ages of cock

This week the 7 ages of rock not only managed to make more of a pigs ear than that of the punk program, it also managed to get facts wrong, actually incorrect. I’m fucking livid…

Whilst Black Sabbath did invent heavy metal we didn’t need to know the rest of Ozzy’s career as it’s not pertinent to the genre. To even discuss Motley Crue is an insult, especially when ‘glam’ was invented by the Finnish ban Hanoi Rocks in the early 80’s, despite being told by Julian Rhind-Tutt (what sort of a fucking name is that) the Crue influenced Hanoi! Fucking unbelievable! I’ll tell you this, a little bit of info they didn’t mention, Vince Neil, the fat Crue frontman, killed Hanoi’s drummer Razzle in a drink driving incident… That’s the only way Crue influenced anyone.

The Judas Priest stuff was barely relevant outside of the duel lead guitar stuff and maybe the idiocies that surrounded the prosecution for subliminal lyrics that resulted in the death of what Bill Hicks called the last garage attendants in the world. Metallica were featured but they didn’t kick the genre off by any means, Venom, even Motorhead, were way before Metallica ever got a record deal. To not mention at least one is ignorant, to not mention fucking either has prompted me to write a letter to the BBC.

I’m not going to write a list of who should’ve been mentioned but it’s worth noting that no attention was paid at all to nu-metal. Kick started when rap and thrash collided it prompted a seismic shift in how ‘metal’ was perceived and encouraged an entirely fresh fan base. Nor did it mention any of the crucial sub-genres, death metal, grindcore, battlemetal… the programme was a fucking disgrace, an insult to fan and musician alike.

The Moto GP yesterday was the reverse, some of the best racing I’ve ever, ever seen. You didn’t see it, you missed out. Stunning.

The weekend was very busy, a few beers with a mate form work in a walled beer garden in Tooting on Friday followed by a few cans and food in front of the box, namely Big Brother, a review in Watch With Mothers (link right of the page awaits you). Saturday I food shopped and started playing Tomb Raider in the afternoon, and here marks the beginning of the end of my summer. It’s fantastic, addictive and will serve me well this week when I have an alcohol free. I decided to spend Saturday in with Lara, made a pile of food, spoke to Myfwt, smoked skunk, more beer cans (I’m still saying off the wine and generally drinking less) and watched a ridiculous film, The Butterfly Effect, which I enjoyed way more than I should.

Yesterday morning I got up, burped the worm, ate a kipper before getting into my van to drive in to Soho. It was a blisteringly hot day, humid to boot and the last place I wanted to be was in the cabin of a vehicle stick firstly in Tooting, then Vauxhall, then the West End prior to getting fucking pissed about by roadwork’s and one-way street signs as I attempted to crack Greek Street. I was driving around, or rather, being sucked through London in a giant grid-lock, every option in my repertoire of navigation was halted by circumstance until I took the decision to illegally drive up Oxford Street and dive down Dean to finally meet my brother. I’d been screaming at him down the phone as I’d become increasingly incensed by having to spend my Sunday driving around tiny streets in a fucking van (I wanted to be on Box Hill with my black bitch) nonetheless he was pleased I’d finally arrived.

Me, him and his missus loaded a bunch of furniture into the guts of my van and I drove them back to Clapham, we unloaded the bloody van and I fucked off to my folks. The MOT on the white sod is due Friday, my dad is going to sort it for me which is fucking ace of him. It’d better pass; I need the bloody thing for Glastonbury in 10 days.

I took the train and bus back to Clapham where I finally met my bro in our usual Sunday boozer. He was a little flat initially but perked up eventually, we had 3 pints and a chaser and went our merry way. It was a glorious evening, the proper summer stuff and I was feeling quite pissed. The cutting back on drinking is making getting pissed more overt. This can only be a good thing?

hairy aunt flo

I met up with Frank in the pub last night, a little later than usual but enough time to stuff a pair of pints down. The weather had improved considerably, whilst not warm it was bright and comfortable, I walked briskly home, I was a man on a mission.

I had enough time to shower, prepare the Dijon and parsley sauce for the broccoli and whack some sausages in the oven before sitting down to the launch of Big Brother. I’m not going to fuck about here, I’m a massive fan, have been from its inauguration, it’s voyeuristic, cruel, funny, moving and there is always a good chance of the unexpected. I will go as far to say that I’m sick to the back teeth of those that moan about how much they hate it for a few weeks then suddenly they’re reborn into BB experts who will aggressively refute your opinions on the matter, despite your additional time and effort in getting to understand vital character nuances.

I would now like to draw you attention to the Watch With Mothers link (on the right) where you can review the opener to the 2007 show, it’s going to be a beauty.

After yesterdays abstinence on the booze I behaved myself by consuming only 2 small can of piss weak lager, I intend to attempt to keep the booze in some sort of order, until Glastonbury at least. Subsequently I was in the right frame of mind to write the WWM review and after some neck clawing moments of pc frustration following the show and managed to post the fucking thing last night before going to bed.

