s astonishing, quite lovely.

Do have nice weekends won’t you.

Renal Chronic

It was about 9 in the pub when I noticed that the stitch-like pain in my side wasn’t pulsing like indigestion or a pulled muscle. It was just there. It didn’t alter no matter how I shifted in my chair or rubbed the area directly below my rib cage on the left hand side of my stomach. When I climbed into bed it was still present but the 4 pints of beer and a large spliff ensured that I got a good nights sleep.

The following morning at work the pain had somewhat increased, still in the same place it had now become a major distraction and I figured that it was time to make an appointment to visit a doctor. By lunchtime whilst walking to the bank I was in a state of denial, now it was starting to really hurt but the knowledge of my decision to have it checked out somehow, remarkably, comforted my usual state of paranoia.

Then it got really bad. My colleague noticed that I had turned a whiter shade of green and it was at this very point that I asked her to drive me to the hospital, as soon as this decision left my lips all hell broke loose and I was in a excruciating agony. In her car I writhed and bit my hand to transfer the awful feeling to another area but it was no use, I was in the grip of a peculiar fever and was dimly aware of a loss of mental faculties, to such an extent that when I went into casualty I had pulled down my trousers and was stood in my pants trying to tell a receptionist what was wrong. I think I was gibbering, I decided to lie down on the hospital floor, and then decided to stand up again.

After what seemed like a day I was put on a trolley a wheeled into a large room with other trolley’s, nurses and curtains. During the wait for assistance my trolley became a sort of climbing frame, I wrapped myself round the steel bars and clearly remember climbing under it. A nurse asked me what I was doing, something in my eyes sparked some attention and I was handed some pills. They came immediately back out of me along with my unspecified lunch. Catherine, who had taken me in her car was holding a cardboard kidney tray full of my stinking vomit, this was beyond the call of her work detail. I think I said thank you.

Mercifully, after losing my lunch I was wheeled off by the most beautiful nurse who took me to a cubicle, muttered something sweet and chucked 10mg of Morphine into my leg. My sticky veins instantly opened wide and within seconds all manner of pain had melted to nothing, ironically replaced by a wonderful delirium. Take the awesome delights of a cold sweat, add half a bottle of claret and the peak of a long bout of laughing, then remove any form of discomfort in any way association with the above. I could feel the hairs on my arms reaching out for pleasure and when they arrived in the form of Myfwt, when her long fingers ran slowly through my hair rippling fizzy bubbles of ecstasy through my feet, up my calves, in my stomach and over the back of my jaw, I was already gravity free and floating gently in space

Its quite comforting to know that in the last stages of life, if the patient is suffering discomfort, they rig them up to a machine known in medical slang as the death-pump. That equates to 40 mgs of morphine an hour. You people won’t fear the reaper, I promise, you’ll be asking him to back to your flat for a nightcap.

I lay on the trolley in a room with just Myfwt and me. I was there for hours and hours, I lay on my stomach the muscles in my body gently creaking as they relaxed from the earlier pain. Presently 2 doctors came into the room. They were both young and seemed to be in good spirits, I seem to remember them both as very handsome and it seemed somehow inappropriate that we were all in this room together, especially as someone had put me in a surgical gown so my arse was pointing at them.

It would seem, however that this was the intention. They introduced themselves, Dr. Crippen and Dr. Kildare (I dunno, I was caned) and suggested to me that what they were about to do may be uncomfortable.
‘Mr. Piqued, I am going to examine you by just putting my finger into your rectum and checking for any abnormalities’.
I think I said bring it on.
Either way following the snap of a latex glove a chubby finger slip into my freckle. I asked the doctor if we had been properly introduced. I think someone laughed, I am sure it was me but either way the feeling was nothing short of magnificent. I had to stifled a gurgle.
‘Mr. Piqued, as I suspected you have a kidney stone, it has now left your blah blah and is travelling, as we speak down your blah blah, blah…blah.. piss it out in 3 days in pieces after we have radiated you (or something like that).

Cool.

Still creamed off my noggin I decided it was time for a cigarette, temporarily forgetting that I was now wired to a drip and had to push a little trolley from which was suspended saline solution. Basically I went and the little trolley followed wherever I went, sort of like Mary and her little lamb but not as comforting.

