Category Archives: price of freedom


Andrea made us a sensational lunch. That’s right. Sounds fucking poncy doesn’t it. It’s been some time since I’ve actually sat down and eaten Sunday lunch and it was a stark reminder of what I’d been missing. We started with two types of pate (they were exceptional) with date and walnut toast and Swiss Chard on the side, but the main course was beyond expectation. Pork belly with creamed mash and pickled red cabbage and kale, the pig was cooked to perfection and it was devoured in virtual silence save the moans of delight and the crackle of perfectly cooked skin from our host, Myfwt, JM and his missus and yours truly.

After a few glasses of wine, literally, we set off early evening to make our way home. When we arrived back Myfwt (who’d driven there and back) asked for a glass of wine and I resigned myself to the hangover I have now -it wasn’t aided by a string of Alan Partridges on Dave and The Bourne Supremacy on much later. Actually, the ‘overs not that bad but I’m putting in a booze free tonight and contemplating a two day abstinence drive on Wednesday and Thursday so I’m clearly guilty about my having indulged (and partially getting away with it).

To be frank I wasn’t expecting the weekend to be as congenial as it was. I left work on Friday in a fairly poor frame of mind without any plans for the evening. I didn’t mind this incidentally, it just meant Friday would be a non-event of sorts, but I usually find a way of injecting some sort exuberant ‘other’ into proceedings. Then I had a result, Frank and his missus were about and Myfwt was coming back later as well. Unfortunately the latter development ended in a moody silence on account of my being a bit of a tit, nothing specific, just a general twatishness on my part.

The cold shoulder remained in place until mid morning when it instantly vanished. She had an appointment at the hairdressers and the chap whose being cutting her barnet for the last few years was obviously batting for team Piqued. She called up and said some nice stuff and came back home after lunch looking all lovely.

We had an appointment with an estate agent in Clapham to view a 3 bedroomed ex council place. It was a non starter from the off, I didn’t like the little cunts kicking a football in the car park with no regard to the vehicles parked therein –I had visions of them booting the ball into my Black Bitch and being carted off by the police whilst one of them lay screaming on the ground with a broken arm- and the actual flat was bizarrely minute despite having 3 decent sized bedrooms. The agent was a decent enough fellow, Myfwt felt sorry for him because he was flamboyantly driving a Porsche Boxster that wasn’t his, the number plate bore the initials of the estate agency, apparently this because the best agent gets to drive the bosses car. After flatly turning down the property we went back to the agents office in order to see the details for some other places, all rather dull, save one that caused Myfwt and I so much excitement we insisted we viewed the place right there and then.

The property was in a converted gothic Church in its own grounds next to a large common near Wandsworth. We drove up to it via a long private road; it was like something out of Brideshead Revisited but not as gay and parked on the gravel by a huge Howard Oak which was home to a multitude of songbirds. It was like being in the countryside yet we were in the middle of Sarf Landan. We entered the property via huge wooden door, the sort of door undead creatures use to access corseted young ladies with heaving busts, and walked up a stone staircase to gain entry to the flat.

The place was magnificent, In the middle of the behemoth space downstairs was an open fire and on one side a large living area and the other a vast kitchen, it was two stories high inside with a huge mezzanine deck halfway up accessed by a tall spiral staircase. Everything was finished to the highest spec, and despite being just outside our budget we were both awestruck, indeed, I don’t think either of us had been that seduced by a place before. We interrogated the estate agent for information, residents had access to all the grounds which included it’s own bar and restaurant, 2 courtyards with playing fountains… it was all good too to be true, it was indeed. The killer blow came at the end. 75 years left on the lease which was up for renewal on the instruction of the freeholders solicitor, there was 20k right there. Maintenance was 2k a year and the tenant was liable for any building works undertaken… Hairy fuck arses we thought driving away from our destiny.

Though it’s not as simple as that, we’ve told the estate agent that if the vendor sorts the lease (he bought it with a short lease, I don’t see why we should be held responsible his decision to purchase a place under such circumstances) and is prepared to negotiate further on the price… well you never know. We spent a lot of Saturday night discussing it over posh fish and chips procured from a shop patronised by Ainsley Harriet of all people. Indeed, he was stood right next to us in the queue to pay.

I can confirm that Ainsley has a fucking enormous tongue; the man could lick his own nipples if he wished. You heard it first on Piqued.

I’d like to welcome to the world Jamie’s second ‘beast’ as he called it, little fella by the name of, well, lets just call him Red.

It’s Monday, Monday means thrash metal whilst driving in a car