Cycled in today, the pathway at the end of the trip is now almost totally overgrown which causes mammals to leap out at you and birds to suddenly flap about in your face. I don’t like nature so close to me; especially the clouds of midges that seem determined to hatch eggs in my earholes. Despite this I intend to keep up the good work, punishing as it is.

It’s the last day of the month and I have some proper work to do, apologies for the short blog but I’m spent on doing the BB rant. It’s really nasty by the way…

To counter it, and to show that hey, I’m a nice guy yeah, I’ve posted a special you tube link. I expect complaints but I fucking love this

jizzerz

In the pub last night Frank, James and I were discussing the less tasteful aspects of pornography, that is an oxymoron of course, all pornography is distasteful but there is a vast chasm of filth between naked ladies showing their bottoms and the hilarious copraphilia, say. Anyway, we were giggling like naughty little schoolboys at the absurdity of it all when the subject of Bukkake came up. Unanimously none of us got it, or rather, we failed to see who gets what out of it.

When a gentleman has finished polishing the brasswear following a visit to the grumble pages contained within the information superhighway, there is always that degree of mild, well, shame. Like you can see yourself from afar, flaccid nob resting on your leg, as one clings onto a soiled bit of paper with ones genetic name all spunked over it. It’s humbling experience we all agreed as we supped our Welton’s, indeed, most (normal) gentlemen reading this will understand this…

In the case of Bukkake we can assume that the recipient of what amounts to be at least a bucket of wallpaper paste right in the face is either, I should imagine, a. deranged b. desperate c. egomaniacal. Not being a woman I will spare you further conjecture, my drinking companions were equally as baffled. But what of the men? I mean who decides to stand about with a load of other chaps tossing the salad for the sole purpose of relieving oneself in unison in the face of a stranger? How does one get a job like that? Is it advertised in the small ads or are the spunkists yanked off the street by men missing little fingers and ordered to perform on pain of death, you know, use it or lose it type thing.

Crucially to our conversation, what happens after the act has taken place? Does one try and make polite conversation, perhaps suggest hair products to the glazed recipient of a wall of jitler ‘Oooh, have you tried Studio Line by L’Oreal, that’s right good for getting wadge out of the roots’, offer her a tissue? Some tissue, I mean? What do you tell your mates down the pub what you’ve up to? Can you look you mum in the eye? Is there life on Mars?

Baffled, we pondered this matter for while prior to discussing the 7 Ages of Rock (and fucking Poxy Music), which was a lot less complicated, though perhaps not as funny.

Last night was as dull as dishwater after the pub, I couldn’t be arsed to cook so I ate a vast quantity of smoked salmon and cream cheese. I made it through ‘Paul Merton in China’ which seems to have turned into ‘Paul Merton tries his hand at observational comedy in China’. It’s not working but its still engaging enough I suppose. I cheered myself up with ‘The Pledge’, Jack Nicolson has never been better but the cost of watching this thoroughly miserable slice of excellence doesn’t inspire one to get down and boogie. I went to bed feeling flat, especially as I was aware that I’d be in fucking work the following day.

And here I am, ta da! I love my job, really, I really reelly relli do

black night

It’s rather spiffing when one is looking forward to an evening and it ends up as a classic. After a rather pithy day in the office I cycled home full of good spirits, I’d had a jolly chat with Myfwt, Jim had e-mailed me to tell me he was already waiting at the flat and after a quick change at home we were just about to get into the tube when I got a call from Ray. I’d not from him in a while but as soon as his number appeared it was obvious that we were both heading in the same direction, he too had succumbed to the whole goth thing in the 80’s and had figured out that I was going. We arranged to meet at The (new) Intrepid Fox in a couple of hours

I’d already made plans to meet pals at The Two Brewers on Monmouth street so at precisely 6.10 I met Gee and Rick, who’d just arrived, and bumped into Swinsehead as I went to the bar. It was a glorious warm evening, if a little muggy, but stood on the street with a pint watching the passing throngs going about their business I could actually feel my self unwinding. A friend of a friend passed by and I grabbed him to say thanks for the book he’d kindly signed and given to me, he’s currently enjoying an acting role in a nearby theatre but to say anymore would be indiscreet. Nice bloke.

We had a couple of pints at The Brewers and made our way to The Fox, needless to say it was rammed with just the crowd I’d expected, largely middle aged men, a few gothy chicks and all still maintaining something of the you-wouldn’t-understand-if-you-don’t-know about them; wall to wall black, piercings tattoos, it felt like coming home. Essentially, it felt 20 years ago. Beautiful.

We were joined by one of Gee’s mates, Justin, he runs a nightclub in Surrey (I can assure you it’s not as shit as it sounds) and is good pals with members of Hawkwind, I liked him instantly. By this time the pints were going down nicely and the crowd had begun to thin to catch the support act, slowly the black faded and the usual ‘metal’ punters began to diffuse the absence of colour.

Ray arrived with his boss who immediately bumped into some of his friends, who, coincidentally, Justin knew. Even more coincidental, I popped on a Cardiacs youtube link last week and one of them was the guitarist from the band. Everyone was introduced to everyone else; there were now 9 of us.