I approached Myfwt who had cleared a path for my wheels, standing outside and crying softly at the sight of me. I must have looked pathetic, white and boggled eyed in utter confusion from the outside of me but inside, all was well thank you. I tried to explain this but I think it came out as swearing.

When we got back to the ward I was awarded my very own trolley which was eventually discreetly pushed into a corner where curtains were drawn around me and, to my utter delight, a sleeping Myfwt. I woke up thinking I had done something wrong until the creeping ache around my waste signified another attack of pain. Instead of a lesson in visiting hours the first nurse that saw me smiled and injected another 10mgs of Morphine into my leg, once again delighted with my situation we left our temporary dwellings and wondered off toward the canteen to get some coffee where I relieved myself of a good 35 seconds worth of foul smelling gases. They left making the sound of a slow handclap, which I found to be the funniest thing since that elephant shat on the Blue Peter studio floor.

Needless to say the rest of the events in the hospital are a bit of a muddle, I was put on a ward that coincidentally, I had worked on during my time as an auxiliary nurse whilst studying as an art student. I also remember that I was put into Mr. Dougherty’s old bed who had died of pneumonia about an hour before my shift had finished. At some point in the following afternoon since my initial arrival, Myfwt had to go, her sister was about to have her first child and throughout the whole process she was phoning her on the hour to check up on proceedings. In spite of the regular admissions of Morphine her leaving was nonetheless a severe blow and for the first time I began to get frightened of the impersonal aspect of my surroundings.

That first night on the ward was vaguely unpleasant; one of the patients was snoring at sonic boom level, which caused some of the other patients to randomly shout obscenities. My predicament was worsened by the lights being turned off at 10.30 at least 2 hours before my body clock was due to begin shut down and as a result I began to enter the first stages of a panic attack, even when my night-night dose of Morphine was administered the charm-less nurse stuck the needle in my leg with such force I carried a high intensity bruise for a full month.

The following day Myfwt came to see me, she had spent the night in my flat and her sisters baby was now officially overdue, my brother also dropped by but I have no recollection of his visit. I do, however, remember Myfwt rushing up to tell me that her sisters waters had broken and she rushed off to see the arrival of her niece, Isabella who arrived into the world with some temporary complications at 8lbs.

When in the full woolly grip of the Morphine I have smoky memories of reading motorcycle magazines, endlessly going to the toilet and peeing for what seemed like hours on end and being given injections. I remember every one because they were becoming painful albeit very welcome. I have no real recollection of the rest of that day or that night but I do remember that in the morning of day four I was sent down for tests. There was an issue about the amount of time of my arrival to the actual test but someone else championed this on my behalf, though it may well just have easily been me complaining. Who knows?

The intention was to dye my urinary tract and x-ray the area to identify the location of the rock in my system, this would then be zapped by ultra sound but this was not to be. I was informed that, after lying on my back for 2 hours with the taste of rust in my mouth, the stone had reached the end of its journey at it would come out on its own; I was in all intents and purposes free to leave. I was wheeled back to the ward where I was allowed to eat some ‘matter’, I collected my belongings and made for the nurses station. I informed the nurse that I was off and politely requested a final shot of Morphine for my journey. Without any sense of irony she actually told me to fuck off.

I wandered out into the street, abandoned, out of my brains, weak and extraordinarily confused. I needed a cab but didn’t have the cash or the capacity to figure out how to go about getting one so I found my way to the bus stop. It was only sheer luck that I knew where I was and which bus to take home.

When it finally arrived I was feeling, as I would imagine, like an old man. I felt venerable and confused, my bones clattered together with the smallest quark of movement and every time the dumb suspension of the bus failed to soak up a pothole my teeth shook in my skull. I was also aware of the Morphine beginning to leave my system, it made me anxious and paranoid that the pain was going to return, bearing in mind that that I was in the knowledge that an uncut diamond had been slicing its way through hair sized tubes and was now resting, waiting to exit at the bottom of my guts, I had good reason to assume that more may be lurking within.

