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…
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)
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.
I managed to get to Fopp records at just the right time. The hairy arsehole on the door had told me The Idler event was full to capacity, I curtly informed him I was on the guest list (I’ve no idea if I was) and in I went, instantly bumping in to a newly married Den. Perfect.
The first band on were The Rubbish Men of Soho, who were deliberately shit, the joke wore off after 15 seconds and Den and I went out for a fag. In the small courtyard behind Fopp half the guests were huddled in groups drinking and smoking, the atmosphere was far more congenial and within seconds Den and I were besieged by old familiar faces and I was introduced to the ones that weren’t.
We retuned to the bar where Den was in the superb position of not having to pay for his drinks, the gratuity was passed on to yours truly. Air Hammer, who I was informed was a classically trained opera singer, was a one man band, a cross between Lee Evans and Dennis Pennis with a guitar, it started well at least. The headline act were Zodiac Mindwarp and The Love Reaction. Way back in the late 80’s this outfit made a bit of a stir in my little group, Zody himself was the crush choice for most of my girlfriends and I was a fan too, of the music I hasten to add, I’m not a good listener… They put on a sterling show, they must be in their 50’s now but he’s still got it, even stripped to the waste on Prime Mover he didn’t look like he was a man facing a bus pass application in a few years. After the show I introduced myself to Cobalt Stargazer, the guitarist, who was drinking 2 beers by the stage, he didn’t seem too keen on making chitchat, but I persevered and impressed him with my tale of the trip to Durham high security prison to meet a mate who’d beaten his wife’s lover to death with a lamp stand, purely because he was a Glaswegian and my incarcerated mate was from Fife.
Den and I hooked up with chaps from The Chap and an illustrator in fantastic heels and we all fucked off to Soho. Somehow Den and I engaged in deep discussion lost our companions, Den invited me to The Groucho for a bit of peace and quiet and a chance to continue our chat undisturbed. I bumped into a former member of the Jesus and Mary Chain following a much needed shit in the toilets and being subsequently lost in the labyrinthine mess of stairs and corridors, who joined us with a couple of charming Cambridge university students who were already up to their necks in daring do.
Den left at about 11.30 and I followed shortly after as I didn’t want the expense of a cab. I rushed down Dean Street and got to Oxford Circus in the nick of time. The fucking tube was packed solid and after being made to wait at Stockwell for what seemed like a lifetime, my teeth now floating from all the beer and wine. On the platform a thin tattooed girl with haunted eyes was playing the violin with enormous skill, clearly classically trained and with an addiction to narcotics I was transfixed by her, I even gave her money muttering, ‘I’m patronising you giving change, but so be it’. She smiled weakly, I moved clear.
I arrived home at 12.30 hungry and, probably, stinking to high heaven. I resolved both and hit the hay at sometime after 1am.
I arrived to work on public transport this morning as there are after work drinks for a departing member of staff and a myriad of options follow, all of which require me to not be aboard my black bitch.
Todays offing is appropriate, in fact Den has asked me to take his wife when they play at the RFH, I’m sure Myfwt would like to come too…
It’s not raining today by the way, in fact it’s fucking sunny
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
I fucking hate banks, I spent over half an hour in one yesterday lunchtime trying to transfer money into my brother’s account. They wouldn’t do it over the phone and I was told that in order to complete the transaction I had to bring along my passport, a utility bill, driving licence, birth certificate, medical records, last bowel movement, plaster cast of my dads cock…It took fucking half an hour and I had to pay £24 for the pleasure of shifting MY fucking hard earned from one place to another. Wankers.
Following this rather unpleasant experience, I had to attend a meeting in the afternoon with a fucking huge music organisation, as I work for another fucking huge music organisation these things happen from time to time. I was meeting primarily to supply confidential information to the client, information that they really, really wanted, which isn’t too bad a job I suppose…
The only downside is that at some point certain costs need to negotiated and it’s from here I turn from the witty congenial fellow you all know and love, into a (perceived) hard nosed bullshitting high-roller who’d film himself pooing into Ronnie Barkers dead mouth if he thought it would earn him an extra couple of quid. Truth is I hate negotiating, if I like the client I’ll make the best offer I can even if I’m losing money in the process. Of course I’m still viewed as if I shot Jill Dando and fiddled with her mimsy before running off. You can’t win. I hate my job.
By means of cleansing myself from the false encounter of meeting a client, a plastic relationship if ever there was one, I took myself off to an exhibition. I was aware that the Hunter S Thompson collection of photographs at The Michael Hoppen gallery was due to close in a couple of weeks and had promised myself to go. Unfortunately the opening hours meant I’d have to take a day off, but by arranging my meeting mid afternoon and telling my colleagues I wouldn’t be back, I knew I could easily make it to the meeting, the gallery and be home at the usual time.
Despite having to motorcycle there in the pissing rain and not being entirely sure of the exact exit off the King’s Road, I eventually arrived at the venue after screaming for directions from the crevice in my visor. Though few, the photographs were sensational, if you don’t know who Dr. Thompson is, or rather, was, you’re obviously a cunt, but you’re forgiven for not knowing that he was a superb photographer…I felt sated on leaving and despite having to bike back in a really heavy pissing rain –and the lack of engine braking mentioned a few blogs back- I arrived home in excellent spirits.
I changed out of my sopping motorcycle gear (though I was as dry as a bone) and prepared myself to meet my mate from up the road in the pub. A jolly time we had too, despite his reminding me of a short story I was supposed to have completed, I toddled off home feeling refreshed and still enjoying the afterglow of the days various gains even if some were resolved by attrition.
Later in the evening, pondering on the Thompson exhibition with a bottle of wine and a spliff in my drawing room if you fucking please, I turned my mind toward the short story proposed by my mate. And fuck my old boots, within a minute the whole cunting thing spewed forth and it was done.
It now requires it to be physically written of course but, dear reader, is that not the fun part?
(the answer is ‘yes’ by the way)
Tonight, drinking with Swineshead, linked to the right of this page. I hope he doesn’t do what he did last time as it was disgraceful.
futile screamings from a git 