Category Archives: radio 4


There are many negative sides to not drinking, many. If you ask me there are plenty more reasons to drink than not, but my liver might have something to say about this, indeed, my liver has convinced my brain to take not just one day off from drinking a week but two. This is all very positive in one respect, but in others, it’s horrific.

Apart from the fact that twice a week an evening my mind is going to have to face up to the realities of the sober self, as opposed to the egotistical one that visits me after a few glasses and leads me to view myself with unadulterated optimism bejewelled with the trappings of future success that will come to pass when ‘they’ understand. The sober self has to actually pull his fucking finger out, and if he isn’t in a position to do that, worry about not pulling his finger out, be aware of time slipping between his fingers and consider the pointlessness of existence, it’s a fucking scream I can tell you.

But not is all lost, there are distracters in the form of Radio 4, TV, tea, cigarettes, good food (which in itself can be problematic because good food needs good wine, right?) and of course Myfwt. This is all well and good when one is awake, in fact, the further one goes into the evening the better one feels about abstaining, a sense of achievement and well being begins to detract from the desire to feeling a bit squiffy. No hangover in the morning! And here is the problem. To get to the morning one has to sleep.

When you’re arseholed sleep is relatively simple, but stone cold sober it can go either way. Last night was such an occasion. Could I sleep? Could I fuck. It was a cold night, the duvet didn’t seem to fit, the little bits of exposed flesh felt as if they were being sandblasted by hail, my limbs didn’t fall comfortably pulling my skeleton against the natural forces of physics, my fucking head, my pulsing blood filled cranium, was crushed into the pillow twisting my neck at every turn. Inside my mind thoughts raced in and out like rats risking it for chocolate in busy kitchen, I couldn’t rest, I couldn’t settle, I couldn’t fucking sleep. I’ve no idea what time I finally took off, some 3 or so hours after I’d laid down? Oddly, I’m not feeling that tired today, this may have a lot to do with it being Friday, sunny (albeit cold) and January is finally behind me.

The weekend is punctuated with things to do in between swathes of freedom. The only concrete plans are to see a flat tomorrow afternoon and lunch on Sunday with Andrea, Myfwt, my bro and his missus. Needless to say I’ll have to shop at some point and I intend to have a drink tonight with some friends, though at this stage this isn’t fixed.

Despite my rather solemn entry today, I’m actually feeling alright so do join me for more japes and capers on Monday. In the meantime I’ll leave you with some classic, pioneering Death (I doubt many/any of you will like it but there is nothing wrong with trying, the clean living lead singer Chuck Schuldiner succumbed the name of his band through cancer) and the usual Friday list which has been cut back on account of some the upsetting Google searches that have lead cunts to this site in error. The remaining list is just baffling.

Have lovely weekends.

st johns umbrella
drink water belly bloat wank
john torquato cta
girls with tit tattoos
naked bears pics
piss hunters
man fucks hen
how to describe grien flag
“davina “mcall)
think “jennifer dark”
two pints of lager and a packet of crisp
Pennsylvania State Treasurer R. Budd Dwy
speed triple drawings
what is solpadine
britney flowers hat tits glassed

deaf as a post

Last night I hooked up with Frank for a couple of pints (Fortyniner, delicious, like drinking Marmite) and he and I ended up chatting to the landlord who is a rather splendid fellow. Turns out he’s a bit of an expert in turning around failing boozers. A few years ago my local was a fucking slag heap, a place where you were guaranteed warm lager and a fist in your teeth, these days it’s the paradigm of boozer perfection. Hey, I drink in there right? Right ; ) You betcha etc.,

Being ill and all that, I’d not sorted out dinner so was forced to pop by Tesco on my way back home. It may delight some of the readers of Piqued to confess that I bought 2 Tesco Chicken Kievs (and a bottle of wine) as I wasn’t feeling able to do any hard kitchen graft outside of preparing some cabbage and broccoli for steaming. The kievs may or may not have been good/bad, the wine vinegar, I can only taste snots, but this is the least of my worries.

I’m totally deaf in my right ear. It’s actually worse than yesterday as I took a bath and instead of making sure I didn’t get water in my ear by closing the tragus over the external auditory meatus with my index finger, something I’ve been doing for a year or so, I decided to throw caution to the wind –I figured as I was deaf anyway I may as well submerse my sweet little head underwater (without closing the tragus over the external auditory meatus with my index finger) so down I went shouting ‘fuck it yeah, rock and roll, woo-hoo’ before realising that I’d been partially deaf up until that point.