Two days later it unceremoniously came out. I was taking a pee and my system sort of shuddered and came to a brief halt during mid flow, there was a gorgeous eye-rolling induced feeling throughout the entire length of my manhood and with an audible ‘ping’ a small perfectly white stone shot out of me, hit the porcelain and disappeared forever into the pan.

I felt purged, cured and concerned that I may see more in due course, I have forced myself to drink more water, the basic preventative solution to stones but have fallen down on the instruction to avoid cheeses and wine. Ever time I get a pain in my side I get a little concerned but when all is said and done it’s hardly a life threatening condition.

Lately I met a woman who in addition to having 2 children had also passed a stone. She told me the pain was just as bad as childbirth, well, I said, at least you get something out of childbirth, something to show for your agony, with kidney stone you get, well, a stone from your kidney.

And Morphine, she said. I nodded in agreement. I suppose after all it wasn’t all that bad.

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fink ployd

I spent yesterday afternoon shadowing some fellow from Dynorod, the boss had fucked off for the afternoon leaving me to make sure that he didn’t do anything common, like drinking tea from a mug with a spoon in it, or eating an uncut sandwich with both hands… it’s rather a wonderful English trait, the innate suspicion the middle classes have for the working classes, really, they’ll steal your silver as soon as knees up muvver brahn. Having said that it cuts both ways, being a bit of both and all that, Squire.

It’s absurdly cold today but again, quite stunning. I do like cold winter mornings when it’s fucking sunny and frosty and shit… You see, I moaned about autumn but maintained that when I was actually in winter I didn’t mind, I’ve just proved it right there. The light is Golden and I’ve not seen so much frost in a year, the whole world seems coated in icing sugar or cocaine depending on your predilections (or speed if you’re working class).

The only pisser about today, apart from the office aspect to it, is that I’m wearing a fucking suit, a black suit with a white shirt, and deliberately obtuse black tie. I look like Mr. Pink off to a funeral, sort of cool but not quite. The reason for this fancy dressery is a drinks do at the BBC this evening to wave some poor fellow off, it sticks a bloody great nail in my evening and I’m anticipating being arseholed by 8, I’m on the fence as to how I feel about that.

Last night was pleasant. Myfwt came over in time to talk on the phone to her sister all the way through Russell Brand on BBC4 doing a sort of documentary about Kerouac’s On the Road, from what I could glean, in between the sisterly guffawing and banter, was that it wasn’t bad at all. Actually, Myfwt isn’t a happy bunny at the mo, some woman at work has taken a dislike to her because she’s essentially walked into a company and turned it round single handedly. Her bosses are ecstatic, her colleagues impressed, save this one jealous co-worker. She’s such a nice person Myfwt, she doesn’t deserve people being horrid to her… I’ve half a mind to go round to her office and kick the horrid lady in the cunt.

After Russell there was a very satisfactory documentary on Pink Floyd. I’ve been a fan from the off, at the same time my auntie gave me Dark Side of the Moon when I was 10 I bought Relics (assuming it would be in the same vain as Dsotm) from Woolies for 99p with my pocket money. Dsotm is relatively easy listening for a youngster over the more experimental early stuff, but I grew to love it dearly and my little brain ‘got’ psychedelia. I’ve no doubt it created a foundation for my adolescence; through it I knew who I was very early on. Even now I still take drugs.

So, in celebration of Pink Floyd, today and tomorrow a tune from both ends of their chronology. I heard this song last night and forgot how fucking good it is, brought a lump to my throat. Self indulgent, even cheesy, fuck it. Listen.

joie de vision

I’d forgotten to mention that I was acutely aware during Thursday’s gig that this would be the last time I could (legally) smoke in a venue. I’ve tickets for motorhead before the fucking ban but as it’s in the Royal Festival Hall smoking isn’t permitted anyway. Indeed, I’m now very aware that I’m on borrowed time as far as smoking in pubs is concerned; it feels like the end of an era approaching. Balls. I hate change.

Another thing, the swervedriver video I posted in Fridays blog, the red motorcycle (it’s a Ducati 900ss) I used to have one of those. It’s a miracle it made it to the end of the video, mine was more unreliable than radiotherapy.