We arrived at the Astoria just as The Fields of The Nephilim took the stage, Ray got me a beer and I began yelling at the exact same moment Myfwt texted to wish me a good evening and to not get shouty, as is my want. The band began sedately, a little to quiet for my ravaged ears before kicking off into their main set. It was fucking hot in there, sweat was pouring off the crowd, it was a sold out gig and the place was rammed solid much to the detriment of getting a good view. Our group disbanded into individuals and couples vying for a good spot, I found a super platform on the stairs to the bogs until Jim found me and ushered me upstairs to a prime location on the balcony. We bumped into a gild who’d flown alone from Dan Diego just to see the band, it was her first trip to London, she was flying back the following day. I only mention this to give some idea of the impact the band has had on some of its fans. Largely the crowd were congenial and polite most probably due to age, despite that the atmosphere was intense. The closing number was the best, a swirling, gliding drone that had a hypnotic quality; it was one of the best numbers I’ve seen performed by any band anywhere. By this time the volume was immense, my trousers were vibrating to the bass and I could feel the chorus in my chest.

After the gig we convened on the street and wandered over to The George for a closing pint. It was still very muggy but a relief to be out of the venue which by the end was like the Persian Gulf. The 9 of us stood about chatting, I was texted by a friend who wanted to know the band personification of ‘shoegazing’. This resulted in a ludicrous and hilarious 5-minute conversation of grown men shouting over each other. We settled on Ride.

When it was time to go Jim and I were half cut, as were my friends. I left Gee grinning at me from the entrance to the pub clutching yet another full pint. Both Gee and Jim are married with kids so when they do get a chance to get out, neither wastes it. We got off the tube at Tooting, Jim and I were ravenous but it being Thursday and after midnight the decent fast food outlets were shut so we had to opt for snacks from fucking Tesco. We didn’t drink anymore when we got back, a cup of tea and a spliff, which wiped Jim out completely, and he crashed out fully clothed in my bed.

Jim and I have always slept together since we were 17, neither of us is remotely known to doff the brown hat I hasten to add, it’s just the way it is. I woke up to the dulcet tones of Jim having a good old spit up in the bathroom, when he came back to bed he smelt exactly like aromatic pipe tobacco. His heart was racing and he was feeling shitter than dung, he put this down to over indulgence, I put it squarely at the feet of eating 3 cheap Cornish Pasties, two bags of Revels and most of a large bag of cheese balls prior to sleeping. He was just about okay when he set off and I ran a fucking massive bath before sitting down to write this crap.

Myfwt is popping over in a minute, it’s another warm bright day and I’m feeling just fine.

Today’s youtube clip is in memory of Rod Poole of Swervedriver who was murdered in LA last week. Bye dude

petit holiday

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…

wide awake

I’m bloody shattered. I’m not sure if its down to my viewing of the fucking Blair Witch Project last week but I have been waking up at precisely 3.45 for every night this week save Sunday, which is the night I had to witness a nightmare, and was the only night that waking up at 3.45 would’ve been helpful.

The thing is that as soon as I’m awake I’m aware in that semi-conscious fog between the state of being asleep and awake (the part that the surrealists get wood about) that I am, and the mind starts racing until I’m actually awake, the whole blinking-in-the-dark-feeling-frankly-pissed-off awake.

My attempts to return to sleep consist of various tried and tested sleeping positions. Covering oneself but leaving one limb out of the duvet until it’s stone cold is oddly effective when the cold limb is brought home, similarly, lying on ones side with ones bare back exposed and hugging a wadge of duvet prior to returning to the classic side position can also do the trick. Since my disc slipped I’ve been unable to sleep on my front and feel that my sleeping has subsequently suffered, thanks back, yeah.

Anyway, none of these methods worked so I remained awake for about 2 christing hours as the sun came up, dozed off until 7.15, woke up and then fell asleep again, I was subsequently late on my refusing to get out of my pit.

After my rather splendid cycle home yesterday I dumped the bike, changed and set out. It was a glorious evening, perfect actually. I arrived at the boozer on Clapham Common a minute after my brother and we chatted to one of our pals who works behind the bar before heading off to sit by the window and watch the world go by as we sipped on Grolsch. My brother was shattered but after a pint, a chat with his missus that coincided with a call from Myfwt he got a second wind and we were off. We spent the evening discussing that Rock programme on BBC, Alan Partridge and Glastonbury, which is coming sooner than I’d realised. After 4 pints I was feeling unusually pissed, possibly due to a light lunch yet my bro blackmailed me into a whisky and ginger, which I wolfed down. After much giggling we went our separate ways and I arrived home seconds away from doing tinkle in my pants.

I’m not hangover today but I am knackered due to the lack of sleep, to add insult to injury I’ve a horrifically busy day, which is why today’s offing is somewhat short. I’ve two interviews, an important meeting and a stressed boss to contend with… it’s a lovely day though.

In the meantime, these young men cropped up in conversation last night. They look rather peculiar but make lovely noises. Turn it up.

Thanks

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.

lost in music

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

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