Category Archives: Prol Pizza

double dutch

I think this is a world record. Yes, pretty sure that the weekend has gone the fastest ever, it seems like only a few hours ago I was sat in front of Jools utterly captivated, all misty eyed, enraptured.

Frank and I had had a couple of pints in the boozer we have to default to in times of Rugby and Football nonsense, in this instance his missus was out on a jolly with her girlfriends and he felt it best to stay clear, wisely. Frank was a bit stressed out when he arrived due to an exhausting week but by the time we parted we were both in good cheer. I nipped home and prepared supper at about the same time Myfwt strolled in. Glasses were raised over a sensational seafood wrap that I made from scratch and than, quite bizarrely, Myfwt went out of the room to make a phone call to her pal Patty, and arrived back 4 fucking hours later after much guffawing from the kitchen.

No matter, I quietly imbibed with my headphones. British Sea Power were due on Jools, an act I’m pleased to say made their debut on Piqued a couple of weeks ago. They were sensational, even Jools looked a bit unsteady on his pins after due to the sheer exhilaration of loaded euphoric sound. Not even , who I must say hasn’t really done it for me in the past, couldn’t quite trump them. I have to say he made a sterling effort though… I really enjoyed his International Playboy wotnot…actually, one thing I’d like to say at this point. I noticed that Morrissey’s act had balls because he was singing over a wadge of distorted guitars, pounding drums and thundering bass, not tinny, whiny breezes of corrugated air (appropo The Smiths) but fucking hard, heavy rock -they all come round in the end.

Saturday began late, after a breakfast of bacon sandwiches I dashed round Sainsbury like I was ablaze (quick mention of my commiserations to Camden, glad no known was hurt. Crying shame though). Myfwt met me at home and we drove to Marylebone as I’d an appointment with a hairdresser. Fed up with me having my entire face obscured by a gargantuan stack of keratin she’d arranged and agreed to pay for the appointment. The hairdresser was actually quite good, I’m vaguely pleased with the result but have no more to say on the matter. We arrived home after 8 and I popped up the road to meet James for a couple of sherberts, it’s been a while since I’d seen him so it was jolly good to catch up, he, like me, is in the process of moving. An awful business with potentially splendid rewards. I got home and made prol pizza and squandered the rest of the evening burping and drinking beer in front of an excellent programme about Stiff records, look out for some samples this week (but not today).

I got up at lunchtime and ate kippers with toast, Myfwt was already half way to Berkshire to visit her niece and nephew and I was preparing myself to do the same. It was the first proper bike-friendly day of the year, mild, sunny and wholly wrong for mid February. I fucked off out of London like a man possessed, I was actually yelling under my helmet due to sheer exhilaration; let this act as a symptom of my irresponsibility. I arrived at my folks in record time gurgling like an idiot.

After a few cups of tea and a chat, I headed out into darkest Surrey to visit my sister, bro in law and niece, who I’ve not seen in over a month. She now has fucking teeth and has got all interested in spoons and cups, she’s all chuckles and wind, and has got a thing for leather… she wouldn’t leave my leather trousers alone, after clawing at my knee pad she started to gently bite it, pat it before vomiting all over it following a protracted grunt.
After a jolly few hours I headed home. The traffic wasn’t too bad, it would seem that most of London hadn’t taken advantage of the unseasonably clement weather, much to my delight.

The weekend ended as it had begun, Frank and I hooked up the boozer for a pair of ales. I was home before Myfwt got back from seeing her family, when she arrived it was late so we poured a couple of g&t’s and watched TV in bed. We accidentally began watching Graham Swifts Last Orders with the intention of turning in before midnight. No such luck, we couldn’t stop, it’s flawed but with a cast like that, only a twat would’ve switched off.

My Black Bitch is going to have to go to bike hospital tomorrow. I’m worried sick.

…but for now, it’s metal Monday (metal no booze Monday, bah)


When I was a kid we used to holiday up t’North, which involved the inevitable drive from London, upwards. My parents enjoyed the popular beats of radio 1; being the (late) 70’s chart music wasn’t too bad and regular sing-a-longs would evolve as the city slunk away into the distance. One such day we were singing along to Roxanne by The Police and I asked my dad about the ‘red light’ bit (this anecdote isn’t going anywhere by the way) and he told me about the association of the red light to hookers (I already knew about hookers from the bible, which isn’t right really) and I remember thinking about the song thus:
‘Let me just switch this on…’
‘Roxanne, you don’t HAVE to do that, it’s me, Sting’
‘Ooops, sorry, I forgot –let’s do it, Sting. No charge of course, er, big boy’
‘yes, okay’.

I’m only mentioning all of this because late last night on BBC4 there was a sort of Police documentary compiled from footage shot by the founder member and drummer par excellence Stuart Copeland. What was abundantly clear from the outset was that Copeland and Summers were both quietly talented but Sting was always going to be a berk. I mean there was even footage of him wearing baggy lemon coloured trousers, the tosser, it was 1979 for crying out loud… Anyway, it was as dull as fucking toejam.

Yesterday had gone smoothly at work, despite the bastard coffee machine dying in the morning and I rushed back home, just as I did last Wednesday, in order to catch the tube to town. I met Swineshead (SH) outside a boozer in Holborn, it was our intended hostelry but was packed solid so we were forced elsewhere, not a massive problem in central London. Once established in a place near Covent Garden we drunk in earnest, pausing every 10 minutes to nip outside for a tab. After 5 or so pints and much backslapping we went our separate ways.

In the course of the evenings drinking I’d broken my beer bladder relatively lately, despite taking the last two leaks minutes apart, by the time I got on the tube at Leicester Square I was piss-pregnant. I knew that I was going to have to get off at Waterloo to micturate, Myfwt was waiting at home and I was already about 30 minutes late. At Waterloo I called her to explain my predicament and took a massive tinkle out which was eyeball rollingly excellent. I returned to the tube which for some reason was so packed I was forced to stand and I finally arrived home just after 10, Myfwt having made me pizza, bless her, none of that Prol Pizza *winks* stuff neither and ready with a glass of wine.

The rest of the evening is fairly predictable, the wine got drunk, as did I and I went to bed at about 1am following a session of groping about in the dark trying to locate my fucking shoelaces. Today I am hungover and exhausted.

One last thing, why does Sting sing with that foreign accent? And why is he called Sting… The tit. I need some aspirin.