So, what’s been going down this weekend, yeah, well, not much frankly. On Friday afternoon Myfwt came round for a cup of tea and a chat, it was lovely to see her despite her not feeling on top of the game. After a couple of hours she left to do some work, I did some housework which included fucking hovering, a task I despise out of all proportion. I’d decided that due to the previous evening hedonism that I wanted to share a night with the self, I nipped out to get some tobacco and settled in for the evening. At least my carpet no longer looks like Brighton Beach.

I was an unremarkable night but very much needed. I read, started a short poem and watched TV with a few G&T’s, spliffs and roast chicken wallowing in gravy and cooked to perfection roasted potatoes and steamed vegetables. Jools Holland was the highlight of the evening, it has to be said that if you have any passion for contemporary music, there will always be something to tinkle ones fancy, in this instance Wilco, LCD Soundsystems and surprisingly, Joan Armatrading.

I was woken late Saturday morning with a phone call from Myfwt, she was going away for the weekend so I went back to my pit and slept until early afternoon. After a bath and late lunch I spent the afternoon looking at grot on the PC before watching Apollo 13. Early evening I met Frank up the road for a drink. Our usual venue was stuffed full of no neck cropped haired wankers all yelling at a large flatscreen TV, we decided to leave them to it, it’s wonder their knuckles weren’t wearing shoes.

We convened in this bland wine bar cum eatery and were forced to drink fizzy bastard Carling in lieu of man’s ale. At least the place was quiet. Frank and I discussed Joy Division and this http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=2457332 which beggar’s total disbelief. I wandered home after a few pints following a short visit to fucking Tesco, the bane of my consumer life for a bottle of wine and crabsticks that I think I’m addicted to. BBC2 came to my rescue in the form of The Seven Ages of Rock featuring Pink Floyd, Velvet Underground, David Bowie, Genesis and most inappropriately, Roxy Fucking music, or Poxy Music as my dad calls them. What the fuck were they doing there? Utter shit, who did they influence in the 70’s apart from The Yorkshire Ripper, probably. In order to cleanse myself of Brian Fairy and the girls, I bathed in session of progressive rock and metal, which saw me well into the small hours. I went to bed a little squiffy don’t you know.

I was up in time for the Grand Prix on Sunday. Monaco, one of my favourites despite the circuit making overtaking almost impossible. It was an impressive race, if a little samey, due to the two victorious Mclaren’s and the continuation of the remarkable fledgling career of Lewis Hamilton, 19 years old with makings of a world champion, so long as the team orders on Sunday weren’t the thin end of the wedge as far as he and Alonso are concerned. I can tell I’m boring you, I don’t care really. Okay I do.

I met my bro at 5 for a pint at the Sunday usual as he had some dinner appointment with his missus and friends at 7, we drank wine, some quaffable Spanish fare because he’d just had lunch with our folks and had a few glasses on board and didn’t want to mix his poisons. The subject of Poxy Music being on that BBC2 Rockumentary came up, my bro informed me that dad wasn’t impressed either which comes of no surprise. My dad isn’t an aficionado on all things ‘rock’ by the way but he’s fairly well versed in 60’s ‘pop’. I remember when I was about 7 telling him that I thought The Monkees were much better than The Beatles, dad was under the Maxi (he was always under some Leyland design fault in the 70’s) but he downed tools, popped his head out from under the door sill and yelled ‘don’t be so fucking stupid’ so loudly my mum heard him in the back garden. I still think I’m right by the way, fab four my arse, Jerk, Prat, Git and Ringpeice.

It’s worth noting that since Friday evening it’s pretty much been raining constantly. The upshot is that I’ve been forced indoors for virtually the whole weekend and bank holiday, save a few trips to the pub to see Frank and my bro. The flat is now entirely spotless; I’ve even had time to purge my clothing rail. Actually, I’m bored fucking shitless, I especially wanted to take the black bitch out for a ride. On the upside my head has been farting out ideas, I wrote a poem and after an hour of drunken deliberations over a succession of evenings concluded that all art was the subjective manifestation of projected thinking. As I type this it’s Monday afternoon, I’m meeting Frank for a pint in a couple of hours then home to eat and watch a film.

I’ll leave it to Ian and the boys to provide today’s entertainment. (I think Ian may be on drugs, maybe if he’d read that story in the link he’d still be with us today)

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.

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