Category Archives: piqued

a new man

It’s a testament to the mildness of the weekend that I should be so surprised how cold it is today, I mean, it’s still fucking January after all but this morning it seemed colder than Captain Scott’s gaping maw. Not that I saw much of the weather this weekend, on Sunday I didn’t leave the flat, I didn’t get up until 6pm and that was only because I figured that unless I was vertical for at least a portion of the day, sleep might not happen later.

The black bitch doesn’t like this sort of weather and she squarked reluctantly into life this morning. As I rode in to work I past by the various landmarks of my weekend yearning for what was. It’s the most awful thing to do, dwell on what has recently past in the futile hope that you’ll be somehow whisked back to a particular moment in time all pissed up with two lie-ins ahead…

In lieu of being able to physically move there, let’s us take a journey back in time to Friday, sat in this very same spot as I type, shutting down my computer, getting on my bike clobber and leaving to get back home and change. Shortly after that Gee and I met in the usual and we were joined by Frank and his missus for a 3-pint debrief before heading off on the tube to Brixton. We decided that we had enough time to have a quick pint before Korn came on stage at a pub called The Goose. I’m only mentioning this because I’ve never ever been to a place that stunk as much as this. It wasn’t so much as revolting as extraordinary; the gents toilets were so dense with ammonia it was virtually impossible to actually breathe. Hyperbole aside this one, so bad was it that when I eventually did get home I put my Converse and my jeans straight in the wash… Gee and I sunk our drinks in under 5 mins and we went to the Academy. We had a couple in the bar with some of Gee’s friends and Gee noticed that Gary Numan was wandering about within metres of us. I’m fairly sure I’ve mentioned in a previous Piqued that he and I have a history, I met him once a long long time ago, I’d taken it on myself to sit behind him and perform a sarcastic rendition of ‘Cars’ and he asked if I’d ‘like a fucking medal’ -I was 14 and acting as a runner for a one off bank holiday telly show special called Names and Games. Twenty-five years on I walked up to Numan and mentioned the incident, in addition to remembering doing the show, he remembered a rude little sod taking the piss out of him, I took it upon myself to apologise for my precocious behaviour, he found the whole thing rather funny, in not a little surreal, and we shook hands. I’d been atoned.

Shortly after Korn appeared. The atmosphere was strangely restrained, I’m fairly sure the gig hadn’t sold-out because I was able to move without too much problem and whilst the band we right up to scratch, they were too quiet. I’m now sure of one of two things (bearing in mind I have had my ears cleaned lately) that some sort of health and safety shit has been slipped by requiring the volume to be substantially compromised or that cigarette smoke acted as some kind of molecular sound accelerant. We took the tube back to Tooting, grabbed a kebab each, returned home and rocked out with a tin or two of beer. I think we put in a 3am or so?

Either way I was awake by 11-ish feeling strangely okay, probably because I’d stuck to beer and eaten late. I ate breakfast / lunch (a splendid kipper with loads of toast) and undertook the usual Friday hell to the fucking shops. I took a long sobering bath and prepared myself for the evening, Myfwt bro-in-law 40th Birthday at a Brasserie in Wandsworth. Myfwt came over at about 6 and we got ready for the evening, we took a cab to the venue and were plied with champagne and canapés on arrival, both delicious. I knew quite a lot of Myfwt family but hadn’t seen some in years. I slipped into proceedings like a seasoned pro and did the rounds, ending on a table with a chap who I’d met a few years ago and another fellow from San Francisco who was big in the film industry (but without all the attitude I hasten to add). The former fellow had been a drummer in a punk band and had supported The Subhumans back in the day, which served to lubricate our already enthusiastic chitchat. Despite my initial trepidation of having to meet lots of family members and strangers the evening was a triumph and Myfwt and I wobbled home after many long goodbyes.

Myfwt and I returned home and drunk a bottle of Moet that I’d had lying around from some work do and we went to bed blowing bubbles. This should go some way to explaining why Sunday was somewhat subdued.

Gee has just called me, we were discussing Ministry in the small hours on Saturday morning and wondering when they may be playing, lo and behold dates have just been published. It’s small world isn’t it, but I wouldn’t like to paint it.


gravy

The cycle into work was vaguely pleasant, bright warm sunshine, twittering birds, deep green trees and shrubs, clear blue skies…little pedal effort was required and despite the inevitable cough-up mid way I was surprised how well I’d faired.

Sat here in work now the molecule of cheer has dissolved into the usual humdrum stress. The only pressure in here is the pressure one puts on oneself, or rather the pressure of not having the work coming in at all and the subsequent fiscal negativity.

Last night I met up with Frank for a few Bombardiers. We were both quite knackered; Frank was suffering from fizzy gutmud and was forced to empty his back mid pint, he returned to our table with a tangible air of relief. After discussing the Blair Witch Project with regard to Saturday night I wandered home under the grey sky and on arrival bathed prior to preparing roast chicken breast, potatoes, sausage and steamed broccoli. Using old-fashioned Bisto I made a fucking wonderful gravy that was so delicious I ate the entire meal with a heavy dick.

Oddly the meal injected some energy into my aching limbs and my old pal OCD arrived on my shoulder and suggested I cleaned the bathroom, indeed, I should tackle the bath itself with its inherent ring of greasy slurry at the water line, this was going to be tough. No problem, due to the fucking roast and mania the job was declared a success after nearly 10 frantic minutes. It’s now the cleanest object in the world; you could perform open-heart surgery in it without so much a passing thought to all that sterilisation bollocks.

Just had a quick chat with the boss abut a potential new job and an interesting conversation cropped up. He arrived today in his TVR and to make pleasantries I recalled the largely boring story of Sundays Subaru episode. He seemed initially amused and then his features began to look a little anxious, a bit cross, even.

All of a sudden I was informed that some of my biker ‘colleagues’ could be utter arseholes. I took the criticism with a certain degree of offence but allowed him to continue. It transpires that on the same Sunday I was blasting over the Surrey downs, he was too, in his TVR (though) and a biker pulled in front of him, slowed down and started weaving as he gave my boss the finger. My boss was moaning about his behaviour and asking me what he thought he was playing at.

For the sake of my job I diplomatically expressed my disbelief at the attitude of my brethren, though I knew precisely what had happened. It’s common practice when a motorist has at some point tried to kill you, whether it be unwittingly or with malice, the classic ‘weave and gesture’ response is undertaken as a matter of course, prior to suddenly riding off in an explosion of testosterone fuelled machismo. Should you ever be on the receiving end ‘weave and gesture’ just simply accept that you’ve nearly been responsible for an unnecessary death and take it on the chin. Graciously bow at the biker, for he merely expressing his displeasure at your appalling driving. Indeed, learn from him for he is wiser and betterer than ye.

Christ I’m bored.

(This is one of the first songs I can remember, I even recall my dad telling me to listen to the backing without having any clue of what he was banging on about)