Being deaf in one ear isn’t as bad as being deaf, of course, but being used to hearing with both ears it’s fucking horrible. For a start one half of your mind becomes dormant, if today’s Piqued seems a little odd or strange you can safely assume it’s down to that satan is lord. It’s like being half awake, nothing seems quite real, and no, it’s not surreal for crying out loud… it’s very strange though, surreal, even.

Last night I attempted to watch TV in this condition, it was useless but not as bad as trying to read. I could hear all the blood in my head making a fucking noise which was frankly terrifying, I don’t want to be aware of shit like that, I’m happy it goes on and all that but I’d rather I wasn’t privy to it. I mean, I like a good shit as much as the next fellow but I don’t want to spend any time, outside of a cursory glance, ruminating on what has been jettisoned from my toned body. I gave the radio a shot on the good ear, it was okay but there was nothing on Radio 4 that inspired, music was out from the off so I made do with the TV absorbing the wine to aid my cold. What a fucking mess I am I thought. Help, actually.

So I’m dong something about it, I’m full of fucking fuck off cold pills today and I’ve just booked an appointment in some place in Soho to have my ears vacuumed this very afternoon. A bloke here in the office had it done a few months ago, apparently they put some stuff in your lug ‘ol to soften the wax, fire or something, and then literally suck it all out. The bloke at work says it was amazing, could hear a sparrow closing its beak 100 yards off. It does cost fifty fucking quid though, still I really can’t wait. I’m seeing Interpol tomorrow night (with Blonde Redhead supporting, I prefer them to Interpol actually) and I’d like to be able to hear all of it it, not just half.

More Paul Kaye today, this is quite marvellous, but be warned he says ‘fuck’ in it and it depicts the usage of a drugs…


Cycling into work when it’s cold and windy is fucking shit. You begin the journey in denial, then reluctance until soulless misery rejoices in the icy teeth of a furious wind and a base temperature that would’ve kept Captain Oates in the tent, this gradually shifts unto an uncomfortable acceptance of what one is doing, which slowly fades into full on agonising pain in the face of sheer adversity as your entire body burns like napalm in the sun… Shutting down you arrive at your destination gibbering about traffic, sweating like Meatloaf and close to tears. The ten minutes that follow the cycle result in the body flushing from hot to cold in milliseconds as the mind fluctuates from screaming euphoria to Darfur depression. It’s hideous and wrong; this morning I actually hit ‘the wall’ walking down the fucking stairs. I never want to do it again. Shit, I have to get home. Shits.

Actually, cycling back, whilst a little easier -a flat full of wine, food, skunk and pornography is more of a carrot on a stick than a bloody office full of vacuous questions- is certainly more dangerous, especially now it’s dark. Homewards I’m required to spend more time on the roads with a hoard of motorists as keen to get back to their dwellings as I, no doubt for similar reasons. This makes people more edgy, they are prepared to take risks at your expense, a veritable peeled testicle on two flimsy wheels amid the pounding metal hammers of fuming cars and rumbling lorries, and of course, they’re not as alert as they were. In addition bleary eyes workers on foot wander in and out of the road like chickens, not having the roar of a triple cylinder 955cc injected engine, I zip through the night virtually unseen and silent to all and sundry. Christ, I’m only cycling because I don’t want to wind up with the physique of the late, awful, Bernard Manning yet there is a bloody good chance I could get killed, or maimed, or get home safely feeling chuffed with myself for not taking the easy, beautiful option of getting on her, yes, her, the black bitch.

When I did get home the evening went as follows, Radio 4 (Down the Line, 6.30 Tuesdays, one of the funniest shows, ever) whilst I cooked a spaghetti sauce (white onion, scallion, bacon, tinned tomatoes, tomato puree, tomato ketchup, beef stock, wine, chilli, lime juice, sugar, basil, parsley, salt and black pepper and of course, minced beef which was all cooked for 2 hours) in the meantime I bathed (I was naked, my soft skin complimenting the firmness of my toned taut body) and shaved around my new beard, which is marvellous, ‘magnificent’ as passers by say. When Myfwt arrived we drank wine and chatted, the spaghetti was cooked and added to the sauce, topped with some cheese and consumed gently, it was sublime. Look there is the recipe (make sure you fry the onion, bacon and scallion and add to the rest of the mixture in one large pot, prior to browning off the beef in the same frying pan, draining it off excess fat and combining it with all the other ingredients).

Balls, I have a meeting.